The next day was a nightmare rehearsal for someone else's life.
Ariella crept silently through the house—not out of fear—though that was a very natural reaction under the circumstances. But rather because noise seemed intrusive now. Any creak of the wood floors, any clink of plate or brush of cloth was liable to awaken something within her—something she wasn't certain she was prepared to face. A truth, a realization, a crack she'd been avoiding for so long. Today, it loomed too close to avoid.
Inside the kitchen, the smell of freshly ground coffee beans welcomed her initially. The familiarity should have reassured her, but it hurt instead—a yearning for mornings like those that were formerly soft, to be shared by two lovers who could communicate through a glance. Not mornings like this morning. Not ones that are plagued with bitterness and third cups.
She filled the coffee maker with water, her hands tight though not her mind. The machine gurgled softly. She reached up and grabbed the two regular mugs—hers and Logan's.
And then she hesitated for a moment.
Gingerly, she pulled down a third.
The clinking of ceramic on the counter was more than it had to be.
That one thing—an unasked inclusion—hurt worse than she anticipated. She was not being charitable. She was granting something that had not been asked of her, something she had not agreed to. And here it was. And there she was, pouring the third cup like muscle memory had rearranged itself in the span of a single night.
Eva's laughter echoed down the hallway, light and diaphanous.
It drifted in like perfume—unwanted, overwhelming.
Behind him, Logan's laughter echoed, low and rumbling. Too close. Closer. The kind of laughter reserved for in-jokes, for history shared. For closeness.
Ariella set the mugs down too hard.
She glared at the black swirl in her cup, forcing herself to grip. She didn't want to cry. Not now. Not over coffee. Not in front of them.
They entered the kitchen already giggling. Eva, to begin with, barefoot and luminous in morning light. One of Logan's old college shirts on—gray, loose, self-satisfied. Ariella's glance flashed towards Logan, who didn't seem to notice, or not to care. He stood there freshly washed, his wet curls tousled.
"Morning!" Eva sang, collapsing into a chair as if she was going to live there.".
Logan smiled at Ariella, brushing her cheek with a quick peck. "Thanks for the coffee," he mumbled, already reaching for his mug.
His lips barely grazed her skin. It was automatic. Like tying shoelaces or setting an alarm. Remote. Mechanical.
"God, Ari," Eva said, taking a sip of her coffee with a theatrical sigh, "you even make mornings feel like a spa day. You've got the perfect-wife thing down."
Ariella forced a polite smile. "Glad you're settled."
She sat across from them, cradling her mug like a prop in a scene she hadn't agreed to act in. Logan was already on his phone, thumbs flying. Eva filled the silence easily, rambling about curtain colors and brunch plans.
They sounded like a couple.
Ariella felt like the assistant.
At midday, the house became still, but not silently. It was the silence that hung, thick and unspoken. A tension that seeped into corners and twined itself around doorknobs.
Ariella entered the bedroom.
It used to be her haven. A space that belonged to her. Now it was a half-time rented room.
She leaned against the edge of the bed, fingers running against the edge of a photograph on the bedside table. She and Logan, two summers before that. They were at the beach. The horizon was a blush pink, and the waves swept around them behind like a painting set for a love affair.
His arm is around her waist in the photograph. They smiled together.
But now, when she looked closely, really looked, she saw how her smile was just a little tighter. How her body angled slightly away from him. How her eyes didn't quite meet the lens.
How had she missed that?
The sound of footsteps approaching made her tense.
Logan leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, casual. "You've been quiet."
"I've had a headache," she said.
A lie, but easier than saying, You've made me invisible in my own house.
He nodded, as if that explained everything. "Eva's going to be staying here for a little while longer. Her apartment transaction fell through."
"Of course it did," Ariella growled under her breath.
Logan walked in, massaging the back of his neck. "What's wrong with you lately?"
She glared up at him. "What are you talking about?"
"You're being… off. Sensitive."
"I'm not sensitive," she said to him, more brusquely than she intended.
"She's my best friend," he supplied, as if that excused everything.
"I know."
He sat down beside her on the bed, near, but not touching. He smelled of her lavender body wash. The same one he always claimed smelled like when they used to live together.
"You know I love you, right?"
The words were said by rote.
She didn't answer. Not because she hadn't heard them, but because they no longer provoked anything within her.
"You didn't ask me," she said instead. "If she could stay. You just. Told me. As if I didn't count."
His eyebrows furrowed together. "It's not that big of a deal."
"It is to me."
He shifted, looking uncomfortable. "You're making too much out of this."
Ariella stared at the wall, her voice softer. "It's not about Eva. It's about how easy it was for you to decide without me. To make space for someone else, while I shrink and shrink in the background."
"I see you," he said.
But his eyes flicked to the door. He was already halfway out of the conversation.
That night, Ariella lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Logan slept soundly, his back to her. Even, deep breathing. Untroubled.
Her side of the bed was icy. Cold, despite the blanket. She pulled it around her, attempting to trick herself into warmth.
But the silence no longer soothed her.
It criticized her.
She moved stealthily out of the bed, not wishing to wake him. Her bare feet slid across the wooden floor like a silent whisper.
The hall was in darkness. The guest room door was slightly ajar.
She paused.
Inside, Eva slept soundly, wrapped like a cat in warmth not her own. The college shirt—his shirt—hooded her like a pennant. Gentle declaration.
Ariella didn't hate her.
That would've been easier.
She hated her.
Not for her hair, her voice, or even proximity to Logan. But for taking up space. Loudly. Without remorse.
She never asked for permission.
She assumed she belonged.
Ariella turned away.
In the mirror down the hall, she was surprised by her image.
Knots of hair. Lethargic eyes. Shoulders bunched up like she was trying to shrink away. To be less seen. To not be a nuisance.
She reached out, fingertips tracing over the glass.
She missed the part of her that used to sparkle. The one who danced bare feet to the radio on in the kitchen, who read poetry at midnight, and let herself imagine big without shame.
Where had the girl disappeared to?
She edged away.
In the bedroom, Logan was still not moving. The silence wasn't silence. It pressed against her chest like something heavy.
You let this occur, it seemed to whisper.
And in the depths within her, a new voice answered:
Not any longer.