I thought I knew who to trust.
That day, when Jay-Jay came to my house, I saw fear in her eyes—but I misunderstood it. Yuri and Lon were already there, sitting comfortably, laughing as if nothing was wrong. When Jay-Jay pulled me aside and whispered that they were planning to kill me, I felt anger instead of fear.
I don't know why.
Maybe it was pride.
Maybe it was denial.
Maybe I just didn't want to believe that someone I trusted could betray me.
"You're lying," I snapped. "I hate you."
The moment those words left my mouth, I saw her heart break. But I was too blinded by anger to stop. When I told her to leave my house or I would leave her forever, she didn't argue. She just looked at me—hurt, silent—and walked away.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Something felt wrong, but I ignored it.
The next day, Yuri invited me to a place he called the Silence Place. He said he wanted to talk. I didn't hesitate. When I arrived, Lon was already there. The air felt heavy, quiet in a way that made my chest tight.
Then everything happened too fast.
Their smiles disappeared. Voices rose. A fight broke out. Confusion surrounded me, and suddenly I realized—Jay-Jay had been telling the truth.
Fear hit me like a wave.
Before I could react, Yuri pulled out a gun and aimed it straight at my head. I froze. I thought this was the end.
Then I heard a voice.
"Kiefer!"
Before I could turn, Jay-Jay appeared out of nowhere. She didn't hesitate. She didn't think. She jumped in front of me.
The sound was loud.
She fell.
Time stopped.
I screamed her name as I caught her before she hit the ground. My hands shook as I saw her lying there, motionless. My heart shattered into pieces I knew I could never put back together.
I was wrong.
I was cruel.
I didn't listen.
I carried her, praying, begging, crying—something I had never done before. At the hospital, every second felt like punishment. I kept replaying my words: "I hate you."
I didn't mean them.
I never did.
When the doctors finally came out and said she was safe, my knees almost gave way. I rushed to her side, holding her hand as if letting go would destroy her again.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered. "I was wrong. Please forgive me."
Her fingers moved slightly. Then her eyes opened—slowly, weakly. She looked at me and smiled.
A forgiving smile.
That smile hurt more than anything, because it showed me how much she loved me—enough to save my life, even when I had broken her heart.
That day, I learned the hardest lesson of my life:
Sometimes, the person who loves you the most is the one you hurt the deepest.
And sometimes, love survives—even after betrayal.