His reaction was immediate, yet delayed by the long night he had let pass without action.
“I thought you were just being dramatic,” he muttered, still processing the situation.
My eyes met his, searching for some sign of understanding, of acknowledgment of the ordeal I had endured.
The bathroom felt like a different place in the daylight, the shadows of the night erased by the sun’s rays, but the memory lingered.
“Why didn’t you check sooner?” my voice cracked, the words heavy with accusation and hurt.
He hesitated, the answer caught somewhere between his throat and his conscience.
“I didn’t think it was…” his voice trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging in the air between us.
I stood up slowly, feeling the stiffness in my limbs, the result of hours spent on the cold tile floor.
His eyes followed my movement, perhaps seeing the physical toll for the first time.
“Let’s just… talk about this later,” he suggested, already stepping back, retreating from the confrontation.
But the conversation had already begun, and there was no escaping the reality of what had happened.
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