Not with ease. Not like before the accident. But with clear intention.
I broke down.
There, on the screen, I watched as Julian walked to the window, stretched, pulled out a granola bar hidden under the mattress, and ate it while scrolling through a phone he had stashed behind the dresser.
I couldn’t breathe.
He had been lying.
For how long?
The video ended with him slipping back into bed, carefully positioning his limbs, closing his eyes, just minutes before I returned home.
I stared at the black screen, the weight of 23 years pressing down on my chest. My hands trembled. My throat was dry. And still, I couldn’t move.
But I had to.
I walked—no, stumbled—into that room. The room where I had cried, prayed, and poured every ounce of my soul for more than two decades.
He lay there, blank stare, just like always.
But now, I saw it.
The control in his breath. The tension in his jaw. The act.
I stood at his bedside.
“Julian,” I said quietly.
No response.
“I know.”
Still nothing.
“I saw the video.”
