The silence that followed her words was heavy—so heavy it felt physical, like something pressing against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs one breath at a time.
An apology.
From Rosanna Margareth Hariston.
The words themselves weren't dramatic. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't reach for my hands or beg. She simply said them—quietly and carefully, as if afraid that saying them too loudly might shatter whatever fragile balance was holding us both in place.
Still, my body reacted before my mind could.
My shoulders stiffened. My jaw tightened. Something deep in my chest clenched not in anger, not in relief, but in disbelief.
This—this was something I had imagined before. Not often. Not openly. Only in moments I never admitted to anyone. Moments when I was exhausted, worn thin by years of swallowing things I wasn't allowed to say. In those moments, a quiet, foolish thought would surface.
What if one day she admits it?
I always pushed it away.
