The elevator's low hum was the only sound between floors. Isla stood in the corner, her fingers tightening around the edges of the dress box as if it might try to slip away.
Her thoughts were a tangle — flashes of the lobby. She'd said just enough, or maybe too much. It was hard to tell now. The tension in Tyler's voice was still sharp in her memory, and no matter how many ways she tried to reframe it, it still felt like a thread pulling tight.
She adjusted her grip on the box, fingers brushing over the edge.
Don't let this become a symbol of something it's not, she told herself.
The numbers above the door ticked upward, each one giving her too much time to think.
The doors slid open with a mechanical sigh. She stepped out into the hallway, the light here dim and tinged with yellow, the kind that made shadows cling to the edges of the walls. The carpet was flattened from years of footsteps, and the air smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and last night's dinner from some apartment down the hall.
She switched the box to her other arm and walked on, each step toward her apartment feeling longer than it should. The conversation waiting for her wasn't going anywhere, and she knew it.
She reached her door and paused — one breath in, one out. Then another. Her fingers tapped in the passcode, the beeps seeming louder than they had any right to be. She pushed the door open.
The apartment wasn't dark, but the single lamp by the couch cast a muted glow that barely touched the far wall. Tyler was there, seated on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed as if studying the floor. He didn't look up when she entered.
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment — not long enough to be called staring — before she moved past, her steps carrying her to the small dining table. She set the box down, the weight leaving her arms in a quiet thump. The sound filled the room for a heartbeat, then faded, leaving only silence.
She stood there for a moment, then exhaled. "There's nothing going on with me and the prince," she said, her voice steady but not sharp. "Or anyone, for that matter."
Tyler didn't answer right away. The pause stretched, taut. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost casual, though it carried an edge. "Hard to believe."
Her head tilted slightly, enough to catch his profile in the corner of her vision. "Why?"
That was when he looked up. His gaze flicked to the box on the table. He lifted a hand in a loose gesture toward it. "Because nothing else explains that."
Isla glanced at it, then back to him. "It's a dress. That's all."
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And dresses like that just show up at your door?"
She exhaled through her nose. "It was a gift. That's all there is to it."
"From who?" His voice had a weight now, heavier than before. "Not the prince, right? Or maybe that man you were talking to earlier — the one you swear isn't him?"
Her eyes narrowed faintly. "You don't believe me?"
Tyler leaned back slightly, but the tension didn't ease from his frame. "I believe... that your life's different now. Different in ways I don't recognize." His gaze lingered on her, sharp but searching. "You think I'm just supposed to ignore that?"
She folded her arms, the edge in her own voice more from restraint than temper. "I'm telling you the truth. If you can't take my word for it—"
"It's not just your word," he cut in. "It's everything. The events, the people, the gifts... You've been moving in circles you didn't before. And I'm—" He stopped, shaking his head slightly, as if pulling himself back from saying more.
"You're what?" she asked quietly.
His eyes drifted back to the box. "I just don't see where I fit in anymore."
She looked at him for a long moment, trying to read if this was about her, about the prince, or about something else entirely. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not," he admitted, "but it's what it feels like."
Isla's fingers tightened against her arms. "Then maybe you should ask instead of assuming."
"I am asking," he said, his voice flat. "I've been asking, just not with words you seem to hear."
Her brow furrowed. "And what is it you think I'm not hearing?"
"That I don't want to feel like a stranger in my own girlfriend's life." His eyes didn't waver from hers now. "I don't care if it's a prince or a postman — if someone else knows more about your days than I do, I'm going to notice."
She shifted her weight, glancing toward the box again, as if its presence was proof she hadn't meant to give. "It's not like I'm hiding things."
"No?" His tone wasn't sharp, but it landed like a challenge. "Then why does it feel like every time I see you lately, there's a new story I wasn't part of? A new... something."
Isla's lips pressed together, the kind of pause meant to keep the wrong words in. "Because life doesn't stop moving just to keep you in the loop."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. I've noticed it hasn't stopped moving for you." His gaze flicked toward the box again, lingering just long enough for the meaning to settle. "Meanwhile, I'm over here wondering when exactly I stopped being part of the picture."
"You're still part of it," she said, but there was a thread of steel in her voice now. "You just... you can't expect to control every part of my day."
Tyler leaned back slightly, but his eyes stayed locked on her. "Funny. I thought being in a relationship meant we were at least walking in the same direction. Lately, it feels like you're running ahead and I'm just... supposed to watch you disappear."
She shook her head. "That's not what's happening."
"Isn't it?" His voice softened, which somehow made the words sharper. "Because from where I'm standing, everything that's been changing in your life... it's what's pushing us apart. The events, the people, the gifts—none of that was around before, and we didn't have problems before."
Her breath caught, a mix of disbelief and something colder. "You think my life turning a corner is the problem?"
"I think," he said slowly, "that since it started, you've been different. We've been different. And maybe you don't see it, but I do."
The weight in his stare made her stomach twist—not because she agreed, but because she could hear the verdict already forming behind his words. The unspoken this is your fault hung in the air, thick and sour.