Love Unscripted

✨ Chapter Eight:Broken Plates,Broken Words

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were red and puffy, skin pale beneath the harsh light, and strands of my wet hair clung to my cheeks. I had cried until my chest ached and my throat burned. The long, hot shower had done little to wash the pain away.

My phone buzzed on the countertop.

Nick: Dinner's ready.

I didn’t reply.

Wrapping a towel tightly around my neck, I took slow steps back to my room. Minutes later, dressed in a simple T-shirt and joggers, i padded down the stairs, my footsteps light as though trying not to disturb the tension floating in the air.

The dining room felt colder than it should. The light above the table cast shadows across everyone's faces. Nick sat at the edge of the table, stabbing his fork into a piece of yam without looking up. Mom sat opposite, unusually quiet, pushing her stew around her plate. No one said a word.

I took my seat and quietly reached for the bottle of water.

The silence lingered—so thick, it was almost loud.

Mom cleared her throat and attempted a brittle smile.

“So… no one has anything to say?” she asked.

No one responded.

“I mean, we’re sitting here like strangers,” she continued, her voice higher now, eyes darting between us. “We used to laugh during dinner. We used to—talk. What happened?”

I glanced at Nick, but he kept his gaze on his plate.

“I’m talking to you people!” mom snapped, her tone suddenly sharp. “Why is everyone acting like I’m invisible? Or is it that you’re now too big to talk in this house?”

Still no reply. The tension tightened like a rope.

Then mom stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the tiled floor.

“You know what? Maybe I’m the problem here"

My fork clattered against my plate.

“Can we not do this tonight?”

“Oh, we will do it tonight!” mom shouted, pointing at me. “You—you walk into my house with attitude, with your big mouth and your tears—like you’re the only one who’s ever had pain!”

I stood too. My voice shook, but my eyes didn’t.

“You don’t get to talk to me about pain.”

My mom scoffed. “You think you’ve seen pain? You—”

“I wish Dad was here!” I yelled, my voice slicing the air. “I wish he didn’t die—because if he was alive, you wouldn’t be this person!”

Everything stopped.

My mother froze.

Nick raised his head slowly, stunned.

“I blame you,” I said, my voice low and trembling. “You were always fighting him. He was always trying. And now he’s gone. Because of you.”

Then came the sound—a slap.

Loud. Sudden. Final.

My face turned with the force of it. My cheek burned, my eyes welled again, but i didn’t cry this time.

“You ungrateful little girl!” my mom shouted, breath heavy. “You think you can speak to me like that? In my house?”

I held my face, blinking fast, my lips pressed tightly together.

My mother’s voice dropped cold.

“If you can’t respect me, then leave. Pack your things. You can go to wherever it is you want to stay.”

Nick stood up suddenly. “Sarah, no—”

“No! Let her go! She wants to blame me? Fine. She doesn’t need to stay under my roof.”

The room was shaking now—emotionally if not physically. Everything—love, grief, history—was scattered across the floor like broken glass.

I backed away slowly. I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry.

I just whispered:

“I’ll pack my bags.”

And then i walked away.