The car door closes with a solid thunk, swallowed by the night.
I stand still for a mont, letting the cool air wash over —the faint sweetness of white roses tangled with the sharper scent of dew settling on the grass. The moon hangs low and full above the house, its light caught and softened by the warm glow of the garden lamps lining the driveway, turning the white gravel into a river of pale gold.
Silas steps out of the car behind .
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I can feel him there—two steps back, just off to the side. Close enough to follow. Far enough to pretend he isn’t there.
I walk.
My shoes strike the marble of the entrance. Each step echoes—sharp, deliberate, a warning shot fired into the silence.
The door unlocks with a soft click. I push it open. The house exhales. Inside, everything is polished. Everything gleams. Dim golden light settles over it all.
Silas’s footsteps whisper behind mine—soft, careful.Too quiet. Like he’s trying not to exist.
I don’t stop. Don’t slow. Don’t acknowledge. I walk straight to my room. Silas is still behind . Following. Still there.
I reach my door. Push it open. Step inside. Before he can cross the threshold—before he can even think about it—I turn and close it. The sound is sharp. Final.
A door slamd on a conversation neither of us started.
"I’m not in a good mood." My voice cos through the wood, cold as the marble beneath my feet. "Don’t disturb ."
My jacket falls onto the bed—a crumpled heap of fabric, discarded like the rest of my patience. The room is dim, moonlight bleeding through the glass wall, casting long shadows across the floor.
My mood is ruined.
Not cracked. Not dented. Shattered. Ground into sothing fine and useless—dust slipping through my fingers, leaving nothing behind.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath , soft, yielding. I take a long breath.
Since I was little.
The thought rises unbidden. Unwanted. Bitter.
Since I was little, they’ve pushed— shaped into sothing I never agreed to beco.
Forced to read minds I never wanted to touch. Studying subjects that bored numb. eting people whose nas I forgot before their hands left mine.
Even marrying off to a mute Beta—knowing exactly what I think of them.
And now— the business.
How could they?
My fists clench in the sheets. The silk bunches beneath my fingers, twisting, bearing the weight of everything I can’t say.
How did they beco like this? Why do they keep forcing into things I never wanted?
I close my eyes.
The darkness behind my lids should be peaceful. Quiet. But there’s nothing peaceful about the noise in my head—the echo of Dad’s voice, the sharp edge of his disappointnt, the way he looks at like I’m sothing broken that needs fixing.
Stop wasting your life, Ellis.
Look at Everic—why can’t you be more like him, Ellis? Learn sothing from your brother.
Knock.
Soft. Tentative. Almost apologetic.
My jaw tightens. The muscles bunch beneath my skin—a reflex, a warning, a small violence turned inward. I have nowhere else to put it.
Why can’t he just—
Why can’t he understand?
I told him to leave alone.
Why can’t he just leave alone?
I open my eyes. My voice cos out harsh—rougher than I intended, sharp at the edges. A blade wrapped in exhaustion.
"Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Leave alone."
Silence.
Then—movent.
Not footsteps. Sothing softer. A shift, a quiet lowering. I see it in the gap beneath the door—a shadow pooling like spilled ink.
He’s sitting outside.
A shuffle. Paper sliding across marble—reluctant, almost shy. A white note slips beneath the door.
I stare at it. The edges are crisp. The paper is clean. His handwriting—neat, careful, each letter ford with the precision of soone who has to say everything through his hands.
I look away. Toward the glass wall.
The moon is full—so full it feels like it might crack the sky. Stars scatter across the darkness like spilled sugar, glittering and cold. The garden below is washed in silver and blue, the white roses faintly luminous.
Another note slides beneath the door. I glance at it.
So he’s not going to stop.
Another follows. Then another. White squares slipping across the marble—small, insistent, asking to be read.
I stand. My steps are slow. Deliberate. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet.
I bend down. My fingers close around the notes. The paper is still warm.
Sorry...
My brow furrows.
Why is he sorry?
I read the second note.
Are you angry at ? Because I held your hand without permission? Please forgive . I only did it so no one would doubt our marriage.
The third—
Please don’t be angry.
I stare at the words.
This is...
Not what I expected. No complaints. No demands. No anger.
Just— apologizing. Asking for forgiveness.
My voice is quieter now. Softer. The anger still there, but buried beneath sothing I don’t have a na for. "I’m not angry at you. Now go to sleep."
A pause. The shuffle of paper. Another note slides in. But you didn’t eat anything.
"I’m not hungry. Just leave alone."
Another.
Please talk with .
"I don’t want to. Just leave."
Another.
I won’t co inside. Let’s talk like this.
The paper feels light in my hand. Weightless. Like it might slip away if I loosen my grip.
Shouldn’t he be angry?
He was right there in the hallway. He must have heard everything I said to Dad. The divorce. The condition. Every word. What I said about him.
And he’s not angry?
He’s sitting outside my door, sliding notes beneath it—asking if I’ve eaten.
I sink down, my back eting the wood of the door. The floor is cold beneath , but I don’t move. Don’t shift.
I just sit. Lean my head back. Close my eyes.
Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he was too far away. Maybe—
"Fine."
The word slips out before I can stop it. Quiet. Almost gentle.
Silence.
I glance beside . A lazy movent. No note. No shadow beneath the door.
Has he left?
A minute passes. Maybe two. The silence stretches—thin, drawn tight, about to snap. Then—
A note slides beneath the door.
Open the door.
"Why? You said you wouldn’t co inside."
Another note.
I’m not coming inside. Just open it a little.
My hand moves before I can stop it—reaching for the handle, turning it, pulling the door open just a crack. Just enough for the hallway light to bleed through.
A box.
White. Cold. Sliding through the gap like a secret.
The door closes. I stare at it. Small. Plain. Unassuming.
My expression shifts—just a fraction. The anger softening at the edges, replaced by sothing I don’t recognize.
Ice cream?
User Comments
0 comments from readers