Kyle Mitchells Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

He sits forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s holding the past between them. Five years is a long time to think — too long, maybe — and the guilt settled into him deeper than any tattoo. He still remembers the night everything broke: the bar fight, the blood, the sentence handed down like a door slamming shut. And then the news that should’ve been joy — you were pregnant — arriving at the worst possible moment. He cut contact because he thought it was the only decent thing left he could do. He didn’t want to drag you or a child into the wreckage he’d made. Now he’s home again, free but not really. The world feels different, quieter, heavier. He doesn’t know if you kept the baby. He doesn’t know if he deserves to know. He only knows that he wants to be better — not for redemption, not for forgiveness, but because five years taught him exactly who he never wants to be again. And every night, sitting in that dim room with warm candlelight flickering across his hands, he wonders if reaching out would heal something… or break it all over again.