The aroma of basil and dismayed silence pervaded the
kitchen.
Ariella stirred the pot begrudgingly, the wooden
spoon clinking against the pan's bottom in complaint, as if to insist that she
explain to it why it had allowed her to live. She was no cook—no one ever
called her a chef. But today, like on so many other days, she tried it. For
Logan. For him. The same way she tried to smile when the hurt pinched at her,
or to say to him that things were all right when they weren't.
She glanced at the clock. 7:16 PM.
He was late. Again.
She should have known better. Logan always had an
excuse these days—work running overtime, traffic, a friend who needed something
on the spur of the moment. Ariella never complained. She merely nodded, in
understanding. Always in understanding.
Tonight, she'd made his favorite: creamy tomato
basil pasta. It wasn't fancy, but it was comfort food—something warm and
familiar. She remembered that he once described to her it was like when he was
a child, those simpler times. So she got up, burning her fingers on the lid of
the pot, hoping that tonight, at least, would be simpler, too.
The table was set. She had folded the napkins
neatly, placed a tea light in the center, and dimmed the harsh overhead lights.
Nothing elaborate, but just enough to make the evening feel intentional.
Romantic, even. She had even worn the pale blue sweater he used to tell her
made her eyes sparkle—back when he still told her such things.
Some of her still clung—no, had to cling—to the hope
that if she tried hard enough, he'd take notice. He'd come home, see the
effort, and all would be well again. Familiar. Safe.
Then the front door crashed open, its silence filled
with laughter.
Ariella's hands froze. Not one voice—two.
His, and hers. Familiar. Unwelcome.
She moved slowly down the hallway at the exact
moment Logan moved into sight, a smile on his face, an arm casually around
Eva's shoulders. Ariella's stomach fell.
Eva. Of course.
Auroral height, striking looks, and effortlessly
magnetic. Eva's confidence entered the room ahead of her. She was Logan's
declared best friend, the girl who lingered just a bit too long on his arm,
whose gaze asserted a right no "best friend" should ever have.
Ariella had always tried to be understanding.
Secure. She justified that it was just fine for males to have girlfriends as
buddies. She wasn't the jealous type. But Eva was something else. She didn't
just circle Logan's universe—she pulled him into hers.
"Ari," Logan said, airheaded as ever,
"I asked Eva over for dinner. Hope that's okay."
Of course it wasn't. But Ariella just nodded, lips
puckering into a thin smile. "Sure."
Eva stepped forward, her eyes scanning the dimmed
lights, the candlelit table, the folded napkins. "Mmm, something smells
amazing," she purred, flashing a dazzling smile that didn't quite reach her
eyes. "You're such a little homemaker."
Ariella forced a laugh. "It's just pasta."
Her voice felt too light, too fake, like it belonged
to someone else.
In the kitchen, she brought out a third plate
silently, her hands trembling marginally as she set it alongside the others.
She played with the candle. It wheezed softly. Eva had blown it out in
laughter, deeming that it was "too dramatic."
The warmth she had gone to the trouble of
making—lost.
Dinner was a slow drift into nothingness.
Eva hijacked the conversation with stories of their
college days—stories Ariella had never heard. They were laughing at old jokes
and recalling shared stories, exchanging glances that once belonged solely to
her. Now, she was merely. There. Not invited. An observer of her own life,
watching the starring roles slip inexorably from her grasp.
"Remember that party at Ryan's?" Eva
asked, nudging Logan's arm.
He grinned. "Where did you nearly fall in the
pool?"
"Please, I tripped elegantly."
He laughed—a deep, genuine laugh. The kind Ariella
hadn't heard from him in weeks. At all. Not recently.
She tried to smile between bites but the pasta had
gone cold on her plate. Her fork performed its actions, swirling noodles idly.
She nodded when spoken to, sipped water just to have something to hold. She
couldn't taste the food anymore.
Then it occurred.
Like in any decent movie, the worst moment possible.
Eva spilled wine.
"Oh my God," she gasped, leaping out of
her chair as red liquid spread like blood across her lap.
"I got it," Logan answered quickly, moving
over to her side.
He leaned down beside her, wiping her thigh with a
cloth napkin. "You okay?"
Their faces were too close. His hand lingered just
that little bit too long. Ariella froze, her eyes wide.
She glanced at the table—the pasta, untouched, the
candle now half-consumed, sputtering uncertainly in the soft breeze from the
hallway.
No one offered to help her clear.
After, she was on her knees in the dining room,
attempting to get rid of the wine spill on the floor as the two of them
descended the hallway. She finally stood up, back aching, and Logan stood
behind her.
"I had the guest room ready for Eva," he
said factually, like he was reading the weather.
She looked up at him, heart squeezing. "She's
staying?"
"Only temporarily. Her apartment is being
fumigated."
"How long is 'a bit'?"
He shrugged. "A week? Two?"
Ariella carefully dried her hands. "We didn't
talk about this."
Logan exhaled in frustration. "It's not a big
deal. Don't make something of it."
She opened her mouth, then closed it once more. What
was the point? Silence won more battles than reason ever had at their house.
But something inside her stirred.
She sat at the edge of their bed that evening, by
herself. She heard the gentle, muted laugh down the hall—Eva's laugh, soft and
private.
Their guest room. Her bedroom now.
She hugged her knees to her chest, the blue sweater
sticking uncomfortably to her skin now. It was like a costume—a prop for a
performance she no longer wanted to deliver.
On the bedside table, a picture frame was askew. She
leaned over and lifted it. Last fall: she and Logan at the pumpkin patch, arms
wrapped around each other, beaming like they'd not yet discovered that silent
betrayal existed. She gazed at her younger self—the girl whose cheeks were
flushed with joy, whose eyes shone with trust—and wondered where she was.
She walked to the mirror opposite. Her tired, pale,
uncertain reflection stared back at her: a woman who had given so much of
herself away, she no longer recognized what was left.
She didn't cry. Not yet. Pain in her heart wasn't
searing—it was heavy, hollow, waiting. The kind of pain that does not scream—it
groans. That kind of pain that does not beg to be noticed but lodges inside,
like a tenant who does not plan to leave.
And in the stillness, something cracked.
Not aggressively. Not loudly.
Just a change. A gentle realignment in her soul.
She would still rise in the morning and brew the
coffee. She would smile, maybe. Pretend everything was fine. Because that's
what people required her to be—soft, steady, quiet. The girl who wouldn't
complain. Who wouldn't fight? Who made room?
But something had begun to unravel. Slowly. Quietly.
Not rage. Not vengeance.
Just a whisper.
A whisper that whispered:
You don't have to live like this anymore.
She stared upwards at the ceiling, eyes wide, the
candle still lighting faintly down the corridor. The laughter had died. The
silence was heavy, but not stifling.
She was not furious yet. That would follow.
Tonight, she was simply.
Still. Here.
And awake