I hate you

The moment I woke up, I saw her in front of me. Her hands were covered in blood. I tried to figure out if I was in a dream. Everything felt far too real. The emptiness in her eyes, frozen with fear, unsettled me. I didn’t want to say anything. I just looked into her eyes. I didn’t question it. I wanted to brush it off like something ordinary, like an everyday occurrence.

Knowing kills many things… a love, or more often, a curiosity. I started to feel guilty, like a murder suspect. It’s not pain that frightens people most—it’s guilt. I wanted to stay in bed and somehow get through this, in case it really was a dream.

My own reflection had disappeared into the void of her gaze. I’ve always been afraid of the depth in her eyes. I wondered if she noticed me. It was as if time had stopped across the universe, and all focus had gathered in this single moment. Despite all my trembling, I decided to get up.

I approached her, meaning to ask what had happened. She flinched as if she had just noticed me. Our eyes met again. She said something, but I couldn’t understand. She was whispering. I touched her shoulder. I wanted to know what she was saying. In the rising tone of her whispers, there was only one sentence: I hate you…