It was past midnight, and the house carried a heavy, almost theatrical silence, the kind that felt staged, like everyone was pretending to be asleep just to avoid me, as if their very breathing was an act of omission. I sat propped against my headboard in my room, phone in hand, scrolling through old photos I had promised myself I wouldn’t touch tonight. Each swipe of my thumb felt deliberate, almost ritualistic, dragging memories across the screen like fragile ghosts I couldn’t keep at bay.
Rafael’s bright, easy smile. Victor’s arm casually draped over my shoulder, protective and infuriating all at once. Celestine’s carefully curated, almost predatory innocence lurking in the background, like a virus biding its time, waiting to spread through everything I had worked to build. A bitter, humorless smirk tugged at my lips, a quiet acknowledgment of what had been stolen. Then, sharp and insistent, the familiar stabbing pain flared in my side, rhythmic and precise, like a cruel metronome of past mistakes. I didn’t flinch. I breathed through it and began deleting the images, one by one, letting them fall into oblivion with a strange, quiet satisfaction. One photo. Another. And another. The past disappearing under my fingers like dust.
The room was too quiet, too still, and my mind, left unchecked, began to wander into corners I had tried to seal off. Memories surfaced, vivid and uninvited, refusing to be ignored. I remembered Rafael, once, looking at me as if I were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“Aurelia,” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine on the couch after a long, grueling day, “you’re my compass. I swear to God, if you ever left, I’d be lost.”
I had laughed, soft and foolish, unable to believe the weight of his words. “You’re too dramatic.”
“No, I’m not,” he insisted, his eyes too serious, too intent. “You keep me sane. You make things make sense.”
And Victor—he had his own way of showing concern, subtle but unavoidable. He would appear at my office with takeout I never ordered, arms crossed, frowning as though my very survival was under review.
“You skipped lunch again,” he muttered, setting the bag down in front of me. “And don’t lie—your assistant told me.”
“I had deadlines, Victor,” I replied, voice sharp but tired.
“I don’t care,” he growled, though there was warmth beneath the frustration. “Eat. Or I’ll feed you myself like a damn toddler.”
We had our chaos, our strange rhythms that somehow felt like home. Burned pasta on lazy weekends. Half-finished movie marathons that stretched late into the night. Arguments that went nowhere about whether to adopt a cat or a dog first. It was messy, it was inconvenient, and yet it was ours.
Then Celestine came back. Tears in her eyes, a suitcase weighted with shame, her degree unfinished, her pride cracked and fragile. And I—foolishly, blindly—welcomed her in.
“It’s okay,” I told her, rubbing her back as she cried into my shoulder. “You’ll figure things out. I’ll help you.”
“I just… I didn’t know who else to go to,” she sniffled, voice small and vulnerable. “You’re all I have, Aurelia.”
When her parents died, I made sure she had everything she needed: therapy sessions paid for, rent covered, living expenses taken care of. Because that’s family. That’s what family does.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said one evening, voice trembling, “I feel like such a burden.”
“You’re not,” I lied. “You’re family. You’re my responsibility.”
I worked long, brutal days, barely sleeping, but I still made time to check in on her. Left dinners in the fridge. Called to make sure she wasn’t alone. Ensured she never felt like she had to face the world empty-handed.
Then, the signs began. Subtle at first, almost imperceptible. Sitting too close to Rafael at dinner. Leaning into him during conversations, brushing against his arm with deliberate care. Laughing too loud at jokes that didn’t warrant laughter, a possessive smile tugging at her lips.
“You’re so funny, Rafael,” she giggled one night, leaning into him as if gravity demanded it. “Why didn’t I notice that before?”
Rafael chuckled, oblivious, unaware of the silent claims being made.
I raised a brow, calm but deliberate. “Celestine, could you pass the salt?”
She blinked at me, innocence painted carefully across her face. “Oh—sorry. I was just… laughing.”
And then it became routine. The touches, the leaning, the laughter—all deliberate, all markers of possession. Him offering her wine, her hand brushing against his shoulder, the way she looked at him, claiming more than she had any right to.
One night, I confronted him.
“Are you sleeping with her?” I asked, quiet but firm, the words slicing through the air between us like a knife.
Rafael stared at me, incredulous, like I had spoken a language he couldn’t understand. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“A valid one,” I said, arms crossed, heart cold, tone steady. “She’s in our house. She’s at our table. She looks at you like she wants more.”
He scoffed, dismissive, almost amused. “She’s your friend, Aurelia. Why are you jealous of your own friend?”
