“That’s the question you need to answer now.”
Three days passed.
Julian did not apologize.
Instead, he sent messages.
At first, they were casual.
“Are you still upset?”
Then:
“We need to talk.”
Then:
“You’re making this bigger than it is.”
Each message revealed the same thing.
He wanted the situation resolved.
But he did not want to acknowledge why it happened.
Finally, on Friday evening, he arrived at the condo.
I opened the door but did not invite him in.
He looked different.
Calmer.
More controlled.
The version of Julian that other people knew.
“I want to apologize,” he said.
I waited.
He looked uncomfortable.
“I shouldn’t have kicked the table.”
A strange sadness passed through me.
Not anger.
Sadness.
Because even now, he apologized for the object.
Not for me.
Not for what he said.
Not for the fear he caused.
“I’m listening,” I replied.
He sighed.
“I grew up in a house where my father was strict.”
I said nothing.
“He believed men had to be respected.”
There was something in his voice.
A memory.
An old wound.
For a moment, I wondered if there was a part of him that truly wanted to change.
“My father was never gentle,” Julian continued. “I promised myself I would never become him.”
“And yet?”
He looked away.
“I lost control.”
I nodded.
“That’s true.”
He looked surprised that I agreed.
“But losing control explains what happened,” I said. “It doesn’t excuse it.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You’re saying you can’t forgive me?”
“I’m saying forgiveness doesn’t erase consequences.”
The silence between us felt heavier than any argument.
Then Julian reached into his pocket.
“I found something.”
He pulled out a small envelope.
I recognized it immediately.
My heart stopped.
That envelope belonged to me.
I had kept it hidden among my old documents.
“How did you get that?”
Julian looked confused.
“It was in the drawer.”
My stomach tightened.
