The apartment was still cloaked in darkness when I returned. No lights. No warmth. Only stale air, faintly carrying the sour scent of something rotting in the sink. I didn’t bother flipping the switch. I dropped my bag by the door and kicked it shut behind me, each echoing thud cutting through the heavy silence.
I didn’t even change out of the thin hospital gown under my hoodie. I collapsed onto the couch, face down, arms draped over the sides like a ragdoll. The fabric scratched against my bandages, but exhaustion overpowered the discomfort. Sleep offered no solace—it never does when dreams know truths your lips haven’t yet spoken.
Hours passed. I awoke groggy and sore, blinking into the darkness, when I heard it: a clattering—from the kitchen.
I sat up slowly, every muscle heavy, cold, aching, and padded toward the sound on bare feet. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I’d left the TV on. Or maybe someone was breaking in. But as I rounded the corner, I saw them.
Rafael stood at the stove, grilling steak. Victor was at the counter, chopping vegetables with methodical precision. The table was already set—plates, cutlery, glasses, even a neatly folded napkin at each place.
They looked up as our eyes met.
Rafael spoke first. “We thought you were at your aunt’s,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We didn’t want to disturb you.”
Victor’s eyes flicked to his knife and back. “We didn’t know you were in the hospital,” he added, voice low, guilt threading through every word.
I said nothing. I walked to the table and sat. I didn’t touch the food.
“You have to eat. You just got discharged,” Rafael said, frowning, turning off the stove.
I looked at him, cold and precise. “You didn’t check on me for a week.”
Silence followed, sharp enough to crack bone. No one moved. No one breathed.
Then the doorbell rang.
Both men turned, and Victor moved first, hurrying to open it. Celestine stood there, pale, fragile, wrists wrapped in clean bandages hidden beneath the sleeves of a delicate blouse. A porcelain doll cracked, but not shattered.
At the sight of her, Rafael and Victor moved instinctively. Rafael scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, laying her gently on the couch. “You shouldn’t be out,” he whispered, brushing hair from her face. “What if something happens?”
“I was alone in the hospital room,” she said, eyes wide and anxious. “I kept thinking… what if I never woke up again? What if no one was there? I panicked. I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
Rafael softened immediately, moving closer, but she raised a weak hand.
“If it’s too much, I can go back,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to be a burden.”
“Hey, hey, no,” Rafael said, worry threading his voice. “You’re not a burden. You should’ve called sooner. We’ll take care of you.”
Victor hovered behind him. “We’ll go back to the hospital after we check on Aurelia. Then we’ll stay with you tonight.”
I said nothing. I picked up my fork and ate. The steak was dry, overdone, still pink in the center. Every bite tasted like ashes, like cardboard—but I chewed anyway. I wouldn’t let them see me stop. He made steak—my least favorite—and they hadn’t remembered.
A small, bitter laugh escaped me. I swallowed it down with a sip of water. Rafael and Victor fussed over Celestine, setting her place, coaxing her to eat, treating her like glass. She drank in their attention like it was her birthright. Occasionally, her eyes flicked to me, sharp, triumphant, as if to say, you lost.
Then my phone buzzed. Mom. Over a dozen photos of wedding dresses flooded the screen—lace, silk, heavy beading, cathedral veils. I scrolled numbly until the third dress—a satin off-the-shoulder gown with a cinched waist and cascading ruffles. Without hesitation, I hit call.
“Did you get the dresses?” Mom’s voice was warm, expectant. “I think the third one suits you best… but if your fiancé prefers white—”
“I love the third,” I said, quick and light, cheerful even. “It’s perfect. I can already picture it. I’m really… excited.”
There was a pause. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so glad. I knew you’d love it. You always liked classic silhouettes.”
I nodded, forcing a small laugh. “Yeah. I think it’ll be beautiful. I’m really looking forward to my WEDDING.”
A movement flickered across the room, but I didn’t look up.
“How much longer do you need over there?” she asked.
“Just a week. I’ll finish up and be home.”
“Good. Everything’s almost ready.”
I hung up and set the phone on the table. That’s when I felt it—silence heavy, full, like breath held. I looked up.
Rafael and Victor were staring at me. Celestine froze mid-forkful, expression soft but eyes sharp.
Rafael was first. He stepped away from her, crossing the room in seconds, voice tight. “Wedding?”
Victor followed, brows furrowed, jaw tight. “What wedding?”
