Chapter 116
Chapter 116
Chapter 116
David’s POV
The bar smelled like alcohol and sweat and something burnt. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Too many people pretending they were fine.
I sat in the corner where the light didn’t reach properly. A cracked leather seat. Sticky table. My jacket still on me even though it was too warm.
I didn’t take it off.
I deserved to feel uncomfortable.
“Whiskey,” I said.
The bartender didn’t look at me properly. Just nodded and poured.
The glass hit the table with a dull sound.
I picked it up. My hand was already shaking.
I drank it in one go.
It burned all the way down. My throat. My chest. My stomach.
Good.
It should hurt.
“Another.”
He poured again.
No questions. No concern. No judgment.
That was good too.
Nobody here cared who I was.
Nobody knew I had just lost everything.
Or maybe they did not care.
Same thing.
I stared at the glass before touching it.
The liquid moved slightly because my hand would not stay still.
I tried to steady it.
It didn’t work.
I laughed under my breath.
“Pathetic.”
My voice sounded strange. Like it did not belong to me anymore.
Five years ago.
The thought came out of nowhere and hit me harder than anything.
I closed my eyes.
Five years ago.
The cafe.
I could see it clearly.
Too clearly.
The smell of coffee. Burnt beans. Cheap pastries. The constant noise of cups and plates. Orders being shouted from the kitchen.
I had been wearing that stupid apron. Brown. Stained no matter how many times I washed it.
My shoes were worn out. The sole on the left one was coming loose. I kept pushing it back with glue.
I remember being embarrassed about that.
Funny.
That was the kind of thing I worried about back then.
Not destroying someone’s life.
Not killing my own child.
Just shoes.
I let out a breath and picked up the second glass.
I drank slower this time.
The memory didn’t stop.
It got clearer.
She sat by the window.
Always the same spot.
Tuesday. Thursday.
I learned her schedule before I even realized I was watching her.
Lucia.
She always had a book.
Always.
Different cover every time. Sometimes thick, sometimes thin. Sometimes something that looked serious, sometimes something soft.
She held books like they mattered.
Like the world could end but she would still finish that chapter.
And she smiled.
God.
She smiled at me.
At me.
A waiter nobody saw.
The first time she said thank you, I almost looked behind me to see if she was talking to someone else.
“Thank you.”
Soft. Warm. Real.
Not fake polite.
Real.
I had nodded like an idiot.
Spilled a little coffee when I poured her refill.
She had laughed.
Not at me.
Just laughed.
“Careful,” she said. “I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.”
Because of me.
Like I mattered.
Like I was someone.
I pressed my fingers hard against the glass.
My chest tightened.
Why did I forget that?
Why did I forget how she looked at me?
Like I was not nothing.
The bartender placed another drink in front of me.
I didn’t remember asking.
Maybe I had.
Maybe I didn’t.
Didn’t matter.
I drank again.
The day everything changed.
I did not want to remember it.
But it came anyway.
Clear. Sharp.
I was carrying too many cups.
Trying to move fast.
Trying to keep my boss from yelling.
Trying to earn enough tips to eat something decent that night.
Then it happened.
A foot.
Sticking out.
I didn’t see it.
I fell.
The tray flew.
Hot coffee everywhere.
The man stood up screaming like I had ruined his entire life.
His shirt.
His jacket.
His voice.
Loud. Angry. Ugly.
“Are you blind? Do you know how much this costs? Do you know who I am?”
I kept saying sorry.
Over and over.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
My boss came running.
Apologizing. Bowing. Offering free meals. Free anything.
I just stood there.
Waiting.
Waiting to be fired.
Waiting to be thrown out like I always was.
Then her voice.
“Excuse me.”
Everything went quiet in my head.
She stood up.
Closed her book.
Walked toward us like she had every right to be there.
“You stuck your foot out,” she said calmly. “I saw it.”
The man laughed.
Called her a liar.
She didn’t even blink.
“I recorded it.”
She lifted her phone.
“Should I send it to your company? Or the police?”
Silence.
His face changed.
Color drained.
He grabbed his things and left.
Just like that.
Gone.
Like he had no power anymore.
Like he was nothing.
She turned to me.
