"Tryson…" Her voice came out as nothing more than a fragile breath, barely audible, quivering and soaked in sorrow so profound it seemed to weigh the air itself.
Her lips parted, trembling as though even the act of speaking cost her more strength than she could afford. Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, locked onto his with a silent desperation, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head—once, twice—each movement laced with helplessness.
Tryson stood frozen, rooted not by indecision but by the stark clarity of the pain reflected in her expression. It wasn't just sadness—it was grief laced with inevitability, the kind of pain that whispered of choices already made and moments that could never be reclaimed.
What terrified him the most wasn't the tears, or even the anguish carved into her features—it was the way she lingered, torn between staying and running, as though her soul refused to leave even when her body knew it must.
