Cursed love

The last night

The clock read 11:47 p.m.

Lamplight pooled in the corner of the room, throwing amber shadows across the wooden floor. Outside, rain fell in a slow, steady rhythm against the windows — patient, unhurried, as if it already knew what the night held.

Kai sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded loosely in his lap, and watched Sophia.

He said nothing for a long moment. He simply looked at her — the woman he had loved for six years, married for four, and built a life with in this small house at the edge of a village where no one had known their names when they first arrived.

He looked at her the way a person looks at something they are about to lose. As if he were trying to memorize her before it was too late.

Sophia had changed into one of his old shirts, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, the fabric loose around her frame. Her hair, still damp from the shower, fell in soft waves over her shoulders.

She caught him staring.

"What?" she asked, smiling.

"Nothing."

"You've been staring at me for five minutes."

"I like looking at you."

A faint smile crossed his face — the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Sophia crossed the room and stopped between his knees, resting her hands on his shoulders.

"You still do?" she teased. "After six years?"

Then her smile faded.

"You've been strange lately."

"I'm tired."

"That's not what I mean." She leaned closer. "You're somewhere else."

Kai looked into her eyes and, for a moment, couldn't breathe.

"I'm here," he said.

She studied his face as if trying to decide whether to believe him. Then she kissed him — slowly, the way she always did when words weren't enough. His hands found her waist and drew her closer. She kissed him again, longer this time, and he answered with the ease of someone who knew every small movement she made.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Neither spoke.

He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, then kissed her again — not with urgency, not with hunger, but carefully, tenderly, as though it were their first kiss instead of one of thousands. His lips moved against hers with a kind of quiet wonder, the warmth between them a small mercy against the cold that had settled somewhere deep in his chest.

For a moment, he let himself forget. The past. The secrets. The things he had found. The reason they were sitting together in this room, tonight of all nights. There was only Sophia — his wife, his home, the woman whose laugh he had once believed he would hear for the rest of his life.

The kiss deepened. He pulled her into his lap, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, foreheads touching.

"You've been distant all week," she whispered.

"I know."

"Then stay close tonight."

He closed his eyes, arms tightening around her. "I am."

For a few precious minutes there were no questions, no arguments, no memories — only the warmth of who they used to be to each other.

Eventually they lay beneath the blanket, Sophia's head resting on his chest, his fingers tracing slow lines along her arm.

"This is all I ever wanted," she murmured.

"What?"

She lifted her head. "You, me, and a home." A faint smile. "A quiet life in a quiet place. No noise. No one interfering. Just you and me."

Kai swallowed. "You have that."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

She settled against him again, and for a while the only sound was the rain.

"Do you remember when we first came here?" she asked.

"You hated the house."

"I hated the kitchen."

"You said the whole place looked like it was going to collapse."

"It almost did." She smiled against his chest.

"But you loved it."

"I loved you."

She went quiet. He looked down at her.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

She nodded, then reached up and touched his face. "I love you, Kai."

His eyes closed. A tear slipped free before he could stop it. She wiped it away with her thumb.

"Why are you crying?"

He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek. "I don't know."

"You're lying."

He opened his eyes. For a moment he wanted to tell her everything — to ask her why. Why she had done it. Why everyone around them had died. Why she had hidden the truth. Why he had spent so long protecting her from it, and her from herself. Why the person he loved had become someone he was afraid of.

He said nothing. He kissed her palm instead.

"You know you can tell me anything," she said softly.

"I know."

"Then tell me."

His throat tightened. He looked away.

She lowered her hand. "Kai?"

He didn't answer.

She sat up. "What happened?"

He stared at the floor. "I'm sorry."

Her expression shifted. "For what?"

He stood. She followed him with her eyes.

"Kai?"

He turned. There were tears in his eyes now — not anger, not hatred, only grief. Deep, unbearable grief.

She rose slowly. "You're scaring me."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that."

He stepped toward her. She stepped back.

"Kai—"

He looked at her one last time. Then he moved.

It happened quickly. Too quickly for her to understand. Her eyes widened — and then she was in his arms.

He caught her as she fell.

"No—" His voice broke. He lowered her gently to the floor. "Sophia."

He knelt beside her, hands trembling. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He held her against his chest — the same arms that, only minutes before, had held her with tenderness now cradling her stillness. He pressed his forehead to hers.

"I didn't want this," he whispered. "I didn't want any of this."

He stayed there until his body felt hollowed out, emptied of everything but the sound of the rain.

Then his eyes drifted to the photograph on the bedside table — their wedding photo. Sophia smiling at the camera. Kai not looking at the camera at all, but at her. He remembered that day: the promises, the laughter, the way she had held his hand as if she would never let go.

Forever.

He covered his face. "I meant it," he said, voice cracking. "I really meant it."

He looked back at her one final time. "I'm sorry."

He rose slowly. The room felt colder now, the rain outside heavier, more insistent.

Kai looked, for the last time, at the woman he had loved for six years.

Then he ended his own life.

The house fell silent.

Two people had entered the night alive. Neither would see the morning.

But this was not where their story began.

Their story had begun six years earlier.

Six years ago...