Alex's POV
"Silence isn't always empty. Sometimes, it's full of everything you're afraid to say."
The front door clicked shut with a finality that echoed through the house like thunder. Hunter was gone. Three months, he'd said. Business in Europe, something about negotiations and partners and expansion.
The silence that followed his departure wasn't peaceful. It pulsed—thick, sharp, and oddly intimate.
I stood frozen in the hallway, my fingers brushing the edge of the console table as the engine of his car faded into the distance. Ava hadn't moved either. She was still at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, lips parted slightly like she meant to speak but changed her mind at the last second.
"Do you want coffee?" I asked, my voice rough with sleep or maybe just the sudden absence of his presence.
Ava nodded. "Yeah. Please."
We moved around the kitchen like dancers unfamiliar with the choreography. Every step was cautious. I reached for the mugs while she filled the kettle. Our hands brushed when I passed her the sugar. I didn't pull away. Neither did she.
We sat at the dining table in silence, the steam from our mugs spiraling up between us. I looked down at mine, watching the cream swirl into the dark liquid like a slow storm.
"You okay?" she asked finally.
A simple question. Heavy with implications.
I hesitated. "I don't know."
She nodded, like she understood completely. And maybe she did.
"I don't think I've ever been in a house this quiet," Ava said after a beat. "Even my apartment in the city had the sound of traffic, neighbors… something."
"This place feels quieter when he's gone," I admitted. "Like it forgets how to breathe without him."
"Maybe it's just learning a new rhythm," she said softly.
I looked up at her. "Are we supposed to find one?"
Ava shrugged. "I don't know. But we're here."
There was something in her eyes—sadness, maybe, or empathy. Or something I didn't have the courage to name. I wanted to ask her what she meant, if she was talking about Hunter, or us, or something deeper still. But I didn't.
Instead, I reached for my cup. She mirrored me. We drank in sync, the silence between us not quite comfortable, but no longer unbearable.
Later, we passed each other in the hallway outside the laundry room. She smelled like clean cotton and vanilla. I looked up, expecting her to keep walking. She didn't.
"You seem different," she said. "Lighter."
"Do I?"
She nodded. "A little. Like maybe… you're allowed to exhale now."
I didn't respond. What could I say? That she was right? That Hunter's absence was the first breath of air I'd had in months? That every glance she gave me felt like peeling back another layer I wasn't ready to face?
She didn't wait for an answer. Just smiled—soft, knowing—and disappeared into her room.
Behind my bedroom door, I exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like betrayal.
It felt like freedom.