Chapter 5

5

By the time I got home, it was already late, and the silence inside the house felt heavier than usual, like it had been waiting for me, like it already knew I was coming back alone.

Adrian had not come with me.

He had stood there in that kitchen, his attention still fixed on Selene, and told me to go home first because he needed to make sure she was alright, as if I was not the one who had just been forced to my knees, as if my pain was an event to be postponed.

I did not argue, I did not ask him to come with me, I just left.

Now, standing inside the quiet house, I placed my bag down slowly, my injured hand throbbing with every small movement, the dull ache spreading through my fingers as I flexed them slightly, trying to ignore it.

My stomach tightened and then growled softly, reminding me that I had not eaten anything all day, and the memory came back all at once, the dinner, the table, the food I could not touch, the way no one noticed.

I let out a slow breath and leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes for a second as the exhaustion settled deeper into my body.

Then the doorbell rang.

I frowned slightly and pushed myself off the wall, walking toward the door with slow steps, my hand still pressed lightly against my side.

When I opened it, a delivery rider stood there, holding out a bag.

“Delivery for Evelyn,” he said.

I hesitated for a second, then took it. “Thank you.”

I closed the door and walked back inside, placing the bag on the table before opening it, and the smell hit me immediately, warm, familiar, safe.

My favorite meal, the one I always ordered after long shifts, the one Adrian never remembered, the one I used to joke about because he always got it wrong.

My fingers paused slightly over the container.

Then my phone lit up.

A message.

Mitchell.

“I figured you had not eaten.”

I stared at the words for a moment, something quiet settling in my chest, something I did not want to name yet.

He had noticed, without being there, without being told.

I swallowed and typed back, “Thank you.”

I did not say more.

I sat down slowly and opened the food, my hands still unsteady, but I forced myself to eat, even though each bite felt heavy, like my body did not know what to do with it after everything that had happened.

The house remained quiet.

Adrian did not come back that night, he did not call, he did not send a message.

Time passed slowly, stretching in a way that made every minute feel longer, but I stopped waiting at some point without even realizing it.

The next day passed, then the one after that, and three days went by without a single word from him, no calls, no messages, no explanation, and I did not need to ask where he was because I already knew.

He was with her, taking care of her, staying by her side.

It still hurt, the knowledge sitting quietly inside me, heavy and uncomfortable, but I did not reach for my phone, I did not try to contact him, and I did not ask questions I already had answers to.

By the third day, the silence no longer felt surprising.

It felt expected.

When he finally came back, it was like nothing had happened.

He walked in, his expression calm and controlled, like the past few days had not existed, like I had not been left behind without a word.

“I’ve been busy,” he said, loosening his tie slightly as he stepped inside.

I watched him, but I did not respond.

He glanced at me briefly, then away.

“I heard you haven’t been going out much,” he added, like it was casual, like it mattered.

“I’ve been resting,” I replied.

A short silence followed, then he exhaled.

“About what happened that night,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, softer now, “I might have been too harsh.”

Might have been.

I looked at him, but he did not meet my eyes fully.

“I was worried about Selene,” he continued, like that explained everything, like that justified everything, “you know how things can get when emotions are high.”

My fingers curled slightly against my palm.

“I see,” I said.

He nodded once, like that was enough.

Then his expression changed slightly, something lighter entering his tone.

“Our anniversary is tomorrow,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him, “I’ll make it up to you.”

I stared at him for a moment, the words feeling distant, unreal, but I nodded anyway.

“Alright.”

The next evening, everything was set, the table, the food, the soft light filling the room.

I had prepared everything quietly and carefully, my movements slow but deliberate, my hand still aching but steady enough to manage.

For a moment, I stood there, looking at it, and it reminded me of something, a memory, a past version of myself who would have been excited, who would have checked the time again and again, who would have waited by the door.

Now, I just sat down.

And waited.

Adrian arrived late, but he did arrive.

He stepped inside and glanced around briefly.

“You prepared all this,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded once, loosening his tie again as he moved toward the table.

“Good.”

He sat down, and for a moment, it almost felt normal.

Then his phone rang.

The sound cut through the quiet immediately.

He glanced at the screen, and everything changed.

His expression shifted instantly, his posture straightening slightly, his attention pulled away from the table before he even answered.

“Selene,” he said, his voice already softer.

I watched him, watched the way his tone changed, watched the way he stood up without hesitation.

“What happened?” he asked, his brows drawing together as he listened, his concern immediate, real.

There was a pause, and then he turned slightly away from me.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

The call ended.

He did not look at me right away, he picked up his jacket instead.

“I need to go,” he said.

I sat there, my hands resting quietly on my lap, my fingers still, my expression calm.

“Now?” I asked.

“It’s important,” he replied quickly, already moving toward the door.

“For her,” I said.

He paused for a fraction of a second.

Then he nodded.

“Yes.”

That was all, no explanation, no hesitation, no apology.

He just opened the door and left.