The door gently closed behind her, muffling the last echoes of laughter still ringing in her mind. Angie stood still on the landing for a moment, her heart strangely light and heavy all at once. Then she slowly walked down the steps to the street, the heels of her sandals echoing faintly on the concrete.
The evening breeze brushed her bare skin under her dress, and she took a deep breath, as if trying to hold onto a bit of the warmth she had just left behind. She loved Jessica. Truly. And even Gregory, despite his slightly too-calm nature, was becoming more and more endearing. Together, they were something beautiful, gentle, solid.
At home, the atmosphere was quite different. A heavy silence greeted her as she shut the door. Not a sound. Not a voice. Just the walls, the familiar furniture, and that solitude she knew all too well.
She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door, placed the empty wine bottle on the table, and kicked off her sandals. The cold tiles beneath her feet gave her a shiver. She turned on one lamp, then another. The soft lighting revealed a tidy, orderly apartment—perhaps too much so.
Without even removing her dress, Angie sat on the edge of her bed. A sigh escaped her. She remained there, upright, still, staring at the wall in front of her without really seeing it. Images from the day kept playing in her mind: Jessica's cozy living room, the laughter-filled conversations, her friend's sincere joy, Gregory's steady presence, the wine, the smiles, the glances.
She wasn't jealous. Not really. But something had started to stir within her—a faint but persistent throb. A question she knew too well: And you, Angie? Who do you have at night?
She got up and walked to the living room. Sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the large window. The city shimmered peacefully in the distance, indifferent. She closed her eyes. Tried to focus on her breathing. An exercise she'd learned in therapy a year or two ago.
Inhale. Exhale. Let the thoughts pass. Don't cling to them.
But tonight, the thoughts refused to drift away.
She thought about all the birthdays spent alone. The late-night shows binge-watched just to fill the emptiness. The cold sheets. The unread messages. The ones who never came. She also thought about the men who only stayed for a night, and the silences the next day. Those blurry mornings when she wondered if she only existed to patch up others' absences.
And also… about Jessica.
She bit her lower lip gently. It wasn't the first time she felt this. That particular warmth when Jessica spoke to her. That subtle spark when their eyes met and lingered just a little too long. It was fuzzy, not fully conscious. But it was there. And tonight, after such a soft, sweet moment at their place, it had risen again. Like a need. Like a hollow ache.
She thought back to a long time ago. Middle school. Those afternoons spent listening to music on an old CD player, lying on the bed, laughing for no reason, sharing their wildest dreams. Jessica had always been radiant. Angie, more reserved, more sensitive. And maybe… already a little in love.
She opened her eyes again and stood slowly. Went to the kitchen, poured herself one last glass of wine—but set it down almost immediately. She didn't want to run from what she felt. Not tonight.
She returned to sit down—this time in the armchair by the window. Her reflection barely showed in the glass. A thirty-four-year-old woman, alone, seemingly strong, full of love to give, but so often overlooked. She wasn't waiting for a prince, nor for some romance-novel heroine. She just wanted someone. Someone who would understand. Who would see her. Who would stay.
She picked up her phone. Hesitated. Jessica's name glowed at the top of her recent messages. She typed a message. Reread it. Deleted it. Then, in a sudden impulse, she wrote something else—simpler:
Thank you for today. I really needed it. You both. Good night.
She hit send, then placed her phone down. A silent tear rolled down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. She let it fall.
Tonight, she felt empty… but alive. And maybe, deep inside, a door had just quietly opened.