Lyra was curled on the sofa in Zara’s apartment, a soft blanket tucked around her. They were watching an old black-and-white film, the dialogue a gentle murmur in the quiet room. Her phone had been off for a full day. The outside world was a distant, irrelevant hum.
This was peace.
At that same moment, Caspian’s apology was posted. It was not a video. There was no somber press conference. It was simple text on a stark black background, released simultaneously to every major news outlet and his personal social media accounts.
It created a firestorm.
The public debate was immediate and ferocious. Some called it a calculated PR move. Others saw a flicker of genuine remorse in its brutal honesty. The words were dissected, analyzed, and argued over by millions of people who felt they knew the story.
Zara saw it trending on her tablet. She read the statement once, then twice. Her expression was complex. After a moment of deliberation, she knew Lyra had the right to know, but she also had the right to ignore it completely.
She gently paused the movie. The sudden silence made Ly
ra look over.
“Caspian released a personal statement,” Zara said softly. “It’s about you. It’s out there, if you ever want to see it.” She held out the tablet, but not pushily. “You don’t have to.”
Lyra looked at her friend, her own expression calm, unreadable. The world was demanding a reaction, a verdict. Forgiveness or condemnation. But she was no longer a participant in that trial.
After a long moment, she gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“No,” she said. “Not now.”
She turned her attention back to the paused film on the screen, to the quiet story unfolding in shades of grey. Her peace no longer depended on his words, his remorse, or his redemption.
The choice not to look was her final, quietest, and most definitive victory.
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