The first thing Evelyn noticed the next morning was how quiet the apartment felt without trying to be.
Not the heavy quiet of the night before, but a cautious one, as if the rooms themselves were waiting to see what kind of day this would become. Adrian had already left. His side of the bed was smooth, the pillow untouched, the absence intentional rather than rushed.
She stood for a long moment in the doorway, then turned away.
At work, the hours passed in fragments. Meetings blurred together. Emails stacked unanswered. People spoke to her and she responded, competent and calm, while something underneath her attention stayed fixed on the conversation she had not finished having at home.
Around noon, Hannah appeared at her desk without warning, leaning casually against the partition.
"You look like someone who didn't sleep," she said.
"I slept," Evelyn replied. "Just not deeply."
Hannah studied her face. "That's the kind of sleep that leaves marks anyway."
Evelyn almost smiled. Almost.
"Lunch?" Hannah asked. "Or are you pretending you're not hungry again?"
"Lunch," Evelyn agreed. "Before you start lecturing."
They walked to a small place down the street, one Evelyn had passed dozens of times without noticing. Inside, the air smelled like coffee and baked bread. It felt ordinary in a way that was suddenly comforting.
They sat by the window. Hannah stirred her drink slowly. "So," she said, not looking up. "You want to talk about why Laura suddenly exists again?"
Evelyn's fingers tightened around her glass. "You knew?"
"I suspected," Hannah said. "Adrian has a habit of closing doors loudly enough to make people assume they're locked."
"That's not reassuring."
"I didn't say it was."
Evelyn exhaled. "She told me things he never did."
Hannah nodded. "That tracks."
"Why didn't you warn me?"
Hannah met her gaze directly. "Because you weren't asking then. And because you were happy, or close enough to it that I didn't want to be the one who ruined it."
Evelyn absorbed that quietly. "Do you think I was wrong to meet her?"
"No," Hannah said. "I think you were brave. Which is inconvenient, because brave people usually change things."
That word again. Change.
Back at the apartment that evening, Adrian was there before her for once. He stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, something simmering on the stove.
"I made dinner," he said.
"I can see that."
"I didn't know if you'd want to eat out."
"I didn't know either," Evelyn replied, setting her bag down.
They ate at the counter instead of the table, closer than usual, the familiarity edged with restraint.
"You spoke to Hannah today," he said.
"Yes."
"She's opinionated."
"She's honest," Evelyn replied. "There's a difference."
He accepted that without comment.
"I don't want this to become a war," he said after a moment.
"I don't want it to become avoidance," she replied.
He turned toward her fully. "What do you want, then?"
The question was sincere, and that startled her.
"I want transparency," she said. "Even when it makes you uncomfortable. Especially then."
"And if transparency costs us something?"
Evelyn held his gaze. "Then maybe that cost was always there. We just weren't looking at it."
Later that night, her phone buzzed with a message she didn't expect.
Laura: I didn't tell you everything today. If you want the full picture, we should talk again.
Evelyn stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Adrian noticed. "Is that her?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"That there's more."
He closed his eyes briefly. "I was hoping that wouldn't happen."
"So was I," Evelyn said. "But hope doesn't change facts."
She didn't reply to Laura that night.
Instead, she lay awake, thinking about the strange shape of truth. How it rarely arrives all at once. How it waits, layered, until someone is ready to see the rest of it.
In the dark, Adrian shifted closer, his arm brushing hers. The contact was tentative, almost uncertain.
"I don't want to be your enemy," he said quietly.
"I don't want you to be," Evelyn replied. "But I won't pretend you can't hurt me just because you don't intend to."
His hand rested lightly on her arm. She let it stay, not as forgiveness, not as surrender, but as acknowledgment.
Sleep came eventually, thin and restless.
By morning, the message was still there. And Evelyn knew she would answer it.
Not yet. But soon, because once you begin asking the right questions, stopping becomes the most dangerous choice of all.