Ariella stood before the mirror, brushing her hair with careful, meticulous strokes. Her face stared back at her—calm, unblinking, too flawless. On the outside, she was fine. Down deep, she wasn't so sure anymore.
The woman in the glass had fallen silent over the months, not just in words but in existence. Her silence was no longer an asylum and became a routine. And now it stuck to her like a second skin.
She wore a plain gray cotton dress. No makeup. No accessories. Just her—uncovered to whatever remained after all these months of pretending nothing was amiss. The dress clung to her the way old clothes do when they're no longer about fashion, only survival.
Downstairs, she could hear the faint ringing of dishes. Eva was up already.
Ariella didn't move. Blinked slowly. Kept breathing. Let the moment unfurl like a prolonged silence. Hand against her side, fingers crumpling inward as if unsure what they were supposed to be grasping anymore.
She finally did shift—hesitant, reluctant steps that made the wooden floorboards groan in objection. As if even the house grew weary of the spectacle.
When she descended the stairs, the scene waiting for her felt surreal—like walking into a play halfway through.
Eva stood at the kitchen island, humming. Nothing loud. Just a soft, almost cheerful tune. She flipped pancakes onto a plate, poured coffee into two mugs, and placed one in front of Logan.
Her Logan.
Ariella's steps didn't falter, but something inside her did.
"You're up early," she said, voice smooth, practiced.
Eva turned around, smiling. "Wanted to whip up some breakfast. Hope you're not bothered."
Ariella looked at the table—three plates, three mugs, three lives intersecting in one home. The plates were too cheerful, too vibrant for a morning that already felt off-kilter.
Logan looked down at his phone. "Hey, babe. Want some?"
Babe.
It had been months since he'd called her that. The word fell like ash in her lungs—familiar, but poisonous in a way that insinuated itself under the radar.
She nodded and sat—at the end of the table from him, where the space between them all could breathe.
Eva presented her with a mug full of brightness that belonged nowhere in this home, this time. Ariella accepted it, fingers wrapping around the heat as if to ground herself.
The pancakes were golden-crusted. The coffee was hot from the pot. The quiet is more deafening than both.
"You okay?" Logan asked easily, as if they were still they.
She stared at him, then at Eva, then at him again.
"Fine," she said flatly, and sipped coffee.
It tasted bitter.
Logan left for work after breakfast. He brushed his fingers against Ariella's forehead—a touch too light, too automatic. He did not kiss Eva. But he stayed by her for a moment too long.
Once he was gone, the house seemed bigger. Emptier. More real.
Ariella loaded the plates.
"You don't need to do that," Eva stated, leaning against the counter as though she were part of the family.
"It's my kitchen," Ariella growled, washing down the crumbs of someone else's presence.
Eva crossed her arms. "I didn't intrude. I didn't believe things were going to get. complicated."
Ariella still gazed at the sink. "But they did."
"I'm not trying to steal him from you."
"I never said you were."
Eva sighed sadly. "He's a grown man, Ariella. He decides his affairs."
Ariella turned and met her gaze at last. "And you just happened to be in the vicinity when he started taking apart ours?"
Eva felt lashed. "You think I'm the problem?"
"No," Ariella said, her tone stern. "I think you're a symptom."
Eva's eyes went wide. "That means."
"It's honest."
Again, silence fell—thickness, awkwardness. The kind that demanded a decision.
Eva pushed off from the counter. "You know, for a girl as pulled together as you are, you bleed quietly."
Ariella turned off the water. "That's the problem, isn't it? Everybody thinks quiet equals weakness."
Eva stopped. "So what do I do now?"
"I stop shrinking for people who never even knew I was disappearing."
Later that afternoon, Ariella walked down to the flower shop on the corner. Not to make an impression. Not to make the house pretty. Just for her.
She came home with white peonies.
When she placed them in a vase on the coffee table, something shifted. Subtly. But she knew. Like choosing to be lovely for anyone but herself was some sort of revolution.
She sat down on the couch and looked at the flowers.
They did not need attention. They did not compete.
They were.
Just like she wished she could be.
She sat there for a long time, watching the sun filter through the curtains and rest gently on the petals. There was a breeze blowing through the room, and for an instant, all was unmarred. Untouched. Hers.
Logan arrived home early, just as he said he would. He found her in the garden, watering plants that had been ignored—along with everything else in the house.
"You seem peaceful," he said.
"I am," she answered.
He smiled, as if he were pleased with the response. "I missed you today."
She did not answer right away. The water poured from the hose in a gentle arc, feeding the roots that had not been touched in weeks.
"Did you?" she asked after a pause.
He blinked. "Of course I did."
She turned off the hose and looked at him. Hard. Looked. The folds between his eyebrows, the doubt in his eyes, the posture—half in, half out of whatever form of this relationship he thought they still enjoyed.
"Logan, do you think we're in love anymore? Or are we simply afraid of being alone?"
He frowned. "Where is this coming from?"
"From months of remaining quiet. From watching. Listening. Waiting."
He looked down, hands buried in his pockets. "You're angry about this morning."
"I'm not angry about breakfast," she said. "I'm angry about everything leading up to it."
She took a step toward him, voice firm but soft. "I'm not blaming you. I just need to quit disappearing in spaces I helped design."
He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. "I need space."
"Space?" he repeated, as if the word was vile.
"Time. Alone. To remember who I am outside of this."
His face twisted with disbelief. "You're leaving?"
"I'm not staying behind to hurt you," she explained. "I'm leaving to save myself."
Logan looked at her like he didn't recognize the woman standing in front of him.
"Where will you go?"
"Someplace quiet. Somewhere I don't have to perform my worth."
He didn't try to prevent her.
"I guess I always knew you'd wake up," he said after a silence so long it felt like eternity.
She smiled weakly, almost wistfully.
"I guess I finally did."
Later in the evening, Ariella sat next to her suitcase, not yet packed, only open.
She wasn't putting on a display for this. She didn't owe the world a departure in fireworks
Only the truth.
She walked through the house for the last time. The couch's back was where they cuddled. The bookshelf she built with stories of brave women and broken hearts. The windowsill where a flower had died for lack of care.
It all bore witness to trying. To reach out. To hang on.
But hanging on hadn't kept her alive.
It had only taught her how to go quiet.
Now, she was learning to be loud once more. Not yelling. But with making a choice.
Choosing herself.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the loudest of all.