The Void After Betrayal
Morning light bled pale across the blinds. Vanessa lay awake, staring at the ceiling, Jason's arm heavy around her waist. The sheets still smelled of him, of sweat and mistakes, but there was no comfort in the closeness.
It wasn't Michael's scent. It wasn't his warmth.
Her mind replayed the moment like a wound she couldn't stop touching: Michael's face in the doorway, pale and broken, eyes dark with disbelief. He hadn't shouted. He hadn't cursed. He had only laughed—a dry, hollow sound that tore her open far worse than anger would have.
That laugh haunted her more than anything.
Jason shifted beside her. "You're still awake?"
She closed her eyes, feigning sleep. She didn't want to answer. Didn't want to acknowledge that the silence between them was thicker than the betrayal itself.
---
Memories of Michael
Once, there had been laughter. The kind that spilled into cracked apartments and burned dinners. Nights when they sat cross-legged on the floor with instant noodles, Michael's books scattered around them, his chalk-stained fingers smudging her cheek when he kissed her forehead.
He had been broke, distracted, always lost in his equations—but he had been hers.
And then the loneliness began. Long hours at the library, Arthur's voice always pulling him further, knowledge demanding pieces of him until there was little left to give. She told herself she wanted more. Stability. A future.
Jason had been there, always circling, always lingering.
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Jason's Jealousy
That morning, Jason brewed coffee, humming tunelessly, as if nothing had shattered.
"Don't look at me like that," he said without turning.
Vanessa frowned. "Like what?"
"Like I'm the thief. You chose this." He slammed the mug down harder than necessary. "Michael was never here for you, Vanessa. Not really. He was always chasing Arthur's shadow, chasing something bigger. You were just… waiting in his wake."
The bitterness in his voice was sharp. She realized then that Jason didn't love her for herself—he loved her because she was Michael's. Taking her was the one way he could finally win against the friend who had always outshone him.
The thought hollowed her out.
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The Discovery
Days passed. The silence stretched. Guilt clawed.
Finally, she went to Michael's apartment. She told herself it was curiosity, or perhaps the beginning of an apology. She wanted to see him, to demand he look at her again, even if it was with anger.
But his door was locked, the lights off. Neighbors spoke in hushed voices: the accident, they said. The hospital.
Her stomach turned to stone. Michael had been lying broken in a sterile bed while she betrayed him.
She pressed her hand to the doorframe, tears burning her eyes. For the first time, she understood the word irrevocable.
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The Remorse
That night, she sat at her desk, a half-finished glass of wine beside her, pen scratching across paper.
She wrote a letter she would never send.
Michael, I thought I wanted more than you. I thought I wanted stability, a life where I wasn't an afterthought to a chalkboard. But the truth is, I only ever wanted you to look at me the way you looked at those equations. Like I mattered. Like I was infinite. And I walked away before I realized that you had already given me more than anyone else ever could. I don't know if you'll ever forgive me. I don't know if I deserve it. But I am sorry.
She folded the paper, tucked it into a drawer, and poured herself another drink.
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The Shadow Beside Her
Jason slept in the next room, his chest rising steady, his presence heavy. She watched him through the doorway for a long time.
He wasn't Michael. He never would be.
She whispered the name anyway, to the empty room, to the city lights beyond her window. "Michael…"
It was the first time she admitted, even to herself, that she had lost him long before the betrayal.
And now she had nothing but silence.
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