He finally looks at me again, and his eyes are wet but unflinching.
“This is not your fault,” he says firmly. “Not one part of it.”
The words lodge in my chest, painful and relieving all at once.
“I see the guilt on you,” he adds, his voice softening. “I see the way you carry it like it belongs to you, and it doesn’t.”
I swallow hard. “It feels like it does.”
“I know,” he says simply. “But feelings are not the same as truth.”
I sit with that for a moment, the room heavy with everything that has been left unsaid for too long, and when I speak again my voice is quieter.
“I’m glad it’s finally in the open,” I admit. “Even if it hurts.”
He nods once. “So am I.”
Then his face tightens, the control slipping just enough to reveal what’s underneath.
“It doesn’t stop the pain,” he says, h
