The next day felt like a terrible dress rehearsal for someone else's life.
Ariella moved quietly through the house, not out of fear—but because she did not want to disturb anything that would wake something inside her. Something she wasn't sure she was ready to handle.
She brewed coffee, the comforting gurgle of the machine holding her steady for a few vital moments. She filled two mugs, and stopped. Three. She required three now.
That small act of inclusion stung more than she had anticipated.
Eva's laughter first—light and careless, wafting down the hall like perfume. And Logan's deep, low rumble behind it, closer, warmer than it should be.
Ariella set down the mugs a bit more roughly than she needed to.
She tried not to look up when they entered the kitchen, but her eyes betrayed her. Eva was wearing one of Logan's old college shirts—baggy and smug. Logan didn't care. Ariella's jaw tightened.
"Morning," Eva chimed, dropping into a chair as if she belonged there.
Logan filled a cup, kissed Ariella's cheek lightly with a quick peck. "Thanks for the coffee."
His mouth barely brushed her skin. A reflexive movement. Like an alarm being set or laces being tied—remote, mechanical.
Eva took a sip of coffee and let out a sigh. "God, Ari, you even make mornings sound decadent. You've got the perfect-wife thing down."
Ariella smiled coldly. "Glad you're settled."
She sat opposite them and stirred her coffee, but didn't drink. Logan scrolled on his phone. Eva talked about going shopping afterwards—something with the curtains, she wasn't sure.
They were a couple.
Ariella was the assistant.
By twelve, the house was heavy with foreign tension. Not the kind that broke glass or bashed doors. The kind that hung between lines. That lived in half-started glances and jarring footsteps.
She returned to the bedroom, where she was safe. Or where she had once been safe.
She sat on the bed and looked at the photograph next to the mirror. She and Logan, on the beach—two summers ago. He had his arm around her waist. They both smiled.
But now, when she looked closer, she noticed how her smile was smaller than his. How her body tilted slightly away, not toward him.
How had she missed that?
The sound of footsteps made her tense.
Logan stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. "You've been quiet."
"I've had a headache," she lied.
He nodded like that made sense. "Eva might be here a bit longer. Her apartment deal fell through."
"Of course it did," Ariella whispered.
He let out a deep sigh, shifting closer. "Why are you acting like this?"
She looked up at him. "Like what?"
"So… sensitive. She's my best friend."
"I know."
He sat down beside her, close but not touching. "You know I love you."
The words fell easily from her tongue, but they were tinged with weariness. She searched for the boy she loved—the one who used to draw stars on her palm when she was anxious, who once braved the rain just to bring her some of her favorite food to share.
She couldn't find him.
"You didn't ask me," she said quietly. "About her staying. You just… decided."
He frowned. "I didn't think it would be such a big deal."
"It's not about Eva," she told him. "It's about you not being able to see me anymore. I'm in this house, Logan. I'm in this relationship."
"I do see you," he told her.
But even as he talked, he looked at the door, as if the conversation had been taking too long.
He left before she could say anything.
That night, Ariella couldn't sleep.
Sheets were icy on her side of the bed. She lay staring at the ceiling, brain spinning. How long was she settling? Shrinking herself? Smiling through things she should have spoken out about?
She slowly got up, not wanting to wake Logan, and snuck barefoot to the guest room.
The door was slightly ajar.
Eva slept within, curled up on her side, calm. The same college shirt, Logan's shirt, thrown over her torso like a quiet declaration.
Ariella didn't hate her. That would have been easier. She envied her.
Not because of her appearance, or her laughter. But because she took up space so effortlessly, so brazenly. Like she felt she had the right to be chosen.
Ariella withdrew.
In the hallway, her own reflection in the mirror surprised her.
She scowled at herself—hair disheveled, eyes a burden, soul drained.
She stretched out to touch the glass as if reaching out to caress the version of herself who once dreamed. The one who laughed easily, who did not wince when a shout was hurled. Who had yet to learn that love, when forceful, can be an erasure by increments.
Back to bed, she pulled the blanket up over her shoulder.
But the silence no longer comforted her.
It accused her.
You let this happen.
And deep in the interior of herself, something whispered back:
Not anymore.