The cold water bit at his skin, a dull shock that helped numb the sting. He sank deeper into the tub, arms resting on the rim, head tilted back against the cracked tile. His fingers gripped the edge tighter than he meant to—he hadn’t even realized they were shaking.

He pressed the half-melted ice pack to his face, wincing as it settled over tender skin. The sharp cold sent a shiver down his spine, but he welcomed it. It was easier to focus on the temperature than the rest of it.

Another missed call blinked dimly from the phone on the sink. Another promise broken.

He hated himself for that.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling it catch like splinters on the way down. The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet—just the faint drip of the faucet, the creak of old pipes, the sound of his breathing echoing in the tight space. He didn’t know how long he’d been in there. Time always slipped away when the pain dulled into background noise.

The front door creaked open.

His heart sank.

He didn’t move. Maybe if he stayed still, the moment would pass.

But the footsteps came closer.

He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

The bathroom door edged open. His eyes stayed fixed on the water, unmoving. He felt exposed, like something fragile laid out under a spotlight.

He couldn’t keep the words in, not this time. Not with you standing there. Not when he had nothing left to hide behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper, voice hoarse and small. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want to worry you.”

The silence that followed made his skin crawl.

He couldn’t look up.

He couldn’t lie, not when you were right there. Not anymore.

He swallowed hard, his hands sinking into the water as if he could wash it all away—the bruises, the shame, the lies. But it clung to him like everything else he tried to hide.

And now that you had seen it...

He knew it was time to come clean.