I rose slowly, deliberately, letting each movement feel as though it were measured against some invisible clock. My hands smoothed the fabric of my hoodie, running over the soft cotton as if brushing off invisible dust from delicate silk, careful not to disturb the faint creases along the sleeves. I moved with precision, aware of every step, every motion, because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. My eyes, steady and unyielding, sought Rafael’s across the room, locking with his for a fraction of a second that stretched longer than it should have. A measured, delicate smile tugged at my lips—polite, practiced, and faintly cruel in its restraint. It was a smile that spoke civility without warmth, control without surrender.

“The one you’re not invited to,” I said, letting the words hang like a small blade in the air, sharp but almost casual. I let my tone hover between amusement and dismissal, knowing full well the sting it would carry.

Rafael’s laughter came first, short, startled, a sound that carried more disbelief than humor. It was a laugh that tried to convince itself this was a joke, that I couldn’t possibly mean it, that this couldn’t possibly be real. I felt a strange, cold satisfaction as it rolled off his tongue, the first crack in his composure, fleeting though it was.

Victor followed, his low, amused chuckle filling the room like a warning. The sound was familiar, the one he always used when he thought I was straining too hard to be clever, when he believed he’d caught me trying. His head shook slowly, almost affectionately, and he said, “Come on. You nearly had us. Almost.” His words were light, teasing, but they carried the quiet acknowledgment of my effort, an acknowledgment that barely grazed the surface of their understanding.

I said nothing. I let the silence stretch, let it settle thickly between us. Let them laugh, let it echo, let it ricochet off the walls and settle in the hollow spaces where I stored every unspoken word, every thought swallowed before it could be uttered.

Celestine tilted her head, draped across the couch like some fragile martyr, the faint curl of a smile tugging at her lips, a smirk that suggested she had already anticipated the outcome. “Yeah, it’s a joke,” she said, her voice mock-sweet, light as a feather but laced with venom. “Because let’s be honest, no one’s really interested in Aurelia. She can’t even dress herself properly—baggy hoodies, baggy pants. What’s she hiding under all that?”

Rafael snorted, sharp and bright, and nudged Victor lightly, as though Celestine had just delivered the revelation of the century. “She does dress like she’s hiding,” he agreed, a grin spreading across his face. “You should try dressing like Celestine.”

The laughter that followed filled the room again, echoing against the walls, reverberating into the hollow spaces where I kept everything I hadn’t dared voice. The sound should have stung, should have drawn a reaction, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

“Yeah,” I said softly, letting the corners of my mouth lift just enough to imply civility, just barely. “It’s a joke. It’s my cousin’s wedding.”

The laughter stopped as if someone had flipped a switch, leaving a deafening silence that hung heavy in the air.

“You all can come,” I added, and I held their eyes with deliberate intensity. I wanted them to understand that I meant it, even if I didn’t care if they actually came. It was a truth delivered coldly, measured, precise.

Rafael scratched the back of his neck, a subtle tell I had memorized long ago, and looked away first. “Ah, we’re gonna be busy,” he said, a tinge of hesitation in his voice, a trace of discomfort at being caught in my quiet trap.

“Yeah,” Victor added, quick, eager to fill the silence, to redirect the moment. “We’re taking Celestine to Switzerland next week. It’s part of her birthday gift. Doctors said she could travel once she’s stronger.”

Rafael’s gaze softened as he looked down at Celestine, a tenderness returning that I hadn’t seen in weeks. It was the look of someone who held a fragile glass object in his hands, fully aware of its vulnerability yet determined to protect it with a kind of fierce, unreasonable care. His eyes lingered on her, scanning every subtle twitch, every shiver, every slight falter, as though he could absorb her pain simply by noticing it. “Once she’s recovered, we’ll spend a few weeks there,” he said, his voice soft, deliberate, weighted with conviction. “Clean air, mountains. She deserves it.”

Celestine leaned against his chest, her eyes meeting mine for a brief, fleeting moment, a glance loaded with triumph. A victorious little smile danced across her lips, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had already claimed more than they were allowed. She looked like a girl who had already marked her territory in the world, confident and untouchable, basking in the quiet power she had carved for herself.

