The days in prison passed slowly, each moment stretching into eternity. Nathan had never known true loneliness before—not until now. In the beginning, he had clung to memories of his past, of Sarah, of Lewis. But memories were cruel. They did not offer comfort; they only sharpened his regrets, slicing him open over and over again.
His cell was small, suffocating, with nothing but a cot, a toilet, and a tiny window too high to see anything beyond the endless concrete walls. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and despair, the voices of inmates echoing down the halls in an unsettling rhythm. Some had accepted their fate. Others still fought against it, lashing out at anyone who dared to remind them of the bars that confined them. Nathan was somewhere in between—trapped in a purgatory of his own making.
He spent most of his time in silence, keeping to himself. There were gangs here, men who had carved out their own kingdoms behind these walls. They had their rules, their alliances. Nathan had no interest in any of it. He wasn't afraid, but he wasn't reckless either. He avoided unnecessary conflict, kept his head down, and did his best to stay out of trouble.
But no amount of silence could drown out the thoughts in his head.
Every night, he replayed the fight in Sarah's house. The way Lewis had hit him. The way he had pushed back. The way Lewis had fallen, his head cracking against the marble floor. The way Sarah had screamed. The way his entire life had unraveled in a single, irreversible second.
He had killed his brother.
That fact never left him, not even for a moment.
There were nights when he woke up drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps, convinced he could still hear Lewis's voice. Sometimes, he imagined Lewis standing at the foot of his bed, staring at him with those piercing eyes, not with anger, but with disappointment.
"You were my brother, Nathan."
The words echoed in his mind, though he knew they had never been spoken aloud. Lewis was gone. Nothing would change that. And yet, in the quietest moments, it was as if he could still hear him.
---
Nathan had never been particularly religious, but in prison, he found himself drawn to the chapel. Not for forgiveness—he wasn't sure he deserved that—but for something, anything, that could numb the ache inside him.
The prison chaplain, an older man with kind eyes, had approached him once.
"You come here often," the chaplain had said. "But you never pray."
Nathan had only shrugged. "Not sure I believe in anything anymore."
The chaplain studied him, then nodded. "Sometimes, it's not about believing. It's about finding a reason to keep going."
Nathan had wanted to laugh at that. A reason to keep going? What was left for him? Sarah had walked away. His parents hadn't even come to the trial. He had nothing.
But the words lingered.
What was keeping him going?
---
The months passed, and the weight of regret only grew heavier.
Letters came, but they were few and far between. His mother had written once. A single letter. Short. Cold.
"We lost Lewis. We lost you, too. I don't know how to forgive you, Nathan. Maybe I never will."
That letter had nearly broken him.
But nothing cut deeper than the silence from Sarah.
She had moved on. He didn't know how, but he knew she had. He wasn't part of her life anymore, and he never would be again. She had made that clear in their last conversation.
And yet, despite everything, despite knowing she would never see him the same way again… he still loved her.
It was a twisted kind of love now, one built on pain and regret, but it was there. It would always be there.
The weight of it crushed him every single day.
---
One evening, as he sat in the prison yard, watching the sunset beyond the high walls, an older inmate sat down beside him. The man, James, had been in for nearly twenty years.
"You look like a man drowning in his own mind," James said, lighting a cigarette. "Let me guess—you're thinking about the life you threw away?"
Nathan didn't answer.
James exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "I used to do that. Every day. Thought if I held onto the past hard enough, I could change it." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Turns out, that's not how it works."
Nathan clenched his jaw. "I don't want to forget him."
James looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Forgetting and forgiving yourself aren't the same thing, kid."
Nathan let out a hollow laugh. "Forgiving myself? That's never going to happen."
James shrugged. "Maybe not. But if you don't find a way to live with what you've done, you'll die in here long before your sentence is up."
Nathan stared at the ground, James's words settling uncomfortably in his chest.
Maybe the man was right.
Maybe he had already died the night Lewis did.
And maybe… maybe he deserved to.
---