Chapter 11

Adrian’s hand, still pressing on my shoulder, began to tremble slightly.

He stared at me, his gaze piercing: "Five years ago, when I had that car accident, you cried beside me in the pouring rain. Why?

"Someone as heartless as you, who doesn't even need a goodbye to break up, why did *you* cry?"

His face was almost distorted with anguish, yet I remained perfectly calm.

I watched him, watched his emotions spiral out of control, almost roaring with fury.

But my voice remained steady: "Adrian, this isn’t you."

He visibly flinched.

Then he finally let go of me, his thin lips even starting to tremble.

It was as if something was lodged in his chest, threatening to make him explode.

The man started smashing everything he could see, *bang, crash, clatter*, until nothing was left.

Finally, still not satisfied, he kicked over the coffee table and chairs.

I huddled against the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible.

No matter how hard I tried to stay calm, my body couldn’t stop trembling.

Many, many years ago, I had faced this exact scene.

The bedroom, a wreckage, like the end of the world.

Adrian lifted the last stool from the vanity, about to smash it to the ground.

He finally turned his head, noticing me huddled in the corner.

Our eyes met. My face, at that moment, was probably far from good.

His angry, ashen face froze the instant his gaze met mine.

The stool in his hand never hit the floor.

He looked at me, curled in the corner, his expression strange.

He held the stool, motionless, for a long, long time.

After an unknown duration, he finally put the stool down, his face dark.

He walked past the wreckage, silently heading for the door.

I clutched the nearby curtain, my hand shaking violently.

But the man at the doorway paused.

He didn’t turn around, his voice low and weary: "You should go home. Don’t bother coming to the set anymore."

I slowly sank to the floor, curling into myself, and stayed in that lounge for a very long time.