Fractures
Sage
San Diego feels smaller lately.Not in the postcard way—with the sun-drenched skyline or the ocean glittering like a promise—but in the way a room feels when the walls inch closer each day. Leo’s mood has weight now. It fills the apartment, thick and heavy, pressing down until even the air feels tense.
He’s quieter. Gruffer. His words, when they come, are short and clipped, like he’s trying not to let anything real slip out.
I watch him from the kitchen as he laces up his sneakers before morning skate. His movements are sharp, efficient—every tie of the lace another exhale of frustration. The muted thud of his stick bag hitting the wall makes me flinch, though he doesn’t notice.
“Coffee?” I ask, trying for normal.
He grunts without looking up. “Got it.”
Right. He’s already poured his own. I swallow the small sting that follows and busy myself arranging sliced fruit into containers, the same way I always do—perfect rows, symmetrical, neat. Control in a world that’s anything but.
He grabs his keys from the counter, jaw tight. “Don’t wait up tonight.”
“Film session again?” I keep my tone light, but the question hangs there, brittle.
“Yeah. Long one.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes when he says it.
Something sharp twists in my chest. “Okay. Be careful.”
He nods, already halfway out the door. The latch clicks behind him, too final for such an ordinary sound.
The silence he leaves behind stretches wide and echoing. I stare at the door for a moment, then exhale, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything unsaid.
Lately, it’s like living with a storm that never breaks. I can feel the tension before it hits—the way he paces the living room, the tight pull in his shoulders, the late nights that end with him staring at film he’s already memorized. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t snap. But it’s the absence of what used
to be there—the teasing, the half-smiles, the way he’d steal bites of my cooking—that makes the quiet hurt.
I turn back to the counter and start chopping ginger, the knife’s rhythm sharp against the cutting board. The scent should be comforting. It isn’t. All I can think about is how much space a person can take up even when they’re gone.
I press my palm to the counter, grounding myself. He’s under pressure. That’s all it is. The slump, the headlines—it’s wearing on him. This isn’t about me.
But a small, traitorous thought whispers back:It always starts like this.
Lunch rush blurs into dinner prep before I can catch my breath. The restaurant hums with energy—servers weaving between tables, pans sizzling in the open kitchen, laughter rising from the bar. It should feel good, this rhythm I built from scratch, but today even the comfort of work feels jagged.
“Sage, can you run the tasting menu to table seven?” Manny calls from the pass, his voice strained over the chaos. “VIPs from LA—some investor group.”
“Got it.” I smooth my apron and grab the tray, pasting on my practiced smile. Polished. Unshakable. The version of me who never flinches.
The table’s full of men in expensive suits and louder voices, the kind who like being listened to. I launch into my usual spiel—locally sourced produce, seasonal pairings, the balance of spice and acidity—but halfway through, one of them interrupts.
“Wait, San Diego Surge, right?” he says, tapping his phone. “You guys have Voss, don’t you?”
Another chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, the golden boy who’s not so golden lately.”
My pulse skips. I keep my smile, because that’s what professionals do, but my grip tightens around the edge of the tray.
“Shame,” one says, swirling his wine. “He was electric last season. Guess losing that penthouse hit him harder than the flood.”
The laughter that follows is sharp enough to cut.
I steady the tray before it tips. “The next course will be out shortly,” I say smoothly, voice even though my heart is pounding.
