The scent of basil and disappointed silence hung in the kitchen.
Ariella stirred the pot hesitantly, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pan in protest as if asking her why she was still alive. She wasn't much of a cook—nobody had ever accused her of that, but she tried. For him. For Logan. The same way she tried to smile when the pain bit, or to reassure him that everything was fine when it wasn't.
She prepared his favorite pasta for dinner tonight. Something about keeping him happy still mattered to her, even when it shouldn't.
She had taken extra trouble placing the setting—folded napkins, lit a small candle, dimmed the lights. Not fancy at all, just enough to turn everything into a cozy, maybe even romantic night. She even wore the soft blue sweater he complimented once as making her eyes sparkle.
The front door burst open on laughter.
Her hands froze. Not one voice—two. His, and hers. Familiar. Unwelcome.
She slid into the hallway just as Logan appeared in front of her, smiling. His arm slung loosely around Eva's shoulder. Ariella's stomach plummeted.
Eva. Of course.
Tall, gorgeous, confident as ever. Logan's so-called "best friend," though everyone knew the way Eva looked at him like he belonged to her.
"Ari," Logan said, breezing in, "I invited Eva for dinner. Hope that's okay."
Of course it wasn't. But Ariella only nodded. "Sure."
Eva sauntered in behind him, eyes scanning the space like she was calculating its value. "Mmm, something smells amazing," she said, flashing Ariella a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're such a little homemaker."
Ariella forced a laugh. "It's just pasta."
She re-entered the kitchen, the warmth she had tried to bring soon fading behind her. She set a third plate, as if it had all been part of the plan. Shaking her hands, she re-lit the candle—Eva had blown it out laughing.
The dinner was a slow descent into nothingness.
Eva resumed the conversation with stories of their college years, stories Ariella had never heard. They laughed over in-jokes, shared warm smiles that left Ariella hanging outside of time as a stage extra she wasn't supposed to be upon. She ate her meal in silence, bobbing her head in affirmation when spoken to, sipping water when the quiet became too stifling to endure.
When Eva spilled wine, Logan rushed to her side, his hand brushing against her leg as he blotted up the spill. "Are you okay?" he breathed.
Ariella looked at her plate. Her food was cold now. She hadn't even noticed.
Later, over dinner, Logan appeared in the doorway. "I prepared the guest room for Eva," he mentioned with the innocence of discussing a change in the weather.
She flinched. "She's staying?"
"For a week or so. Just until her apartment issues resolve."
"How long is 'a while'?"
He shrugged. "A week? Two?"
Ariella dried her hands slowly. "We didn't talk about this."
He huffed as if she was making a mountain out of an anthill. "It's not a big deal. Don't start."
She remained silent. She'd discovered that silence solved arguments faster than reason ever would.
She sat on the edge of their bed that night, listening as laughter drifted from the guest room. Their guest room. Her head throbbed with a persistent ache, the kind that hid behind the eyes and stayed awhile.
She looked about the room they had shared in love. The nightstand photo frame was tilted at a slightly mismatched angle, enough to suggest it had been pushed recently. The blue sweater fitted tightly round her shoulders, too small, too wrong, suddenly.
The mirror in front of her reflected someone she barely recognized anymore—tired eyes, slumped shoulders, a woman who had sacrificed so much she no longer looked like herself.
She burrowed under the blankets alone.
Logan did not appear that night.
She heard the ring of Eva's laughter echo again, faint now. Private.
She closed her eyes and allowed the weight of it all to settle in her chest. No tears, yet. Only a hollowness that throbbed.
This was the time, she knew, when something in her began to crack—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a small adjustment. A breath held a fraction of a second too long.
She would still rise in the morning and brew the coffee like always. She would smile, maybe. Pretend that she was okay. That's what folks needed from her—calming, obedient, good. The girl who did not make a scene.
But tonight, in the silence of betrayal, something deep inside her began to unfold and move.
It did not thunder. It did not bellow for revenge.
It only spoke quietly:
You don't have to live like this anymore.
She stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, candle still burning faintly down the hall beyond. And for the first time in a while, Ariella did not ache with grief.