Rose's POV
The morning after Maxwell left for Asia, I woke to a silence that didn't feel peaceful,it felt hollow. The kind of silence that presses against your ears until you start to hear your own heartbeat. The mansion, usually a place that felt like our sanctuary, now felt like a perfectly decorated reminder of my stillness. I lay there staring at the ceiling, half expecting my phone to light up with a message from Maxwell. Nothing.
I reached over and picked up the book I had fallen asleep reading. The spine was bent from how often I held it, its pages soft from constant use. This book had always been my escape, my way of feeling something during the moments Maxwell was gone. But today, as I tried to read, the words felt meaningless. I blinked. Read the same line again. Still nothing. It was like my mind refused to be distracted.
That unsettled me more than I expected.
I set the book down and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet met the cold marble floor, a stark contrast to the warmth of my comforter. I walked to the balcony, pulling the curtains aside to reveal the breathtaking view that usually made me pause. The sunrise painted the sky in soft shades of gold and peach, casting light over the city. It was beautiful, undeniably so. But I felt nothing. No awe, no comfort.
Just emptiness.
What is wrong with me? I wondered. I wasn't angry at Maxwell. I wasn't surprised that he left. This was his life,flying across continents, closing deals worth billions. I had always admired that about him. His ambition. His determination. His relentless pursuit of greatness. I never wanted to change him. But for the first time, I realized…I didn't know who I was outside of him.
I had made him my world. And in doing so, I had let my own world disappear.
I made tea and tried to drink it, but even the flavor seemed muted. I wandered into the living room, my eyes scanning the perfectly arranged décor. Everything around me looked beautiful, curated,as if I were living in a museum rather than a home. I sank into the sofa and opened my phone, scrolling through social media mindlessly.
Then I remembered Clarissa she had invited to yoga class which I hated, to make it up she also invited me to her pottery class saying it was peaceful compared to yoga that had been overstimulating for me.
I clicked on her page,hoping she posted anything related to pottery and I did she
had a couple of pictures about it and they alI felt entirely different from her regular post and it drew me in . Her face glowed with a serenity I didn't recognize. She was at a pottery wheel, hands covered in wet clay, smiling with the kind of peace that couldn't be faked. Whenever I stumbled upon a post she made from her pottery class it showed her creating bowls, vases, ornaments,each one unique, each one purposeful.
I watched one video on loop. The gentle spinning of the wheel. The way the clay yielded to her touch. There was something hypnotic about it. Something alive.
Without giving myself time to overthink, I tapped on her contact and pressed call.
She answered almost immediately. "Rose?" Her voice sounded genuinely warm. Grounded.
"would you still let me join you in your pottery class" I asked.."I know I sounded rude when you first brought it up but I have given it a thought and I have decided to give it try...as long as you don't mind"
There was a short pause, then a light laugh. "I don't mind. You should come. Pottery is therapy for the soul. Better than yoga. And you hated yoga."
I smiled despite myself." I just pray its as good as you make it sound"
"It gave me my life back," she said simply. "Come to the studio today. No excuses."
For once, I didn't think about how Maxwell would react. I didn't question whether it was appropriate. I just said, "I'll be there."
The drive to the studio felt like driving toward something unknown both terrifying and exhilarating. When I arrived, I expected to hear voices, laughter, the sounds of people creating. Instead, I walked into absolute silence. The studio was empty.
Sunlight filtered through high windows, illuminating swirling dust particles and casting soft light on rows of unfinished pottery. The scent of clay lingered in the air, earthy, cool, grounding. It wrapped around me like a gentle embrace. For the first time that day, I inhaled deeply.
I walked slowly, each step echoing softly. My fingers brushed over the wooden tables, the clay-stained tools, the spinning wheel at the center of the room. I approached a shelf filled with delicate ornaments,some glazed, some raw. One piece in particular caught my eye. A clay flower, mid-bloom. It wasn't perfect. One petal was slightly uneven. But it was beautiful because of its imperfections.
I reached for it, holding it gently between my fingers. For a moment, I imagined myself shaping it. Creating something that had never existed before. Something that was mine.
"Careful with that one."
The voice came from behind me.
I gasped. My heart lurched, and the ornament slipped from my grasp.
It hit the floor.
And shattered.
The crack echoed across the room, slicing through the silence.
I froze. My breath stopped. My eyes stayed locked on the broken pieces scattered at my feet like fragments of a truth I hadn't wanted to face.
I didn't turn. I couldn't. The presence behind me was still, watchful. Silent. I felt a slow, creeping awareness crawl along my skin,as though the air itself had shifted.
The silence wasn't empty anymore. It was charged. Heavy with something unspoken.
In that suspended moment,standing over shattered clay, under the weight of an unseen gaze.
I mumbled under my breath "I'm really sorry"