The ceiling lights in the hall glared, harsh and unforgiving. The room felt too small, too loud, too full of tension. Air vibrated with charged silence. Chamroeun stood rigidly a few steps from Minea, his pulse thudding in his ears. Between them lay too many words unsaid.
She glared at him, eyes blazing, shoulders trembling with indignation. He opened his mouth, tried to form an explanation, but the words died before they could take shape. He saw her hand rise — a trembling gesture, but firm. In that instant, time slowed.
Then she pushed him.
It was a sudden shove, more emotional violence than physical strength. Chamroeun’s feet slid out from under him. He spun backward, arms flailing, before crashing to the floor with a muffled thud.
For a heartbeat he lay still, stunned. His back hit the polished tile, pain slicing through his ribs. His vision swam. But worse than the physical hurt was the shock — the betrayal. His heart kicked inside his chest, wild and raw.
A gasp escaped him, instinctively. Then louder, a broken wail: “Minea—!” His voice cracked, thick with pain. He clawed at the air, eyes wide, tears sprung unbidden. He tried to lift himself, but his limbs felt weak, the room spinning.
Minea stood frozen, her breath ragged. Her anguish was etched into every line of her face. She watched him crumple, and part of her screamed inside: how had things come to this? How had love turned to a battlefield?
Chamroeun pressed one hand to his side, where the push had struck fiercest, and felt the sting of bruising pain growing. His shirt was damp with sweat; his heart pounded, every beat a reminder of humiliation, of emotional rupture.
He stared up at her, eyes swimming with tears and disbelief. “Why — why did you push me?” His voice was choked. He tried to rise again, but his body trembled too much.
Minea’s lips parted, trembling, but no words came. She shook her head, tears leaking from her eyes. Guilty, regretful, angry, broken — all those emotions warred in her face. She wanted to step forward, to cradle him, to apologize, but pride and hurt held her back.
Chamroeun’s sobs broke through. They sounded raw, guttural, the kind of cry that aches in your lungs. He curled inward, clutching himself, as much from pain as from heartbreak. The room around him — walls, floor, ceiling — felt oppressive and cold.
He tried to push himself up, but the ache in his side made him falter. He let his head drop back, staring at the harsh lights above. Every thought in his mind stung: I trusted you. I believed in us. How could it end like this?
Minea’s steps, tentative, brought her closer. She knelt beside him. Her hands hovered uncertainly, trembling. “Chamroeun… I —” she started, voice breaking. But he flinched at her movement, as though she might strike again. That moment wounded her more than the push had wounded him.
He turned his face away, tears streaming. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t come near me.” His voice was ragged, brittle. Then softer, so soft he barely heard himself: “I thought… I thought you loved me.”
Silence hung heavy. The only sound was his ragged breathing, the distant hum of lights, perhaps the thudding of his own heart. Her silhouette trembled in that silence.
She swallowed hard, tears pooling. “I… I do.” Her tone cracked under that weight. She wanted him to look at her, to reach out, to forgive — but she stood fixed, anchored by shame.
Chamroeun’s chest heaved with sobs. The pain in his side flared, but deeper still was the pain in his heart. He felt hollow, emptied, as though she had forced out more than his body — she had forced the faith, the trust, the love itself, out of him in a moment.
He tried softly, “Why push me? After all we’ve been through?” Every word was a crack. He raised his head slightly, glancing at her reflection in his watery eyes, seeing regret. He saw her tear-streaked cheeks, the way her jaw trembled.
She bit her lip, hands clenching. “I was angry. I… I felt betrayed.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, as though the truth itself hurt her to voice. “You didn’t tell me. You hid things. Every lie built a wall between us.” Her confession spilled out, raw and fragile.
He closed his eyes, absorbing it. His sobs slowed to shudders. He thought of all the times before, the warmth, the laughter, the promises whispered late at night. He thought of the moment they promised forever. And now, here he lay, broken.
He whispered, “I didn’t want to lie. I was afraid—” His voice broke. The sky beyond windows seemed distant, cold. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the wound in his heart.
She leaned forward, gently, moving toward him despite his resistance. She placed a hand near his arm, trembling. But he flinched, pulled back a little. She froze, tears rolling.
“Minea,” he rasped, “I don’t know if I can trust you again.” His words were a confession and a plea. He looked at her — really looked — searching her eyes for a flicker of warmth, of truth, some sign of salvage.
She met his gaze, her own eyes glistening. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” she said, voice small but firm. “I’m sorry, Chamroeun. I never wanted to hurt you.” She closed the distance, cautiously, placing her hand on his shoulder. He stared at it, then let his eyes drift away — to the floor, to the wall.
He swallowed, trying to steady his breathing. Then, painfully, gently, he reached up a shaking hand and rested it on hers. The touch was tentative — a fragile thread between two broken hearts.
Minea exhaled, tears slipping. She leaned closer, pressing her forehead near his. He did not recoil. They stayed like that, knees bent, bodies trembling. Neither spoke, but in that silence, both understood how deep was their wound, how far they had fallen.
His sobs gradually faded to quiet tears. Her hands trembled against his. The harsh lights glowed overhead. The room felt too big now, empty in its echo. Yet in their small shared space, something tender flickered — the memory of what had been, and the question of whether anything could remain.
Chamroeun closed his eyes, tears dampening his lashes. He whispered, voice rough, “I’m hurting so much.” He turned his face toward her hand, pressing his cheek against it.
Minea’s tears fell silently. She wrapped her other hand around his, holding him. “I know,” she said, voice broken. “I know. I’m sorry.”
They stayed there on the floor — broken, raw, hearts bleeding — touch the faintest bridge between them. The world beyond that room might carry on, but in that moment things had shattered, perhaps permanently, perhaps only temporarily. But the fracture was real. The pain would linger.
In the hush, Chamroeun thought: maybe what’s broken cannot be fully fixed. But maybe — maybe, if time and truth and forgiveness come — a new bond could grow where the old has died.
He drew a ragged breath. He opened his eyes, looking at her — at her sorrow, her regret, the tremor in her lips. He whispered, hardly above a breath: “I don’t know if I can forgive yet.” His words were both shield and invitation.
Minea nodded. She closed her eyes a moment, tears flowing. “I understand. But I’m here. I’m not leaving.” She squeezed his hand.
He drew back his head slightly, looking into her eyes, heart raw. The push, the fall, the cry — all of it would mark them forever. But in that heavy silence, with brokenness laid bare, the possibility of something new — uncertain, wounded, cautious — stirred.
They remained there, flushed and trembling, on the cold floor. The scars of that moment would not fade quickly, but they had survived the collapse. And sometimes, that is the first fragile step toward what remains.
