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.

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?”