The hours between midnight and dawn are a special kind of hell. They’re the hours where the mind stops being a companion and starts being an interrogator. I lie perfectly still, listening to the house settle, the floorboards groaning as if they’re exhausted from holding the weight of Jace’s presence.
Eventually, the silence becomes too much. I can’t breathe in this bed anymore. Every time I shift, I catch another hint of him, another reminder of the way his skin felt against mine. It’s too much honesty for something that never really crossed the line.
I roll out of bed at three in the morning, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated. I don’t turn on the lights; I move through thedark by muscle memory. I strip the sheets off the bed, the fabric cool and white in the moonlight. I need them gone. I need the scent washed out, the indentations smoothed over, the evidence of my weakness laundered until it’s sterile again.
I carry the bundle of laundry to the small closet in the hallway that houses my washer and dryer. The mechanical hum of the machine filling with water is a relief, it’s a productive noise, a sound that says I’m cleaning up the mess. I stand there in the dark, watching the water swirl, feeling like a criminal trying to scrub blood off the floor.
Coward.The word keeps rhythm with the pulse in my ears.
Jace took the leap. He signed the papers. He walked away from the "perfect" life and walked into the fire. And here I am, trying to wash away the smell of him because I’m afraid of what the neighbors might think. I’ve spent my whole life being the girl who colors inside the lines, the one who doesn't make waves, the one who stays in the shadows so nobody gets hurt.
But peoplearehurt. Sierra is hurt. Jace is a wreck. And I’m a ghost. I feel invisible in a story everyone else seems ready to tell for me.
I wander into the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the tile. I reach for the kettle, needing the ritual of tea to ground me. As the water begins to hiss, my eyes drift to the spot on the counter where he was leaning just an hour ago. He’s gone now, taking that heavy, complicated energy with him, but the memory of him standing there is burned into the room. It was the first time in so long that I saw him without the armor he wears for everyone else—the first time he was just the man who looked at me like I was his only anchor. The kitchen feels too big now, the silence too loud where his voice should be.
I think about Sierra and about the life they shared. Did they have a spot in their kitchen where they left their keys? Did they have a routine for their morning coffee? I shouldn't care about these things, and I hate that I do.
It isn’t guilt really. It’s the awareness of how quickly a story can be rewritten by people who were never there. Or how easily someone can be reduced to a version of themselves that never existed.
The kettle whistles, a sharp, piercing sound that makes me jump. I quickly turn it off, my heart hammering. I make a cup of peppermint tea I don't really want, sitting at the small wooden table in my dining nook.
I spend the next two hours staring out the window at the tree line. I watch the sky turn from ink-black to a bruised, dusty purple. This is the part I hate the most—the transition. The moment where the night’s secrets have to face the morning’s reality.
By six o'clock, I’m in the shower. I scrub my skin until it’s red, trying to wash away the last of Jace’s scent. I want to feel like the Sarah who went to work yesterday and felt stable. The one who was safe.
I spend more time on my makeup than usual. I use a heavy concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes and a lipstickthat’s a shade too bold, a splash of color to act as a distraction. I put on a crisp, navy blue blouse and slacks, my professional armor.
When I walk out to my car, the air is crisp, smelling of damp grass and woodsmoke. I look at my driveway, searching for any sign that his truck was there. A scuff on the pavement? An oil leak? Nothing. The world looks exactly the same as it did yesterday.
But as I back out and begin the drive into town, the paranoia sets in.
I pass the Bennett house at the corner. Mrs. Bennett is out on her porch, picking up the morning paper. Does she look at me longer than usual? Did she see a black truck parked at my curb last night? I keep my eyes fixed on the road, my hands gripping the steering wheel, I think I just need to stop jumping to conclusions.
I pull into the university parking lot near my building, and my stomach does a slow, sickening flip. The campus is already starting to buzz with the early morning energy of students and staff, and suddenly, every person walking toward the quad feels like a potential judge.
My throat goes dry. I sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, and consider putting the car in reverse. I could just drive until I hit the state line. I could start over in a city where nobody knows who Jace is, where nobody knows Sierra, where I’m not the girl who spent years in something that wasnever named, never claimed, and never allowed to exist in the daylight.
But I don’t. I might be a coward, but I’m a disciplined one.
I finally step out of the car, the heels of my shoes clicking sharply on the asphalt. I keep my head up and my shoulders back as I walk toward the entrance. This building used to feel like a sanctuary, a place where I was just another face in the department, but now the red brick and ivy feel suffocating.
There’s a group of people standing near the coffee kiosk just outside—mostly department staff and a couple of boosters I recognize from the donor dinners. They’re huddled together, heads leaning in close. I know that posture. That’s the "did you hear?" posture.
In a town like this, the university isn't just an institution; it’s the heartbeat of the gossip mill. If an assistant coach who’s been quietly positioned as the next head coach is getting a divorce, these are the people who will be dissecting the “why” before you can even blink. I keep my pace steady as I head for the doors, praying my face doesn't betray the fact that I was the "why" just a few hours ago. As I pass them, the conversation drops into a sudden, pointed silence. It follows me like a physical weight, a cold draft on the back of my neck.
By the time I reach my office door, my hands are shaking so badly I fumble with my keys.
“Morning, Sarah!”
I jump, nearly dropping the heavy brass ring. It’s Brenda from the office across the hall. She’s smiling, but her eyes are bright with that sharp, hungry curiosity.
“Morning, Brenda,” I manage to say, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else.
“People are still talking about Coach Prescott, huh?” she says, leaning against her doorframe. “Seems like his divorce is still making the gossip rounds.”
I freeze, my key halfway into the lock. My heart is beating so loud I’m sure she can hear it.
“I… I hadn’t heard,” I lie. The lie tastes like ash.