I smiled too, but it was thin, fleeting, a mere shadow of warmth, a quiet mirror to her triumph. I didn’t speak. Words felt useless here. Silence was my armor, my shield. I could hear everything, feel everything, yet remain untouchable by it all.

I turned and walked slowly toward the stairs, each step measured, deliberate, letting the sounds of their voices rise behind me. Laughter, soft and warm, full of care—but unmistakably not for me—washed over me like waves brushing against a shore I could never reach. Their voices lingered, echoing in the hollow spaces of the house, a haunting reminder of everything I had been excluded from, everything I had been denied.

At the top of the stairs, I stepped into my room and closed the door with a gentle, deliberate push, careful not to make it slam. I didn’t lock it; there was no need. No one ever came up here uninvited. This was my sanctuary, the last place that remained untouched by their intrusion.

I lay down on the bed, drawing the blanket over my legs, staring at the ceiling with eyes that refused to see. The faint clinking of cutlery, murmured conversation, and soft laughter floated up from downstairs—fragments of a life I could observe but never inhabit. Rafael’s laughter, the way Celestine coughed delicately into her hand, Victor checking her tea, making sure it was warm enough—all of it built a world around me that I was excluded from, a life I could watch from the edges.

I didn’t cry. I never did. I closed my eyes, letting the quiet wrap around me like a thick, familiar blanket, enveloping me in a cocoon of deliberate isolation.

I was halfway to sleep when the door creaked, a soft, hesitant sound that made me shift slightly. I turned my face to the wall, too tired to care who might be on the other side, too drained to muster curiosity.

Soft footsteps crossed the floor, careful and deliberate, and then the faint, comforting scent of warm milk reached me before her voice did.

“I brought you something,” Celestine said, her tone light, almost sweet, but beneath it, there was a subtle trace of bitterness, a sourness that clung like rot hidden under honey.

I didn’t move. I didn’t acknowledge her presence. I simply lay there, still as a statue.

She stood at the foot of my bed, the glass balanced delicately in her hands like fragile porcelain. “Why did you even come back?” she asked, tilting her head, her words poised as if the answer were obvious—but I wasn’t clever enough to supply it.

I turned toward her slowly, pushing myself upright just slightly, letting the blanket slide off my shoulder. My posture was defensive, careful, a quiet statement of “stay back.” “Yeah?” I said, my voice dry, measured. “Why are you still in my house?”

Her lips twitched in a flicker of amusement, that faint, calculated movement that made me want to grit my teeth. “I’m leaving. Don’t worry. Rafael and Victor are taking me to the hospital later. I just wanted to see you first before I go.”

I didn’t thank her. I didn’t acknowledge her. I simply watched, letting her words float into the room like empty confetti.

She walked closer, her steps muted by the rug beneath her feet, setting the glass on the table beside my bed but lingering, her fingers brushing the rim as though it contained some secret she wasn’t ready to release.

“Is it painful?” she asked, her voice smooth, stretched too tight like silk pulled too far. “Seeing your boyfriend and his brother take care of me like I’m the most fragile, precious thing in the world?”

I didn’t answer.

“I mean, what were you even doing in the hospital?” she continued, her brows arched, catlike, predatory. “Pretending to be sick for a week? Were you disappointed when they didn’t show up? Did you expect them to rush in?”

My eyes felt heavy again. I didn’t want to give her words. I lay back down, pulling the blanket over my shoulder, swallowing everything I might have said.

“I don’t care,” I murmured finally, and I meant it more than she could ever know.

I closed my eyes. Silence stretched on, too long, just long enough for me to think she might actually leave.

Then—a sharp, shattering crash.

I opened my eyes in time to see her collapsed on the floor, curled in on herself, hands trembling, her wrist bleeding. Milk had spilled across the rug, seeping into the fibers and mingling with the red like some grotesque, chaotic painting. Her body shook with low, broken sobs, shoulders rattling as if the core of her being had fractured beyond repair. Best actress. Yeah.

I just stared, frozen, taking it all in.