“Are you okay?”
I could not speak.
Nobody had ever asked me that.
Not like that.
Not like they actually cared about the answer.
I nodded.
She smiled.
She handed my boss money.
Too much money.
“Please don’t fire him,” she said.
Then she left.
Just like that.
No drama.
No waiting for thanks.
No looking back.
Like saving me was normal.
Like I was worth saving.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
A sound escaped anyway.
Broken.
Ugly.
I bent forward slightly.
My shoulders shook.
“She saved me,” I whispered.
“And I destroyed her.”
The words tasted like poison.
I swallowed more whiskey.
It didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Three weeks later.
I asked her out.
I could still feel how my hands shook.
How my voice cracked.
“Do you maybe want to go out sometime?”
I expected her to laugh.
To say no.
To remind me who she was and who I was.
But she smiled.
“Okay.”
Just like that.
Okay.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Just yes.
I almost cried that day too.
I laughed weakly at the memory.
Then the laughter died.
We went to that cheap place.
The one with plastic chairs and bad lighting.
I remember checking the prices before we went in.
Counting my money three times.
Making sure I could pay.
I didn’t want her to pay.
I wanted to be a man.
At least once.
She looked around like it was the best place in the world.
“This is nice,” she said.
Nice.
That place.
Nice.
She lied.
Or maybe she didn’t.
Maybe she really didn’t care.
Maybe she just wanted to be there with me.
That thought hurt the most.
I gave her that flower.
God.
That stupid flower.
Picked from a park like a thief.
Wrapped in newspaper.
I was so ashamed handing it to her.
My ears were burning.
My heart was beating too fast.
She looked at it like it was something rare.
Something beautiful.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“It’s perfect.”
Perfect.
I laughed again.
This time it sounded worse.
“Perfect,” I repeated under my breath.
“And I called her boring.”
My grip tightened on the glass.
My knuckles turned white.
Six months.
She never complained.
Never made me feel small.
Never said I wasn’t enough.
Even when I clearly was not.
She bought me things.
Expensive things.
I remember the first time.
A watch.
I told her I couldn’t accept it.
“It’s too much.”
She shook her head.
“I want to.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“That’s why it means something.”
I took it.
Of course I did.
I told myself it was okay.
That it made her happy.
That it was not about the money.
But deep down.
I liked it.
I liked being taken care of.
I liked feeling important.
I liked feeling like I mattered enough for someone to spend money on me.
That part of me.
That ugly part.
I never looked at it properly.
I should have.
Maybe everything would be different.
Her father.
That day.
The way he looked at me.
Like I was dirt.
“A waiter?”
Lucia stood between us.
“I love him.”
Simple.
Clear.
No shame.
She chose me.
Over everything.
Over everyone.
And I repaid that by cheating on her.
I closed my eyes.
A wave of nausea hit me.
I swallowed hard.
The bar noise faded again.
All I could hear was my own breathing.
And her voice.
“I trust you.”
That day she gave me a position in her company.
I didn’t deserve it.
Not then.
Not ever.
She trusted me with everything.
And I stole from her.
The shift.
The moment everything started going wrong.
I forced myself to remember.
Anna’s laugh.
Yvonne’s touch.
Small things.
At first.
A hand on my arm.
A compliment.
“You’re smarter than people think.”
“You deserve more.”
“Lucia doesn’t see you properly.”
Little things.
Little seeds.
I should have stopped it.
I didn’t.
I liked it.
I liked the attention.
I liked feeling wanted.
Not safe.
Not chosen.
Wanted.
There’s a difference.
Lucia made me feel safe.
They made me feel powerful.
And I chose power.
Over love.
Over loyalty.
Over everything.
“I knew,” I whispered.
“I knew it was wrong.”
That was the truth.
The ugliest part.
I knew.
And I still did it.
The first time I cheated.
I remember it clearly.
Too clearly.
I told myself it was a mistake.
A one time thing.
A moment of weakness.
It wasn’t.
It was a choice.
I chose it.
Again and again.
And every time Lucia smiled at me.
Every time she said she loved me.
Every time she trusted me.
I lied.
I kept lying.
And it got easier.
That scared me now.
How easy it became.
