"WITNESS''
"Do you think he loves me?"
The question lands softly between us.
Too softly.
I look up from my plate.
Aunt Serena hasn't touched her food. The pasta sits untouched, steam long gone, sauce congealing at the edges like drying blood. She just stares down at it, fork suspended in her hand.
Like she forgot what eating is.
What is that supposed to mean?
"Ethan?" I say, forcing a small laugh. "Of course he does."
I take another bite, chewing slower than necessary. The restaurant suddenly feels too quiet.
"Are you alright?"I ask again.
"Ah… yes. Just a thought."
She tucks a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble, barely noticeable. "I feel like he's been distan— never mind."
And just like that—
She smiles.
The usual Serena smile.
Warm. Gentle. Practiced.
Like a mask snapping back into place.
"Let's just hope tomorrow goes well," she says brightly. "How's the food?"
Tomorrow?
Something tightens in my chest.
"It's really good," I say. "And so is this place."
We eat in silence.
Then the question slips out of me before I can stop it.
"Did you and Mom go to camps too?"
She freezes.
It's small — just a second — but I see it.
Her fork pauses midair.
Her smile stiffens.
Then it returns.
"Who told you?"
"Mom did."
"I see." Her voice is calm again. Too calm. "Yes. I went. Not as a camper though… staff."
A thud.
A heavy, sickening thud.
Both our heads snap toward the sound.
A man collapses onto the floor.
At first I think he slipped.
Then I see the blood.
So much blood.
It spills from his mouth when he coughs ,thick, dark, glistening under the lights. His eyes stare at the ceiling like he's already somewhere else.
There's a knife in his stomach.
Buried to the handle.
People scream. Chairs scrape. A glass shatters.
A tall blonde woman stands over him.
Not crying.
Not panicking.
She spits on him.
"Die, you bastard," she hisses. "Fucking my daughter behind my back."
Her voice isn't loud.
But it cuts through everything.
Then she just… walks out.
No one stops her.
No one moves.
It's like the whole restaurant is scared of touching what just happened.
Like murder is contagious.
Serena grabs her purse immediately.
"Let's go," she says.
Her voice is steady.
Too steady.
Outside, people rush past us like they're fleeing a fire.
Inside the car, neither of us speaks.
The engine hums.
Streetlights slide across her face, one by one, like prison bars.
Then—
"Did that scare you?" she asks quietly.
"Not really," I say.
And I mean it.
"I mean… the woman did the right thing."
Serena's grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Her knuckles go white.
"Still…" she murmurs, eyes fixed on the road. "Killing someone you love is… crazy."
Love?
Something about the way she says it makes my skin prickle.
Like she knows exactly what that feels like.
"I think it's right," I say. "It is right."
She doesn't answer.
The house appears.
Watching.
"Thank you for lunch," I say, already halfway out the door.
My room feels safer.
But only barely.
I sit on the bed, staring at the drawer.
Did I witness a murder today?
Or did I witness love?
I'm not sure which scares me more.
The next morning feels unreal.
I don't even know why I'm writing tonight. My head feels too full, like if I don't put these thoughts somewhere they're going to split me open. Today felt too long, like three different days stitched together badly.
Anny apologized again. I swear she's said sorry at least ten times about the pill. She keeps looking at me like she did something terrible, like she poisoned me or something. I told her it's fine — it really is — but she still looks guilty every time our eyes meet. Even Ethan came to ask if I was okay, which surprised me because Anny can't keep anything to herself. Still… it was nice that he asked. No one really checks on me like that.
Anny and Ethan get along really well. Too well, maybe. They laugh easily together, like they've known each other forever. Sometimes when I see them talking, I feel like I'm interrupting something. I don't know why that bothers me. It shouldn't. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm just being stupid. I don't like how that thought sits in my chest.
Breakfast duty was exhausting. Kids screaming, trays clattering, someone spilled milk and the whole place smelled sour. My head felt foggy the entire time, like I was walking around half-asleep. Mary, of course, was perfectly fine. She always follows her routine like clockwork. Same steps, same timing, no mistakes. I kind of admire that about her. I wish my brain worked like that instead of constantly drifting.
Ethan asked how I was doing while we were cleaning up. Just me, not everyone. It caught me off guard. I said I was alright and thanked him, but before we could talk more, Mary stepped in and started a conversation with him like I wasn't even there. It was so sudden it felt intentional, like she didn't want us alone. I don't know why that felt weird, but it did.
Later outside, I saw Anny talking to Eugene Blackwell — Ethan's younger brother. It's almost creepy how similar they look. Same features, just softer somehow. His eyes are blue, lighter, and calmer. He seems more carefree than Ethan, like life hasn't weighed on him yet. He tried talking to Mary too, but she was strangely cold to him. Short answers, no smile. I didn't like it. It felt personal, and I couldn't figure out why.
After everything, I took a long shower. The water was so hot my skin turned red, but I like it that way. I kept thinking about the restaurant.
Tonight Ethan asked if I wanted to walk, and we talked for a while after the kids went to sleep. It was surprisingly easy being around him. We kept finding little things we had in common — cars, music, books. Nine Inch Nails, Creed, Garbage. He likes White Nights. I didn't expect that. He laughed at my jokes, and for a second everything felt normal, like I wasn't constantly waiting for something bad to happen. It felt nice. Too nice, almost.
Then Mary called my name from behind us.
I don't know. Something feels off lately. Like everyone else knows something I don't. Like I'm missing a piece of the picture. I keep noticing tiny things — looks, pauses, the way people talk — and they don't add up.
I'm tired, but I don't think I'll sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see water.