Like the moment never mattered at all.
Then she straightened.
Turned back to me.
And spoke.
“How about you tell me, cara mia, your favorite food?” she said, leaning closer, her voice soft but warm, carrying that unmistakable Italian cadence.
“I’ll start making it for you right away—Ti prometto, you’ll eat and feel better in no time.”
Her voice was respectful.
“I’m not hungry. I’m angry.” I said.
The words came out rougher than intended.
Not directed at her.
But at everything else.
At the situation. At the night.
At myself.
She didn’t argue. Just nodded once.
And let it go.
I pushed forward before I could feel anything again in that kitchen, before I could make a mess out of my anger.
Then I turned and walked out.
The hallway stretched ahead—long, shadowed, silent.
My footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor.
I kept my gaze forward.
But as I passed the open archway leading back into the dining room, I caught a glimpse.
Just once.
A mistake.
Inside, they were still there.
Seated together.
Closer now.
More relaxed.
More... present.
Violet’s laugh drifted through the room—soft, melodic, effortless.
A sound that belonged.