How normal.
I turned her into the villain in my head.
So I could feel better.
“She’s controlling.”
“She’s boring.”
“She doesn’t understand me.”
Lies.
All lies.
But I repeated them until they felt real.
Until I believed them.
Until destroying her felt justified.
My chest tightened again.
I leaned forward.
Hands gripping the edge of the table.
“I did that,” I said.
“I made her into something she wasn’t.”
So I could become something worse.
The altar.
That day.
I didn’t go.
I knew what I was doing.
I knew it would destroy her.
And I did it anyway.
Because I wanted the money.
Because I wanted the freedom.
Because I wanted Yvonne.
Because I was weak.
Because I was selfish.
Because I was a coward.
And while she stood there waiting.
Wearing that dress.
Believing in me.
Believing in us.
She lost our baby.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Tears forced their way out.
“I killed my own child.”
The words came out broken.
Barely sound.
I hit the table once.
Hard.
The glass shook.
Nobody looked.
Nobody cared.
Good.
I didn’t deserve anyone looking.
I didn’t deserve anything.
Silence sat heavy around me.
Even with the noise.
Even with the music.
Even with people laughing somewhere behind me.
I felt alone.
Completely alone.
And I deserved that too.
I leaned back slowly.
Stared at the ceiling.
“I want her back.”
The thought came again.
But this time it felt different.
Not desperate.
Not hopeful.
Heavy.
Wrong.
“I don’t deserve her.”
That was the truth.
The real truth.
I laughed quietly.
A broken sound.
“But I still want her.”
That was the worst part.
I knew I didn’t deserve her.
Knew I had no right.
Knew I had destroyed everything.
And I still wanted her.
Still wanted to see her.
Still wanted to hear her voice.
Still wanted to be the man she once loved.
I ran a hand over my face.
Slow.
Tired.
“I don’t even know if I deserve to say her name.”
Lucia.
The name stayed in my chest.
Heavy.
Painful.
Beautiful.
Gone.
I sat there for a long time.
I don’t know how long.
Minutes.
Hours.
Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Just memories.
Just regret.
Just loss.
Then I stood up.
Unsteady.
The room shifted slightly.
I grabbed the table to steady myself.
The bartender glanced at me.
Then looked away.
I pulled out some cash.
Dropped it on the table.
Too much probably.
Didn’t care.
I walked toward the door.
Each step felt heavy.
Like I was dragging something behind me.
Maybe I was.
Everything I had done.
Everything I had lost.
Everything I had destroyed.
The door opened.
Cold air hit my face.
I breathed in.
Deep.
It didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
But I kept walking.
Because I could not sit there anymore.
Could not drown in that place.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
I stepped into the street.
Lights everywhere.
People moving.
Life going on.
Like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
For me.
Everything.
I stopped walking.
Stood there.
In the middle of it all.
Alone.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
The words came out quiet.
Honest.
“I don’t know if it can be fixed.”
That truth hurt more than anything.
Because deep down.
I knew.
It probably couldn’t.
Some things don’t come back.
Some things don’t heal.
Some things don’t forgive.
And Lucia.
Lucia might be one of those things.
I looked up.
Closed my eyes for a second.
“I’ll still try.”
A whisper.
A promise.
A punishment.
“I’ll try even if she hates me.”
“I’ll try even if she never looks at me again.”
“I’ll try even if I fail.”
Because that was all I had left.
Not hope.
Not redemption.
Just trying.
Just living with what I did.
Just waking up every day knowing who I was.
And still choosing to move.
Even if it led nowhere.
Even if it led to nothing.
Even if it led to more pain.
I opened my eyes.
Took a step forward.
Then another.
I didn’t know where I was going.
Didn’t have a plan.
Didn’t have anything.
Just regret.
Just guilt.
Just the memory of a woman who once called a stolen flower perfect.
And a man who destroyed that kind of love.
I kept walking.
Because stopping felt worse.
Because standing still meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering.
And remembering meant feeling everything all over again.
So I walked.
Into the night.
With nothing.
And everything I had lost.
Still burning inside me.
The beginning.
Or maybe the end.
I did not know.
I just knew I had to keep moving.
Even if I was walking alone.