That was a night when I completely lost control of myself. Everything blurred together, as if my emotions had overrun my reason.
I remember drinking a lot at the party, existing in that in-between state—when a person no longer wants to hold on to any sense of clarity. And then he took me home. It was still that familiar kind of care, the same quiet way he stayed by my side. He didn't ask much, didn't pressure me, didn't abandon me in my worst state.
But in that moment, when I was no longer fully conscious, I unconsciously called out a name—a name that should never have appeared at that moment, should never have been spoken in front of the person beside me, and especially not in a situation where I couldn't even explain myself.
I called his name.
Not with logic, but from something much deeper inside me. As if it had been there for too long, just waiting for the moment I let everything go so it could finally surface.
He froze.
I couldn't clearly see his expression, but I knew he had heard it. Then he asked me, very softly—but enough to make the air around us so heavy I could barely breathe.
"Who is that?"
Such a simple question. But one I couldn't answer.
Not because I didn't know—but because I couldn't say it.
My mind was empty. I couldn't think. I wasn't sober enough to choose right or wrong. There was only one thing I could feel—pain. A very clear, very real kind of pain. As if something had been suppressed in my heart for too long, and at that moment, it finally broke.
I started crying.
Not just crying—sobbing, like someone who had endured too much without even realizing it. Tears kept falling uncontrollably, endlessly.
He asked me again, a few times. But I didn't answer.
Not because I was stubborn—but because I couldn't.
There were no words left in my mind. No logic. Only a heavy, deep, undeniable feeling.
I felt guilty toward the person in front of me—the one taking me home, taking care of me, staying by my side with sincerity. But at the same time, there was something inside me that I couldn't name, as if I were standing between two worlds, not knowing where I truly belonged.
And then he said something—something I still remember clearly to this day. Not because it was loud or harsh, but because it was too real.
"I care about you… so who do you care about, Lilly?"
There was no accusation in his voice. No demand. It felt like restrained pain—the kind a mature person carries. Enough to ask, but not selfish enough to force an answer.
I didn't say anything. I just kept crying.
The more I tried to understand myself, the less I could.
And what I didn't know how to face was this—after everything, he still didn't let go of me. He pulled me into his arms, held me gently, as if no matter what the answer was, he still chose to stay in that moment with me. He didn't leave, didn't turn cold, didn't walk away.
He took care of me as if nothing had happened. He brought me inside, helped me lie down, looked after me in every small detail.
And when I woke up the next morning, everything returned to normal in a way that felt almost terrifying.
He didn't bring it up again. Didn't ask. Didn't make it difficult for me.
As if he had chosen to keep that question to himself.
And that silence—that was what I couldn't forget.
Because there are things that don't need to be said to change the way you see yourself.
And that night, for the first time, I realized something:
There are names we don't need to speak out loud, yet they live in our hearts long enough that even in unconscious moments… we still call out to the place we never truly left.