Before I knew it, my pillow was soaked with tears and my entire head throbbed with a hollow, numbing ache. The faint light of the moon filtered through the curtains, illuminating the stillness of my side of the room. Yet outside the door, the muffled sounds of passion broke the silence—soft laughter, whispered words and the wet sounds of lingering kisses.
Separated by just a wall, it felt as though two entirely different worlds had taken shape. In one, intimacy bloomed. In the other, I lay alone, cradling my shattered heart.
Sleep was a distant memory. My trembling hands reached for my phone, the device feeling cold and unfamiliar. I scrolled through my long-neglected social media feed, hoping for a distraction.
I had few friends listed—mostly employees from Tristan's company, people I had added out of obligation rather than genuine connection. Among them, Anya stood out as the most active. Her posts dominated my feed, each update a carefully curated dagger aimed at my pride.
Two nights ago, she had posted: [Oh my god, making out with my boyfriend in the car and got caught by the police. So embarrassing and we even got fined!]
A few days before that: [That jerk still clings to me like before, wouldn't let me go all night. My legs are so sore and now I have to nap all day.]
The words blurred as tears spilled onto the screen, but no amount of crying could erase Anya's smug smile in her profile picture—a perfectly posed snapshot of triumph.
But these posts were only the surface. My call log revealed more of her relentless pursuit. Over thirty missed calls from Anya in recent weeks. She always seemed to find new ways to remind me of my place, painting me as the interloper who had stolen Tristan from her. In her mind, now that she was back, it was only right for me to return him.
It seemed I would be stepping aside soon enough.
To drown out the intimate sounds from the other side of the wall, I pulled the blanket over my head, cocooning myself in the oppressive heat of my despair. Yet even then, sleep eluded me until dawn broke.
When the first light of morning crept into the room, I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. My bare feet padded softly against the cold tiles as I splashed water on my face, the icy chill shocking my swollen eyes. Just as I was about to return to bed, the bedroom door creaked open behind me.
"Zara, why didn't you call me if you needed the bathroom?" Tristan's voice was low and groggy but carried a faint edge of concern.
I froze, the words catching in my throat as I turned to see him. His disheveled appearance was a stark contrast to the Tristan I once knew. His neck and chest bore faint marks of earlier passion, a silent testimony to what had transpired with Anya.
For a moment, I felt exposed, caught in the raw vulnerability of the situation. It took several seconds before I managed to speak. "I can manage on my own," I said, my voice barely audible.
Tristan, oblivious to my discomfort, stepped forward to flush the toilet for me. Then, with an automatic familiarity, he guided me back to bed, his hand steady on my arm.
But before we could reach the bed, a figure appeared in the doorway. Anya stood there, barefoot and unabashed, her loose hair cascading over Tristan's shirt—the same white shirt he had worn to bed the night before.
Her lips curved into a playful smirk as she bit down on them, her eyes sparkling with malice. Then, without a care, she threw herself against Tristan's chest, her arms wrapping around him possessively.
I stood frozen, my insides churning as I watched them. Two bodies, so close and so exposed, made me feel like an outsider in my own life. A pitiful clown performing in a tragic farce.
Forcing a smile, I turned away and crawled back under the blanket. "I'm going to sleep now," I murmured, though my voice cracked with the strain of holding back tears.
The rising sun illuminated the room in soft, golden hues, but I kept my gaze fixed on the window, unable to close my eyes.
When Tristan left for work later that morning, Anya lingered behind. She moved through the house with a sense of entitlement, her bare feet padding softly on the floor as if she owned the space.
Eventually, she perched on the edge of my bed, her legs crossed and her posture casual. The crisp white shirt she wore hung loosely on her slender frame, the collar slipping down one shoulder.
"Don't you understand what I'm saying?" she said, her tone sharp yet deceptively sweet. "Tristan loves me. If you're smart, you'll abort your child and divorce him immediately."
Her words hit with the force of a slap, but my heart was beyond breaking. I had no more tears to shed. My lips moved mechanically, forming the response I knew would defuse her venom.
"I've already aborted the baby," I said quietly, my voice flat. "You can rest assured."
For a moment, Anya's expression flickered with doubt. Then she snorted, her lips curling into a cold smile. "You say you've aborted it, but if I find out you lied to me...." Her voice trailed off, a threat heavy in the air. "I won't let you off."
With that, she stormed out, her bare feet thudding against the floor.
As the door slammed shut, a strange calm washed over me. Strictly speaking, Anya was my stepmother's daughter—a product of my father's betrayal. My father had abandoned my aging mother years ago, leaving her to wither away in loneliness.
Now, I had become my mother's stand-in, the family's punching bag, stripped of dignity and purpose. But I had made up my mind: none of it mattered anymore. Not Anya's taunts, not Tristan's empty words, nor the nights spent listening to him love someone else.
