He said sorry.
But not the kind that settles your heart. It was the kind that leaves you blinking, wondering if maybe you were the one who went too far.
"I just didn't think it was a big deal," Kahlil had said, voice low, like he was the one nursing a wound. "You're blowing it up. If you really cared, you wouldn't be trying to paint me as a bad person."
I wasn't trying to paint him as anything. I was trying to understand how someone who claimed to love me could risk my health and not mention it. I had trusted him with my body, completely. He'd smiled, touched my skin like it meant something, and said nothing. Until I found out the hard way.
And still, somehow, I ended up consoling him.
"I didn't mean for it to happen that way," he said, pacing. "I've had stuff on my mind. You know I'm not good at... opening up."
As if emotional constipation excused silence that endangered me.
As if I should have known better than to expect accountability.
My stomach turned when he pulled me close. "I didn't want to lose you over a mistake," he whispered.
But it wasn't just a mistake. It was a choice. Not once, but several times. Every time he said nothing, every time he dismissed the weird symptoms I asked about, every time I second-guessed my gut because he was "too tired to talk", it was a choice.
And yet here I was, wrapped in the arms of someone who had hurt me... wondering if I was asking for too much.
That's what gaslighting does. It doesn't scream. It seeps. Quiet. Smooth. Reasonable. It wears your voice down until you're whispering your truth instead of standing in it.
"I just need you to trust me again," he said.
But trust wasn't a faucet I could turn back on. He broke it. And then tried to hold me responsible for the flood.
The apology wasn't for what he did.
It was to keep me from leaving.
And for a while... it worked.