The noise sent Rafael and Victor sprinting toward the room, urgency in every movement. Rafael was first, followed closely by Victor, both faces storm-dark, eyes wide with alarm, a sharp mixture of fear and anger.

Rafael dropped to his knees beside Celestine without sparing me a glance, lifting her into his arms as though she were made of fragile glass already shattered. He murmured her name over and over, a desperate, almost prayerful repetition, as if the sound of it could stitch together the pieces that had fallen apart.

“Celestine!” His voice cracked, trembled, carried the weight of panic and protection, a plea wrapped in devotion and fear, a sound meant to heal even as it trembled.

The crash brought them running, each step pounding the floor like a warning. Rafael was first, bursting into the room with the urgency of someone who feared the worst, followed immediately by Victor, whose eyes were wide, storm-dark, and sharp with disbelief. Their presence filled the space, heavy and immediate, like the air itself had thickened in alarm.

Rafael dropped to his knees beside Celestine without even sparing me a glance, scooping her into his arms as though she were made entirely of fragile glass, already shattered, already irreparable. His hands trembled ever so slightly, but his voice stayed low, controlled, as he murmured her name again and again, almost desperately, as if repetition could somehow stitch her broken pieces together.

Victor pivoted toward me with fire blazing in his gaze, the heat of his anger radiating across the room. “What did you do to her?” His voice was tight, clipped, the kind that promised retribution before a word was even finished.

I didn’t answer, not yet. I let him burn with suspicion for a moment, letting the silence stretch and settle, letting my own heart slow from the rush of panic I knew he expected.

Celestine clutched Rafael’s shirt, trembling, her small hands clinging to the fabric as if it could anchor her to the world. Her voice was soft, pitiful, and carried a fragile weight. “I only wanted to offer her milk,” she whispered, eyes wide, shimmering with tears, trembling like leaves in the wind. “Like how she pushed the cake at my birthday.”

Rafael’s arms tightened instinctively around her, holding her closer, almost as if drawing her pain into himself could shield her from it. Then he turned his blazing gaze toward me, eyes sharp and unforgiving. “You pushed her?” he asked, low and dangerous, each syllable thick with accusation.

I said nothing. I just watched, letting the quiet speak for me. My face remained unreadable, a calm mask, my heart stubbornly steady. I was too drained to argue, too practiced to let anger show.

Victor stepped closer, fists clenched, the air between us charged. “If you ever lay a hand on her again, I’ll make sure you end up in prison. I don’t care who you are,” he hissed, a warning tempered by rage.

I didn’t flinch. “She dropped the glass herself,” I said, my voice calm, detached, almost eerily serene. “I never touched her.”

But it didn’t matter.

Rafael wasn’t listening. He was already searching for the first aid kit, already inspecting her wrist with gentle, meticulous care, already brushing the fine strands of hair from her face like she was sacred, fragile, untouchable.

Celestine sobbed again, pressing her face into his chest, as if she could dissolve into him completely. “It’s okay, Rafael,” she whispered, soft and venomous in its gentleness. “Maybe she didn’t mean to. I just wanted to be kind.”

Victor looked at me with a mixture of disgust and fury, his jaw tight, teeth clenched. “You’re jealous and unstable,” he spat, voice low and cutting. “Maybe you should stay somewhere else until you can control yourself.”

I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t argue. I stared instead at the milk-soaked rug, the pinkish-white mess spreading across the floor like a wound, and then turned silently, wordlessly, and walked out of my own bedroom.

Each step down the stairs felt heavier than the last, the house shrinking around me as if the walls themselves were aware of my exclusion. Behind me, Rafael’s voice rose, soft and insistent, cooing words of comfort to Celestine. Promises of Switzerland and fresh air, of gentle travel and recovery, floated up the staircase like smoke. Then the front door slammed, announcing their departure, their urgency, their allegiance.

I wandered to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, my hands shaking so badly that the liquid sloshed near the edge. Both palms steadied the glass, and I finally sat down at the table, letting my body slump like a marionette cut loose. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the pulse of my own heartbeat in my ears.