She's been talking in her sleep a lot lately. Soft murmurs, half-broken words. Sometimes it's my name — sometimes his. But last night was different. There was fear in her voice. Not guilt, not sorrow — fear. Like she was begging someone to stop.
I lay there beside her, pretending to sleep, listening. Her hand twitched, her face contorted, and she whispered, "Please… don't tell him…"
Tell who, I wondered. Me? Him? Her father? Maybe she's talking to the ghost of her conscience — if she still has one.
The air felt heavy. My chest tight. It's strange, isn't it? The same woman who once made my heart race now makes it ache. Every breath she takes feels like a reminder that she's still here, still living the life she ruined.
So I thought — maybe it's time to use her dreams against her.
Morning came, slow and grey. I cooked breakfast like usual. The smell of eggs and burnt toast filled the room — the same way it did three years ago when she first said she loved me.
She walked out of the bedroom, eyes sunken, hair tangled. She looked like she hadn't slept in days."Morning," I said softly."Morning…" she muttered, barely audible.
When she sat down, I placed a plate in front of her and asked casually,"You were talking in your sleep again."
Her hand froze mid-bite. "What did I say?"I shrugged. "Something about… not telling me something."
She dropped her fork. I swear, the sound of it hitting the plate was louder than thunder.Her eyes darted toward me, trembling. "You… you're joking, right?"I tilted my head. "Am I?"
She didn't move. Didn't blink. For a second, I could see it — the panic crawling back into her veins, the paranoia swelling. Her lips quivered, and she muttered, "I don't remember… anything."
I smiled. "That's okay. Dreams have a funny way of revealing what we hide when we're awake."
She stood abruptly and walked to the sink, trying to steady her breathing. I could almost hear her thoughts — racing, breaking, colliding. I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. I wanted her to doubt herself first.
Later that evening, I made sure she found another message. Not on her phone this time — that'd be too obvious.No, this one was on her laptop, a note that simply said:
"You talk too much in your sleep."
I left it in a folder named Work Reports.
When she opened it, I watched her from across the room. Her face turned white, like the blood had just left her body. Her hands shook as she closed the laptop and looked around the room — eyes darting, searching for invisible eyes watching her.
She's breaking.
But here's the thing no one tells you — when you start breaking someone else, a piece of you cracks too.
That night, as she sobbed quietly into her pillow, whispering sorry to no one, I stared at the ceiling.And for the first time, I didn't know who I was anymore — the victim, the avenger, or just another monster learning to enjoy the dark.