chapter 8:A Prison of His Own Making.

The school corridors were quieter than usual. The midday sun cast long shadows through the windows, and the sound of distant chatter faded as Dennis walked toward the staffroom. His heart was heavy, his mind already set on what he had to do.

Annie was sitting at her desk, flipping through some lesson notes. She looked up when she saw him approaching, her expression softening.

"You look like you haven't slept," she said, closing her notebook. "What's going on?"

Dennis sighed and sat across from her, running a hand through his hair. "I've made a decision, Annie. I'm resigning."

Her brows furrowed. "Resigning?"

"I can't stay here anymore," he said, his voice quieter. "Every day in this school reminds me of her. Every classroom, every hallway… even the lessons I teach. It's exhausting. I need to leave."

Annie studied him for a moment, then leaned forward. "And go where?"

Dennis hesitated before answering. "I don't know yet. I want to leave the city. Maybe even go overseas if I can."

Annie let out a breath. "That's a big decision, Dennis. Are you sure running away is the answer?"

He clenched his fists. "It's not running away. It's survival. You don't understand, Annie. I can't focus. I can't teach. My mind keeps going back to everything I should have done differently. Every night, I see her in my dreams, and every morning, I wake up with the same regrets."

Annie's face softened. "I do understand. I know how much this has been eating you up. But have you thought this through? Do you even have enough saved up to make such a big move?"

Dennis exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. "That's the problem. I don't. I checked my savings, and it's barely enough to get me a new place in this city, let alone another country." He let out a bitter chuckle. "I spoke so confidently about leaving, but now I realize I don't even have the means to do it."

Annie tapped her fingers on the desk, thinking. "Then maybe this isn't just about money, Dennis. Maybe this is about facing what's hurting you instead of trying to outrun it."

Dennis looked away, jaw tight. "What do you want me to do? Stay here and keep drowning in the past?"

"I want you to heal, Dennis. Leaving won't erase the memories. It won't change what happened. And if you leave with all this weight on your shoulders, it's just going to follow you."

He shook his head. "I don't think I can heal here."

Annie sighed, reaching out to squeeze his hand gently. "Then at least be honest with yourself about why you want to go. It's okay to need a fresh start, but don't do it just to escape your pain. It'll catch up with you no matter where you go."

Dennis swallowed hard, her words hitting deeper than he wanted to admit. He had spent so much time convincing himself that leaving was the only answer. But was it?

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Annie gave him a small, understanding smile. "Then don't rush it. Think it through. And if you ever need to talk… I'm here."

For the first time in a long time, Dennis felt like someone truly saw him. But whether that was enough to change his mind, he still wasn't sure.

The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the distant hum of passing cars and the occasional creak of the apartment walls. Dennis sat on the edge of his bed, the weight of his conversation with Annie still pressing on his chest.

He had spoken with such confidence, convinced that leaving was the only way forward. But reality had hit him like a cold slap—he didn't have enough money to leave town, let alone the country. He was trapped.

Trapped in the same city. Trapped in the same job. Trapped in the same thoughts that refused to let him go.

He had started drinking. Not much at first—just a few sips to dull the ache. But tonight, the glass in his hand was nearly empty, and he barely remembered pouring it.

He set it down and dragged a hand over his face. His body was tense, his mind restless, haunted by the same unbearable images.

Lilian.

The way she had looked at him that day. The way her lips had parted, waiting for him to close the distance. The heat of her breath against his skin before he had pulled away.

Dennis clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists.

Why hadn't he kissed her? Why hadn't he given in?

The regret burned inside him, clawing at his insides. He got up, unsteady, and walked to the bathroom. The cold tiles beneath his feet grounded him for a brief moment, but the thoughts still raged on.

Leaning against the sink, he stared at his reflection. His face was worn, his eyes clouded with frustration, longing, and something darker—something desperate.

He turned on the tap, splashing cold water over his face, but it did nothing to wash away the memories. Every night was the same. The same dreams, the same torment. He would see her beneath him, feel the heat of her body against his, only to wake up breathless, aching, empty.

And every night, the cycle continued.

His nights had become a battlefield between desire and regret, between what he wanted and what he had lost.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the edges of the sink. He had never been the type to seek meaningless company. Women had never been his escape. But the loneliness, the frustration—it was unbearable.

And so, in the stillness of the night, he sought relief the only way he knew how.

But the moment it was over, the moment the tension faded, he was left with nothing but the hollow echo of what could have been.

He leaned his forehead against the mirror, his breath uneven.

"This isn't living," he whispered to himself.

And yet, he knew tomorrow would be the same. The same school. The same regrets. The same aching dreams that refused to let him go.

He needed to leave.

He needed to get out.

But for now, he was still a prisoner of his own choices.