I was truly losing it.
I was breaking down in front of someone I barely knew.
Cedric handed me a tissue. I wiped my tears roughly, then looked up and met his eyes, suddenly realizing something.
I asked, with a hint of bitterness, "Cedric, you don't... you don't like me, do you?" For the first time, Cedric's impassive expression cracked. He tilted his head slightly, a little embarrassed.
I burst into laughter, the question coming out crude and direct: "What? You want to be the other woman?"
"Or is it that you have some twisted fetish, getting off on sleeping with married women? I could sleep with you even without the divorce; it's just for fun, right? We're adults—who cares as long as it feels good?"
"That's enough." Cedric looked at me, a trace of anger rising on his face. "Yamilet, you're degrading yourself." Maybe he was right.
I had no idea what I was thinking anymore. It felt like my soul was being consumed, and all I wanted was to drag Cedric down with me, to suffer together, to be burned into ashes.
I didn't care anymore.
Ten years of love had rotted away, as if someone had ripped a piece of my heart out without anesthesia, without antibiotics. I let it decay in front of me, almost enjoying the suffering. It was my business whether I lived or died, but then Cedric appeared.
I poured all my frustration and hatred into him.
From Cedric's eyes, I saw myself—the bitter, exhausted person I had become, full of resentment. I had become exactly what I once despised.
I truly hated Aldric. He had once made me shine, but now he had made me grotesque.
