Across from me, Tristan tossed his phone aside, his face a mask of barely contained rage. His sorrowful eyes glistened with unshed tears, and it pained me to see him like this. He had always been gentle and kind—the one person who treated me like I mattered.
Reaching out, I gently wiped away the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. I didn’t want him to be sad because of me. Tristan was like the sun—bright, warm, full of light. He was meant to shine, not be weighed down by the darkness of my existence.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure who I was apologizing to—Tristan, or myself.
Tristan had spent seven relentless days near the mountain, where the landslide had turned the once-familiar landscape into a graveyard of mud and rubble. At first, his expression was still full of hope, but as days passed by, the hope of finding me alive had long since faded. Despite that, Tristan didn’t want to stop—not until he found me, even if it meant recovering only my cold, lifeless body.