11. Even The Toxic Knows How To Say Sorry #2
That was what made it worse.
Kyle didn’t answer right away.
But when he looked up, I saw his eyes were wet.
“I know,” he said.
It wasn’t defensive.
It wasn’t dismissive.
It was certain.
“I… I think I’m broken,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I think this is the first time I’m saying this out loud.”
He let out a small, shaky breath, shaking his head.
“I just… I don’t think I can ever change.”
I stared at him, but he couldn’t meet my eyes.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue.
“It’s not because I haven’t met the right person. It’s not because I don’t know better.” He laughed quietly, but there was nothing funny about it. “I do.”
His eyes met mine this time.
“I just don’t think I want to change.”
The words landed heavier than anything else he could’ve said.
No excuses.
No deflection.
Just the truth.
“But you,” he continued, softer now, “you’re everything, James.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“James, you’re—” He shook his head like he couldn’t even find the right order of words. “You’re beautiful. You’re talented. You’re smart. You’re opinionated as hell. You’re loving. You’re—”
He exhaled, eyes glassy.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
That did it.
My vision blurred from the tears that welled in my eyes. But still, I tried stopping it from falling, biting my lip to make sure I won’t appear weak.
“I mean that,” he added quickly, stepping a little closer but not touching me. “You’re brave for welcoming people into your life, not knowing what they are—but you still do. And you’re brave for walking away from the people that hurt you.”
My chest ached.
“You are so brave that even when you love… you know when to let go.”
I looked away, because looking at him one heartbeat longer, tears might spill.
Silence filled the space between us.
Thick. Heavy.
“I’m not saying this so you’ll stay,” he added. “I know you won’t. You shouldn’t.”
Another breath.
“I just—” He paused, swallowing. “I don’t want you to leave here thinking you weren’t enough.”
I turned to him again.
“I need you to know that it’s never because of you,” he said, voice unsteady but clear. “It was never because of you. It’s me—it’s people like me who constantly, unashamedly hurt you.”
The words of a thief should be taken with a grain of salt—but for the first time, I believed him.
That he meant every word.
That this—whatever this was—was the most honest version of him I was ever going to get.
“I’m sorry, James,” he said finally.
No performance.
No dramatics.
“I’m sorry for hurting you. For… all of it. For every time.”
The room felt smaller. The air thinner.
I held his gaze for a moment longer, thinking about everything. Every version of us. Every time I stayed. Every time I came back. And every time it ended exactly like this.
His words sat there between us: true and sincere.
Yet somehow, it still didn’t change anything.
I didn’t say anything.
I just walked past him.
Opened the door…
And left.
Outside, Samar Loop was empty.
Trees lined both sides, wrapped in Christmas lights that glowed too softly to feel real. They were gold, warm, and almost gentle, which didn’t match how everything felt inside me.
I walked without direction, my steps uneven against the pavement, like my body hadn’t caught up to what just happened.
Or maybe it had… and this was what breaking actually felt like.
I stopped right between two trees.
Suddenly, I couldn’t keep going.
So I sat down on the pavement, not caring about how it looked, or who might see. My chest felt too tight to even care.
I stayed there, breathing through the pain. Like if I just sat long enough, everything inside me would settle on its own.
But it didn’t.
It just stayed. Heavy. Unmoving.
And somewhere in the middle of it, my mind went back—not to Kyle, but to him.
Victor.
I was lying on the bed, scrolling through my phone, while Victor sat beside me, half watching whatever I was doing.
It was easy. Quiet. Normal. Lovely.
I opened an Instagram story from a mutual friend of ours.
It was at a party with loud music and people laughing.
But then the next story shattered the calm I had settled into.
In the middle of the frame, I saw Victor… with someone who had their arms wrapped around him.
The guy stood too close.
My chest tightened.
I turned my phone toward him.
“Who’s this?” I asked, my voice calm.
Victor glanced at the screen, unfazed.
“Friend of a friend,” he said casually.
I waited.
“That’s it?”
“He has a crush on me,” Victor added, like it didn’t matter. “He asked for a hug.”
Something in me shifted.
“And you let him?”
Victor looked at me then.
And I saw it—that flicker of offense, like I said something blasphemous to a devout.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.
And in my head, the words came immediately.
But it hurt me.
It was right there, at the tip of my tongue. Clear. Simple. Honest. All I had to do was say those four words.
But I didn’t.
“I’m not saying you did,” I said instead.
And before I could even finish, he cut me off.
“Hugging doesn’t mean anything,” Victor said, his tone sharper now. “I’m literally telling you the truth so you’d know who he is and what happened.”
“I said I wasn’t—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I stopped.
Because suddenly, it felt like there was a problem.
And it was me.
“…Okay,” I just said.
Victor stared at me for a second longer, like he was still irritated.
Then he stood up.
“Where are you g—” I started.
But he didn’t look back.
Just like that, he walked out, heading to the bathroom.
I stayed there, phone still in my hand, my heart quietly cracking, staring at nothing.
Then I called out for him. “Vic.”
No response.
I tried again, softer this time, but still nothing.
And I remembered the feeling that followed. Not anger, but fear. Because I had seen this before—the way he pulled away when things got uncomfortable… when I asked questions that he didn’t like.
The way one wrong question could turn into distance.
Like that night I asked what we were, and he shut me down just like that.
So easy.
So final.
And I remember how fast I backed down. How quickly I swallowed everything I actually wanted to say—because Victor felt more important than clarity.
Because losing him felt worse than staying silent.
Despite his exit, we were fine the next day. Like nothing happened.
We always came back.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, my breathing uneven as the present slowly came back to focus.
The lights. The street. The cold pavement beneath me.
And in that moment, the truth settled in—quiet, but undeniable.
Kyle hurt me… over and over again.
But tonight, he looked me in the eye and said he was sorry.
No excuses.
No deflection.
Just the truth.
Victor never did.
And somehow, that hurt more.
Because in the end, they both left scars…
But at least one of them didn’t pretend my pain wasn’t there.