Ariella didn't know what awakened her—only that when she sat up, the sky outside was a bruise color, the purple-blue that seemed to bleed into gray, and the world was too quiet. Not peaceful—hushed in a way that made her skin prickle.
She floated down the hall like a ghost haunting her own home. The wood under her creaked and groaned, but she didn't care who or what she disturbed. She wasn't afraid of noise; she was afraid of what silence meant.
The kitchen light burned.
And there—standing barefoot, with her hair messy in a top knot—was Eva.
She was pouring herself cereal like it were her place.
Both women froze.
"Oh," Eva said absently, flicking her eyelids as if she had just remembered she wasn't alone. "Did I wake you? Sorry."
Ariella shook her head slowly. "No. Couldn't sleep."
She walked over to the sink and filled a glass of water. Every action is deliberate. Controlled. Quiet. The kind that did not happen naturally but had to be beaten out in silence.
Eva sat at the counter, spoon poised over the bowl. "This hoodie is so ludicrously comfy."
"It should be," Ariella said, without looking at her. "It's mine."
Eva paused. Then continued eating.
She didn't take it off.
Ariella leaned against the fridge and looked at her. Hard.
There was something disarmingly lovely about Eva—soft, natural, almost effortless. She possessed a face that everyone immediately trusted. But there was boldness too now. The softness deepened into something more knowing. More confident.
"May I ask you something?" Ariella asked, her tone calm.
Eva raised a brow. "Of course."
"What do you want from Logan?"
A hesitation. A laugh—soft and self-satisfied. Eva set down her spoon with care.
"I could ask you the same."
Ariella's lips pressed together in a line.
"You love him," Eva continued. "That much is obvious. But do you love who he is right now—or who he was before when he still made you feel like you mattered?"
The question cut deeper than Ariella wished to admit.
"I'm not here to steal him," Eva said. "I don't have to."
That hit like something spoken, not threatened. Like truth without venom.
Ariella didn't respond. She wheeled and left the kitchen in silence, her glass of water remaining in front of her.
The morning air hit her like a slap—cold, sobering.
She stepped out onto the porch and sat down on the steps, drawing her robe tighter around her. The sky overhead was still a deep, moody blue, and the birds hadn't yet chosen to sing. Only one or two dared to venture a call. Like scouts sounding out the quiet.
She remained there for hours, breathing.
Inside, Eva continued to traverse the room Ariella had once occupied. She moved in it fluidly, undisturbed, enveloped in stolen softness.
And Logan?
He was torn between them.
Always in between.
But by dawn struggling itself at last across the sky, Ariella had reached a decision. No words. No vows. Just a knowing.
She didn't weary of traveling throughout the afternoon.
She cleaned as if it would redeem her.
She scrubbed the bathroom sink until her fingers throbbed. Reorganized the bookshelf by author, then by genre, then by color—none of it right, all of it necessary. Cleaned already-sparkling countertops. Folded someone else's laundry.
She wasn't cleaning the house.
She was cleaning the hopelessness off her skin.
When Logan arrived home around four, he was tired. His shoulders slumped, his eyes a bit too bright.
He walked in, set down his keys, and kissed her cheek like he'd done it a thousand times before. Like habit.
"Hey," he whispered.
She nodded. "Hey."
He went to the fridge for a drink. "I talked to Eva."
"She told me things," Ariella said flatly.
He turned with a slow motion, leaned against the counter. "Like what?"
"She asked me if I love you anymore."
Logan didn't say anything. He sipped the glass, slowly, eyes attentive.
"And what did you say?"
"I didn't need to," she replied. "She already knew."
He nodded once. Just like that, too, wasn't a surprise.
"We used to talk about everything," Ariella said. "Do you remember that? Stupid late nights, stupid playlists, hopes that we had no right to dream."
"I remember."
She looked at him now. "I miss that. I miss us."
"I'm still here."
She breathed hard, but she shook her head. "No. You're here, Logan. But you're not with me. That's different."
He inched closer to her, cautiously, as though he were approaching a flame. His hands hovered close to her arms, questioning whether he was welcome.
"We're both just run down," he said. "Maybe we need space. Room."
"Time doesn't fix what's already unraveling," she replied.
Logan's brow creased. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm done pretending like I don't see the way she's staring at you. Or the way you're allowing her."
He was silenced.
He'd opened his mouth, then closed it. No excuse. No denial. Just a flash of understanding in his eyes.
And Ariella—she didn't pull back.
For the first time in a long while, she felt penetrable.
Not angry.
Not broken.
Just sure.
Night brought quiet that wasn't peaceful.
She sat on the couch with a small cardboard box perched in her lap. The contents were fragments of a woman she no longer knew.
There were letters—notes jotted in the corners of college notebooks. Logan's handwriting is sloppy but promising.
There were pictures, tickets to movies, and a dried flower once sandwiched between the pages of a novel.
Evidence that they had been something once. That love had existed before.
But reality came with an expiration date.
And this box? This was memory. Not a foundation.
She folded one letter and put it back in the box. Then closed the lid—not in anger, but because she no longer needed it to validate her past.
She let go quietly.
Logan and Eva were quiet upstairs. No footsteps. No voices.
She couldn't help but wonder what the silence meant.
She turned off the lights. Climbed into bed. Pulled the cover up around her—not to feel small, but to feel cocooned.
The way she'd want to feel with him.
And in the dark, something shifted inside of her.
Not broke.
Not bitter.
Just… done.
Done waiting to be chosen.
Done being the afterthought.
She wasn't going to shout it in tears or recriminations. She didn't have to burn anything down.
She merely had to turn away from something that already was ashes.
And perhaps—just perhaps—toward herself.