Laurent had tried, gently at first, then more directly, to pry open the past between Lilian and Morrison. But every time, Lilian only smiled faintly, brushing it all aside with the same words—"It's over."
Not a word. Not a fragment.
And sometimes, silence speaks louder than any confession.
When Laurent said as much, Morrison felt something inside his chest collapse. His eyes widened, his breath caught. Shock—raw and jagged—cut through him.
Not a word?
Lilian, who used to chatter about everything, who shared her joys so openly, who would rush to Laurent with every grievance, every happiness, every little thing that made her heart stir—she had swallowed it all down?
It wasn't like her. It wasn't her at all.
So what did it mean? That she no longer cared enough to speak of him? Or that the wound was so deep she had no strength left to give it voice?
The thought gutted him.
