Isabelle stirred the foam of her latte with a silver spoon, hands barely steady. Across the café table, her best friend, Camille, watched her in silence—elbows propped, brow lifted, eyes narrowed with the kind of precision that only years of friendship could sharpen.
They'd met in college. Camille had been the wild spirit, the shameless one. The kind who once streaked through a rainstorm in Paris and called it artistic rebellion. Isabelle had always been the softer one. The loyal one. The one who colored inside the lines.
But today, the lines were blurred. And she felt like a stranger to herself.
Camille sipped her espresso. "You're fidgeting like a woman with a secret. Spill."
Isabelle bit her lower lip.
"I heard from Elijah," she said quietly.
The name hit the table like a dropped wine glass. Camille stilled.
"Elijah Wolfe? As in… tall, brooding, sin-on-a-canvas Elijah Wolfe? That Elijah Wolfe?"
Isabelle gave a weak nod. "He messaged me."
Camille blinked. "You mean like… 'Hey, how's your dog?' or 'Wanna ruin your marriage?'"
"It was somewhere between those."
Camille let out a whistle and leaned back. "Okay. That explains your existential latte stirring. What did he say?"
Isabelle pulled out her phone, scrolled to the messages, and passed it to Camille. Her friend read silently, eyes widening with each line.
By the time she finished, she set the phone down slowly, folding her hands.
"Well, shit."
Isabelle let out a shaky laugh. "That's your insight?"
"No. I'm just giving the situation the dramatic pause it deserves."
Camille reached for her cup again. "So, what are we doing here, Issa? You need me to stop you from texting back? Burn some sage over your bedroom? Or are you hoping I tell you it's okay to remember how good he used to make you feel?"
Isabelle didn't answer.
Camille softened her voice. "You still love Nathan?"
"Yes," Isabelle said instantly. But even to her own ears, it sounded like a reflex. A script.
Camille caught it too. "But you're not sure if he loves you the same way anymore?"
Isabelle swallowed. "He's trying. After last night… he's finally trying again. But it shouldn't have taken a seduction just to be seen."
Her voice cracked. Camille reached across the table and held her hand.
"You're exhausted, Issa. You've been pouring and pouring, and he only noticed you were empty when you screamed with your body. That's not love. That's neglect waking up."
Isabelle nodded slowly. "But I chose him. I said yes to vows. I walked away from Elijah because I believed in something steady. Something safe."
Camille looked her dead in the eyes. "Safety is not the same as passion. And steady doesn't mean alive."
Silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.
Finally, Isabelle said, "I didn't reply right away. But I did."
Camille didn't flinch. "Do you want to see him?"
Isabelle's breath caught in her throat.
"I don't know. That's the problem. I thought I was past that chapter. But the second he wrote to me, I felt something—heat, power, attention. Like… me again."
"And Nathan?"
"He makes me feel safe. He's home. But lately, it feels like a home where the lights are always off."
Camille exhaled deeply, then looked her friend in the eye. "Listen to me. I'm not here to judge you. You know that. But you need to ask yourself a question that has nothing to do with Elijah or Nathan."
Isabelle tilted her head. "What's that?"
"Do you want to be remembered… or do you want to be loved?"
Isabelle blinked.
Camille leaned forward. "Elijah? He'll make you unforgettable. But men like him leave fingerprints that don't wash off. You'll feel worshipped, but you'll never sleep in peace. Nathan? He may not light you on fire, but he knows how to build something. Question is, do you want fire… or warmth?"
Isabelle stared at her untouched coffee. "I don't want to burn. But I don't want to wither, either."
"Then maybe the answer isn't either of them," Camille said gently. "Maybe it's you."
Isabelle looked up, startled.
"You've spent so long trying to be chosen, Issa. But maybe it's time you start choosing yourself. What do you want? Not what you think a good wife should do. Not what makes Elijah hard. Not what keeps Nathan comfortable. You."
It was the first time in weeks—months, maybe—that anyone had asked her that without expecting her to smile and nod.
"I don't know yet," Isabelle whispered.
"Then start there," Camille said, squeezing her hand. "Don't rush into another man's arms—husband or not—until you're sure you're not using his love to patch the hole inside you."
Isabelle's throat ached. Her chest throbbed.
The truth landed hard.
She had been chasing validation. From Nathan. From Elijah. From memory, sex, lipstick, lace. All the while forgetting how to give herself what they had stopped offering.
She left the café with Camille's words ringing in her ears: Fire or warmth?
That night, she didn't sleep beside Nathan.
She slept alone—in the guest room—wrapped in silence.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel guilty.
She felt honest.