Three days passed.
Julian did not apologize.
Instead, he sent messages.
At first, they were casual.
“Are you still upset?”
Then:
“We need to talk.”
Then:
“You’re making this bigger than it is.”
Each message revealed the same thing.
He wanted the situation resolved.
But he did not want to acknowledge why it happened.
Finally, on Friday evening, he arrived at the condo.
I opened the door but did not invite him in.
He looked different.
Calmer.
More controlled.
The version of Julian that other people knew.
“I want to apologize,” he said.
I waited.
He looked uncomfortable.
“I shouldn’t have kicked the table.”
A strange sadness passed through me.
Not anger.
Sadness.
Because even now, he apologized for the object.
Not for me.
Not for what he said.
Not for the fear he caused.
“I’m listening,” I replied.
He sighed.
“I grew up in a house where my father was strict.”
