The Weight of Guilt
The morning light was cruel. Ethan woke with a pounding headache, but worse than the physical ache was the gnawing weight inside him — guilt that settled deep, suffocating every thought. The night before felt like a fracture in time, a moment that had shattered the foundation of everything he once believed in.
He avoided his phone, knowing Clara wouldn't answer. They hadn't spoken since that night, and the silence felt like a punishment neither dared to break. Every memory replayed with painful clarity — her hesitant touch, the conflicted look in her eyes, the desperate need that neither had voiced aloud.
Ethan tried to lose himself in routine, but the guilt was relentless. At work, his mind wandered. Around friends, his smile was hollow. Mark's unwavering trust haunted him. How could he betray someone so loyal? How could he face him knowing what he'd done?
That evening, he found himself at the edge of Mark's apartment complex, frozen by the door he was too afraid to open. The laughter inside felt like a cruel reminder of the secret Ethan carried alone — a secret that could destroy everything if it ever came to light.
He wanted to confess, to ask for forgiveness, but the fear of losing his friend kept him silent. Instead, he became a ghost among them, a fractured presence in a friendship that was no longer whole.
The weight of guilt was heavy — unbearable — but Ethan had no idea how to set it down.