When he got home, he was quieter. More vulnerable. He no longer sat in the chair. He slept near the door, far from the bed. “Now I don’t have to look,” he said. “You’re safe.” But I could see that he was not safe from himself.
One night he murmured with a fever: “Don’t go… look… smile…” I took his hand. “I’m here.” He opened his eyes. For the first time, he looked at me without fear. “You must hate me,” he whispered. “Maybe so,” I said. “Already.”
Then came the next surprise: the cause of my sleepwalking episodes. A doctor explained that it was related to a childhood trauma, repressed until stress brought it to light. “Her husband recognized him,” said the doctor. “He knew it before you did.”
That night, for the first time, there was no fear, only regret. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. He looked out the window. “Because if I did,” he said, “you would have run away.”
“And now?” He exhaled. “Now it’s too late to run.” His health worsened again. One night, he said in a low voice: “If I leave—”
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