The air outside the bar felt heavier than before.
Like something had stayed behind inside *** even after he walked out.
Omar stood in front of him, eyebrows slightly furrowed, arms loose at his sides.
He had been watching *** for a while now.
The way he stood still.
The way his eyes weren't really there.
"…What happened?"
Omar's voice cut through the silence.
*** didn't answer.
Omar tilted his head.
"I mean—"
He gestured vaguely, like trying to grab something invisible.
"That whole thing."
"What happened during the argument?"
*** blinked slowly.
His gaze dropped to the ground.
Fragments of voices echoed in his head.
Not like you cared.
Che ipocrita da parte tua.
Do you never change…
His chest tightened.
And for a brief moment—
A thought slipped in.
…Maybe.
Maybe it really is my fault.
The idea stayed there.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Then Omar spoke again.
"…Well?"
*** exhaled softly.
"I don't really remember."
The words came out flat.
Almost automatic.
Omar frowned immediately.
"…What?"
*** shrugged slightly.
"I don't remember."
Omar stared at him.
Confusion turned sharper now.
"How is that even possible?"
He stepped a little closer.
"You just told me about it."
"How do you not remember anything?"
*** stayed silent for a second.
Then he lifted his head.
And looked at Omar.
For the first time—
His eyes were clear.
Too clear.
"In reality…"
A small pause.
"I remember everything."
Omar blinked.
"…Then why did you say—"
But *** suddenly laughed.
A short, hollow laugh.
He ran a hand through his hair.
"Because it sounds better that way."
Omar didn't understand.
And it showed.
*** looked away.
Then, still half-laughing, he muttered:
"I'm Mr. Loverman…"
His voice cracked slightly.
"…and I miss my lover, man."
The sentence hung awkwardly in the air.
Half joke.
Half confession.
Omar didn't laugh.
He just watched him.
Because something about it didn't feel like a joke at all.
*** suddenly pushed himself off the wall.
"Anyway."
His tone changed.
Too quickly.
Too clean.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Omar opened his mouth.
"Cri—"
But *** had already turned around.
And started walking away.
Fast.
Too fast.
For a moment—
It mirrored something.
A bench.
A sunset.
Footsteps fading away.
A hand almost reaching out—
But stopping.
Now the roles were different.
But the feeling was the same.
Omar stood still.
Watching someone leave.
Not understanding why.
Not knowing what to say.
Just like Chri once did.
*** kept walking.
Then faster.
Then faster.
Until it almost became running.
His vision blurred.
His breathing broke.
His hands clenched into fists—
So tight his nails dug into his skin.
Blood slowly started to drip between his fingers.
But he didn't stop.
Didn't even notice.
Inside his head—
That voice again.
Over and over.
Do you never change because you're afraid of changing…
His steps became uneven.
…or are you afraid of changing because you never change?
His throat tightened.
Tears finally broke through.
Silently at first.
Then uncontrollably.
He kept moving through the empty street.
Like running from something that wasn't behind him—
But inside him.
And for the first time—
He didn't know if he was trying to escape Chri.
Or become him.