The Truth That Stays Silent~

“Some truths aren’t meant to be shared anymore.”

That’s what you told him.

Softly.

Carefully.

Like someone placing flowers over a grave they dug themselves.

And Victoriano didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Not with rage.

Not with the storm that usually followed silence.

He simply… watched you walk away.

Watched the sway of your sweater, the quiet fall of your footsteps as you disappeared behind your door—

leaving the truth rotting in the hallway between you.

---

Later That Night

You stood in your room, eyes locked on the window that hadn’t changed in five years.

The same view.

The same sky.

But the ache in your chest…

It wasn’t the same.

He was here.

He wasn’t supposed to be.

Not now.

Not when you were finally beginning to forget how to miss him.

And yet—his presence had folded itself into the air like smoke.

You tried to hate him.

Tried to forget his voice, his jawline, the way he said your name without needing to say it at all.

But tonight, the truth ached louder than your silence:

You still loved him.

And worse—

You never stopped.

---

Victoriano

Down the hallway, he sat on the edge of the bed.

Fully dressed.

Unmoving.

He hadn’t slept in years.

Not really.

And now?

He didn’t dare close his eyes.

Because she was real.

Alive.

Home.

And close enough to reach—

but further than ever before.

And if she didn’t give him the truth soon?

He would tear the sky open just to drag it out of the stars.

The Morning After

Morning arrived with frost on the windows and weight on your chest.

You hadn’t slept.

Not really.

You lay awake listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of someone else’s breathing on the other side of the wall.

His breathing.

Victoriano Michelle—the man you’d loved, left, mourned.

The man whose name you’d whispered into pillows while pretending to forget.

And now, he was here.

Alive.

Awake.

Waiting.

---

You stepped into your slippers, pulled on the oversized grey shawl that always reminded you of your grandmother, and walked down to the garden.

The grass was cold beneath your feet, but your body was used to it.

You moved on instinct, scattering seeds for the doves.

The birds gathered like memories, soft and white and fragile.

This was the only routine you’d allowed yourself to keep.

Because here—surrounded by silence and wings—

you didn’t have to explain why your heart never fully came back with the rest of you.

---

Behind the glass window, he watched you.

---

Victoriano:

He hadn’t slept either.

But it wasn’t insomnia.

It was the curse of hope.

He sat on the edge of the guest bed until his back hurt and the sky shifted, never once closing his eyes.

How could he?

You were just down the hall.

Real.

Breathing.

Still out of reach.

He watched from the window as you fed the doves—

your hair tied back the same way it had been when you were eighteen.

Your shoulders thinner now.

But your grace intact.

He saw the way you stood—still like a monument, gentle like snow.

And he hated it.

Hated how beautiful you looked in a world he hadn’t been allowed into.

---

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