Isabella returned from the market with aching arms. The basket was heavy. Her heart felt heavier. The sun hung low. Streets glowed gold, but she felt nothing. Each step toward the apartment felt wrong. She did not know why, only that something awaited her she did not want to see.
For weeks, Smith had been distant. Silent, sharp. His voice clipped. His eyes slid past her as if she did not exist. Laughter was gone. Warmth was gone. Only irritation remained. Cold replies filled their conversations. Isabella told herself it was stress. Money troubles. Pride wounded by unemployment. She believed patience would fix it. She had always believed love could fix things.
She reached the door and paused. Adjusting the basket. The hallway smelled different. Not the usual mix of soap and spices. This scent was heavy. Sweet. Clinging. Her stomach tightened.
She pushed the door open. She froze. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Then she heard it. Soft laughter. Careless. Intimate. Her steps faltered. The basket slipped slightly. Apples knocked together. Smith's voice was warmer than it had been in months.
Her heart raced.
She stood near the door. Breath shallow. Mind scrambling for explanations. Maybe a cousin had visited. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe fear had taken control. But the laughter came again. Unmistakable.
She moved down the hallway. Her feet felt heavy. Memories struck without warning. Smith's first smile when he said he loved her. The way he held her hands. Promises that they would face life together. He had sworn never to hurt her. She had believed him. She had to. She needed someone to choose her and stay.
Her hand shook as she reached the bedroom. She pushed the door open. She saw Smith, half-dressed. A woman sat on the bed. Posture relaxed. Expression amused. Beautiful in a deliberate way. Every detail calculated. Her eyes judged Isabella. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.
The room fell silent.
Air left Isabella's lungs. Her vision blurred. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought they could hear it. The basket slipped and hit the floor. Fruit rolled across the tiles. No one moved.
She swallowed hard.
"Smith," she said. Voice trembling. Loud. "What is this?"
He did not explain. He did not look ashamed. His face hardened. Annoyance flickered.
"Why are you shouting?" he asked coolly. "You are overreacting."
The word echoed. A broken laugh escaped her lips.
"I come back from the market, worried about rent," Isabella said. "And I find you with another woman in our room. And you say I am overreacting?"
The woman rose. Smoothed her dress. Stepped closer. Rested her hand on Smith's arm. Claimed him.
"Smith," she said softly. "Should I leave?"
"No. Stay," he said without hesitation.
That word cracked something inside Isabella. A familiar ache rose. The pain of being unwanted. Dismissed. Invisible.
"So this is it," she said quietly. "This is who you are now."
He scoffed. "You talk too much. That has always been one of your problems."
Her heart sank. Once he had admired her voice. Her thoughts. Now everything about her irritated him.
"Is this because of your mother?" she asked quietly. "Because Jennifer decided I am not good enough?"
His expression darkened.
"Do not bring my mother into this," he snapped. "She only opened my eyes."
"Opened your eyes to what? To lies?"
Smith laughed without humor. "To the truth. To who you really are."
Tears burned behind her eyes. She refused to let them fall. Memories of her childhood flared. Helen, her stepmother, standing over her. Harsh words. Cold eyes. She was useless. She would never amount to anything. Those words had never left. They lived quietly. Rising in moments like this.
And now, she thought, Smith was repeating them.
"You have changed," she said. "You used to respect me."
Smith turned away. "People change. Maybe you should ask yourself why."
The woman laughed softly. Mockery in her eyes. Shame washed over Isabella. Then anger.
"I stood by you when you had nothing," she said. Voice stronger. "When your family looked down on you, I believed in you. I supported you."
"That was your mistake," he said.
The words hit her like a slap.
"So this is because you think you are better than me now?"
He shrugged. "I am tired of pretending. You and your poverty. Your sad stories. My parents were right about you."
Something inside snapped. Pain hardened into resolve.
"Your parents," she said calmly, "are why you stand here cheating and insulting the woman who loved you."
Smith stepped closer. "Get out."
"This is my home too," she said. Disbelief flooding her face.
"Not anymore. I am done with you," he said.
The room went silent. Isabella looked at the bed. At the woman who seemed to belong. Then back at Smith. Slowly, she nodded.
"Fine," she said. "I am leaving."
She turned away before they could see her break.
She walked into the small bedroom they had shared. Closed the door. Her strength faltered the moment it shut. Hands trembled as she leaned against it. Chest tightened with each breath. Walls felt too close. Air too thick.
She moved toward the wardrobe. Legs unsteady. Each item held a memory. A dress from their first anniversary. A shirt of his she borrowed when cold. Every piece reminded her of promises shattered.
Tears spilled as she folded her clothes. Hands shaking. Body trembling. Sobs escaped her chest. Anger burned beneath the tears. Hot. Relentless. She was angry at Smith. At herself. At a world determined to take everything from her.
She packed faster. Movements sharp and uncoordinated. Breath uneven. Heart pounded painfully. The room spun. She forced herself to keep going.
This was not how life was supposed to be. Yet here she was. Abandoned and broken. Gathering what little she could carry. While everything she had built collapsed.
Sitting on the edge of the bed. Clutching her bag. Tears fell freely. Her body shook. Grief and fury tangled inside her. She continued packing. Staying would hurt more.
She wiped her face. Inhaled shakily. Pressed on. Hands trembling. Heart cracking with each breath.
She paused for a moment. Looked around the room. The place had been home. Once. Now it was ruins. Every corner held a memory. A laugh. A promise. A touch. All gone.
She picked up a shirt. Smelled it. The scent of him lingered. Sharp, bitter, mocking. She threw it into the bag. Folded the rest quickly. Her hands did not stop shaking. She tried to slow down. Could not. Could not stop.
The bed sagged under the weight of everything she had left behind. She stood. Grabbed the last of her clothes. Her bag full. Heavy, just like her heart. She looked at herself in the mirror. Eyes red. Face streaked with tears. She did not recognize her own expression. Pain and anger and grief all tangled together.
She pressed her lips together. Took a deep breath. Stepped away from the mirror. Picked up the basket she had dropped in the hallway. Fruit still rolled across the tiles. She ignored it. Did not want to see it. Did not want to think about it.
She moved toward the door. Every step felt heavier than the last. She remembered the first time she had walked into this apartment with him. Smiles. Plans. Dreams. Laughter. Everything crushed now.
She opened the door. Paused. Looked back once. The room was empty. Not really empty. The memory filled it. Filled her.
She stepped into the hallway. Closed the door behind her. Locked it. Key turned with a harsh click. She did not look back again.
Outside, the air felt colder than it should. The sun had dipped lower. Streets still glowed. She walked. Basket in hand. Bag on her shoulder. Feet moving, even when her heart did not.
Every step forward was a step away from him. Away from what she thought she knew. Away from betrayal. Pain. Loss.
And yet, she walked.