Ken stepped inside, drenched from the rain, eyes shadowed. He looked at her, then at the wall. “You found it,” he said quietly. Her voice trembled. “Where did this come from?” He shrugged off his coat. “It was always here.” “No, it wasn’t.” “Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.” He said it so calmly it scared her more than if he’d yelled.
She took a step back. “What’s happening, Ken? The notes, the photo—what are you doing to me?” He smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “You think I’m doing this?” “Who else would?”
Ken walked past her and poured himself a glass of water. The sound of it hitting the glass was too loud. “Maybe you should stop writing,” he said. “Maybe you’ve written us into something we can’t get out of.”
Her mouth went dry. “What does that mean?” He turned to her, eyes dark and unreadable. “It means you keep trying to make sense of things that were never meant to make sense. Sometimes a story has no hero. Sometimes it just… ends.” “Don’t talk in riddles!” she snapped. “Tell me what you’ve done!”
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the counter. Water ran down his arm like blood, though it was clear, cold, harmless. “You want truth?” he said softly. “Alright. The truth is that I left because I couldn’t stand what this has become. Every time I come home, it feels like a graveyard of promises. You look at me like I’m a ghost, and maybe I am. Maybe I died somewhere in that silence we built.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Then why keep coming back?” He laughed—bitter, hollow. “Because ghosts don’t know where else to go.” The words hit her harder than any slap could.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The rain outside grew louder, furious against the windows. Then, quietly, he said, “You went to my mother’s house.” Her throat tightened. “How do you know?” “She called me.” “I needed answers.” “Did you find them?” “I found a boy who saw his father die. A boy who never learned how to live with noise.” Ken’s jaw tightened. “You think that excuses everything?” “No,” she said, voice trembling. “But it explains you.”
He stepped closer. “And what about you, Lilian? What’s your excuse? You could’ve left a hundred times.” “Because I kept hoping!” she cried. “Because I thought love could fix what pain broke!” He stared at her for a long time. Then he said, almost tenderly, “And now?” “Now I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Something flickered in his eyes—sorrow, maybe, or madness. He turned and walked toward the wall where the photo hung. “Maybe you should look closer,” he murmured. Before she could stop him, he tore the photo from the wall. The glass shattered, scattering across the floor. Lilian gasped. “Ken!”
Behind the photo, taped to the wall, was another note—larger than the others. The handwriting was hers. “This is how it ends.” She stared, breathless. “What is this?” Ken looked at her, rain dripping from his hair. “You tell me. You’re the one writing the story.” Her voice cracked. “Stop saying that!” “You don’t remember?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You left those notes. All of them.” She shook her head violently. “No—no, I didn’t—”
He took a slow step closer, eyes locked on hers. “Every time I left, it wasn’t me running away. It was you. You broke first, and you made me the villain because you couldn’t face what you’d done.” “Liar!” she screamed. “Then how do you explain the handwriting?” he hissed. Her knees gave out. She fell against the wall, trembling. “No…”
He crouched in front of her, voice almost kind. “You wrote this story so many times you forgot which version was real. You needed a monster, so you made one.” Her tears blurred his face, but she saw the truth—or what looked like truth—in his eyes.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. He nodded slowly. “Neither can I.” Then he stood, crossed the room, and opened the door. The rain poured in, drenching the floor. He looked back once, his silhouette framed by the lightning behind him. “I hope you find peace in your next draft,” he said softly. And then he was gone.
She took a step back. “What’s happening, Ken? The notes, the photo—what are you doing to me?” He smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “You think I’m doing this?” “Who else would?”
Ken walked past her and poured himself a glass of water. The sound of it hitting the glass was too loud. “Maybe you should stop writing,” he said. “Maybe you’ve written us into something we can’t get out of.”
Her mouth went dry. “What does that mean?” He turned to her, eyes dark and unreadable. “It means you keep trying to make sense of things that were never meant to make sense. Sometimes a story has no hero. Sometimes it just… ends.” “Don’t talk in riddles!” she snapped. “Tell me what you’ve done!”
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the counter. Water ran down his arm like blood, though it was clear, cold, harmless. “You want truth?” he said softly. “Alright. The truth is that I left because I couldn’t stand what this has become. Every time I come home, it feels like a graveyard of promises. You look at me like I’m a ghost, and maybe I am. Maybe I died somewhere in that silence we built.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Then why keep coming back?” He laughed—bitter, hollow. “Because ghosts don’t know where else to go.” The words hit her harder than any slap could.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The rain outside grew louder, furious against the windows. Then, quietly, he said, “You went to my mother’s house.” Her throat tightened. “How do you know?” “She called me.” “I needed answers.” “Did you find them?” “I found a boy who saw his father die. A boy who never learned how to live with noise.” Ken’s jaw tightened. “You think that excuses everything?” “No,” she said, voice trembling. “But it explains you.”
He stepped closer. “And what about you, Lilian? What’s your excuse? You could’ve left a hundred times.” “Because I kept hoping!” she cried. “Because I thought love could fix what pain broke!” He stared at her for a long time. Then he said, almost tenderly, “And now?” “Now I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Something flickered in his eyes—sorrow, maybe, or madness. He turned and walked toward the wall where the photo hung. “Maybe you should look closer,” he murmured. Before she could stop him, he tore the photo from the wall. The glass shattered, scattering across the floor. Lilian gasped. “Ken!”
Behind the photo, taped to the wall, was another note—larger than the others. The handwriting was hers. “This is how it ends.” She stared, breathless. “What is this?” Ken looked at her, rain dripping from his hair. “You tell me. You’re the one writing the story.” Her voice cracked. “Stop saying that!” “You don’t remember?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You left those notes. All of them.” She shook her head violently. “No—no, I didn’t—”
He took a slow step closer, eyes locked on hers. “Every time I left, it wasn’t me running away. It was you. You broke first, and you made me the villain because you couldn’t face what you’d done.” “Liar!” she screamed. “Then how do you explain the handwriting?” he hissed. Her knees gave out. She fell against the wall, trembling. “No…”
He crouched in front of her, voice almost kind. “You wrote this story so many times you forgot which version was real. You needed a monster, so you made one.” Her tears blurred his face, but she saw the truth—or what looked like truth—in his eyes.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. He nodded slowly. “Neither can I.” Then he stood, crossed the room, and opened the door. The rain poured in, drenching the floor. He looked back once, his silhouette framed by the lightning behind him. “I hope you find peace in your next draft,” he said softly. And then he was gone.
