Her fragility. Her tragedy.
Her failing heart—worn like something sacred.
My fingers curled slightly at my sides, but I kept my face still.
Because under any other circumstance—I might have pitied her.
Truly. Deeply.
From what little I had learned about Violet’s family, heart failure was a pattern.
A quiet inheritance that moved from one generation to the next, taking without warning.
A woman robbed of time.
Of a future she had no chance to finish building.
Of a life that was slipping away long before it should have.
A body turning against itself in silence, betraying her from within while the rest of the world continued as though nothing was wrong.
That wasn’t something you ignored.
But tonight?
After standing in that kitchen.
After carrying a meal I had not prepared.
After watching them occupy a world I was forced to stand outside of, to witness their closeness, their shared ease—I felt nothing for her.
Nothing.
“I’ll be taking my leave,” I said instead.
My voice flat and formal.
Then I turned.
Before either of them could speak.
Before he could command me to stay.
Before she could whisper another word meant to twist the knife deeper.
I walked away.
Each step an assertion that I still existed.
That I would not dissolve in the shadow of them.
As soon as I reached the kitchen doors, I swung them open and stormed in, slamming them behind me with a thud that echoed across the marble floor.
Silence stretched after me.
Then—movement.
I crossed the kitchen in three long strides, each step measured, but heavy with the weight of every thought I refused to release.
