Silence reigned in Dylan's apartment, a heavy, almost oppressive silence, but at the same time, it had become a refuge. Léa had settled on the couch, her gaze lost in the distance, as though every word she spoke took energy she no longer had. Dylan, for his part, remained silent. He knew that this meeting would change something in him, but he didn't yet know what. He wasn't planning on asking any intrusive questions—not yet. For now, he simply wanted to be there, present, in this moment of calm, ready to offer a little comfort to this broken woman.
He placed a cup of tea on the coffee table, waiting for her to make the first move. Léa looked up at him, and their eyes met. It was a silent exchange, but Dylan saw gratitude in her gaze, a faint ray of hope amidst the darkness still surrounding her mind. She finally took the cup, her trembling hands grasping the rim as if this simple gesture was an ordeal in itself.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice still weak, almost inaudible.
Dylan nodded, offering a faint smile, but he knew that the hardest part was yet to come. She needed to speak. He had understood that she was carrying a heavy burden, battling her own demons. But how could he help her overcome this? How could he accompany her without rushing her, without forcing her to relive pains she likely didn't want to revisit?
He sat down across from her, arms crossed, waiting without pressure. Finally, after a long silence, Léa broke the heavy atmosphere.
"I... I don't know where to start," she said, her gaze dropping to the cup she was holding. "Everything is... everything is too complicated."
Dylan nodded, his heart beating faster. "You don't have to say everything right away. If you want, we can just talk about whatever you want, whenever you're ready."
She seemed to think for a moment before placing the cup on the table. A slight tremor shook her hands. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depth of her soul, she spoke in a low voice, almost as if she needed to convince herself of what she was about to say.
"I left my husband," she finally said, her voice broken. "I... I couldn't live with him anymore. He destroyed me, little by little, until I was nothing more than a shadow of myself."
Dylan felt a strange warmth fill his heart. It was hard to hear, but at the same time, he realized that he had never wanted to be a hero. He just wanted to be someone honest, someone present, a man capable of understanding and giving without expecting anything in return.
"You don't have to apologize," he replied gently. "You do what feels right. It doesn't matter what others think. And if that means leaving to rebuild yourself, then that's what you need to do."
Léa looked up at him, a hint of surprise in her eyes. She seemed to expect something else, perhaps judgment, but no, Dylan was offering her simple acceptance, without conditions. Her eyes began to water again, but this time, it was a sigh of relief, as though a weight was gradually lifting off her shoulders.
"I've never had someone tell me that," she whispered. "Everyone told me I had to stay, that it was normal, that it was my place. But no one knew what I endured every day."
Dylan nodded. He knew what it was like—the suffering hidden beneath a facade, the invisible scars one hides out of pride or shame. He had known mockery and pain, but he had never had to face the abuse that Léa seemed to have endured. Yet, he understood that every kind of harm, whether physical or emotional, left an indelible mark.
"You're not alone," he said softly. "And you don't have to carry all of this by yourself. If you want, I can help, in my own way."
Léa gave him a look of gratitude, and in that gaze, Dylan felt a strange warmth. She didn't need to say anything. He knew that his mere presence was enough, at least for now.
Over the next few days, Dylan continued to take care of her. He knew he wasn't a therapist, but he could be a man she could trust. A man ready to listen without judgment, to help without expecting anything in return. He helped her regain a routine, to catch her breath, and little by little, Léa began to emerge from her cocoon of pain and isolation.
The healing process was slow, much slower than Dylan had imagined. Sometimes, Léa would spend entire days lost in her thoughts, in her past. Sometimes, she would retreat into complete silence. But every day, it seemed, she took one more step toward the light, and every day, Dylan felt a little more connected to her.
Léa wasn't just a woman in distress. She was also a person with incredible strength, a woman who, despite everything she had been through, still clung to life. Dylan knew that this relationship wouldn't be easy, but he wasn't in a hurry. He had never believed in the idea of "instant love" or easy solutions. He now understood that love, when it was born, wove itself slowly, between silences and tender gestures, in moments of quiet sharing and long hours spent supporting each other without words.
It was strange, Dylan thought, to realize that in helping Léa, he was also rebuilding himself. His size, which had always seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, no longer felt as heavy. He no longer felt insignificant. He was here, by the side of a beautiful, strong, and broken woman, but one who, through every trial, remained full of dignity.
He stood up to get a blanket, and as he returned, he paused for a moment when he saw her. She was lying on the couch, her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. A smile that said it all. She had begun to heal. And so had he.