Episode 8
1067 Words
BREAKING THE PATTERN
The night before her gallery opening, Ava couldn’t sleep.
Not from nerves.
From clarity.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Luca’s breathing steady beside her, the soft hum of the city a lullaby she no longer resented. There was something sacred about silence when it wasn’t weaponized. About peace when it wasn’t conditional.
Tomorrow, The Versions He Buried would be unveiled to the world.
But tonight, Ava wanted to remember everything she’d shed to get here.
The morning came with the smell of espresso and Ember barging into her apartment with a garment bag, false lashes, and a speech prepared.
“Today is your glow-up graduation,” Ember announced. “And yes, I brought champagne for breakfast.”
Luca, still shirtless and brushing his teeth, raised an eyebrow. “Is this a regular Tuesday thing for you?”
“It is when my best friend is about to ruin her ex’s ego with a paintbrush and a spotlight,” Ember said, winking.
The gallery buzzed with energy hours before doors opened. The lighting was perfect, the wine was poured, and the paintings were alive—each one speaking louder than Ava ever could.
She stood in the center of the space, wearing a deep emerald satin dress with a thigh slit that could cause car accidents. Her curls were soft and wild, lips painted red like revenge dipped in gloss.
Luca walked over, looking dangerously good in a tailored black shirt and suit pants.
“Ready to make grown men cry?” he teased.
“Already started,” she smirked, gesturing to a man in the corner who was dabbing his eyes in front of a canvas titled Version: Silenced.
That one was personal.
When the doors officially opened, people poured in—art lovers, influencers, former clients, randoms who saw the viral invite.
And then, he walked in.
Cole.
He wore guilt like it was designer.
His hair was shorter. His confidence muted. He didn’t make a scene—just quietly walked around the space like he belonged there.
Ava didn’t flinch.
She didn’t need to.
He paused in front of a piece titled Gaslight, a chaotic explosion of dark swirls and a shattered lightbulb. Ava watched him from across the room. Watched how his jaw clenched. How his posture faltered.
But she didn’t walk over.
She didn’t speak.
Because he wasn’t the point of the story anymore.
The media coverage exploded that night.
#TheVersionsHeBuried started trending on i********: and t****k. Reviews praised the emotional honesty of the work, calling Ava the “next rising voice in trauma reclamation art.”
People DM’d her from all over the world.
But the best message came from Sasha.
> “I saw it. I cried. Thank you for telling the truth.”
Ava replied with a single emoji.
A phoenix.
Days later, Ember brought over a thick manila folder.
“I did a thing,” she said, tossing it on the kitchen table.
“What thing?” Ava asked cautiously.
“Remember that podcast about emotional abuse survivors we always joked about starting? I pitched it to a media collective. They said yes. And they want you to co-host.”
Ava blinked. “Me?”
Ember nodded. “People need your voice, Ava. Not the version you were forced to be. The real one. The one who lived it and still came out burning bright.”
For a moment, Ava just stared at the folder.
Then she smiled.
That night, she and Luca sat on the fire escape, sharing wine from the bottle and passing a joint back and forth while the city exhaled beneath them.
“Have you ever thought about what you deserve now?” Luca asked softly.
“I used to think I didn’t deserve anything,” Ava said. “Now I know I deserve everything I used to give away for free.”
Luca tilted his head. “Like your peace. Your time. Your love?”
“And my damn WiFi password,” she added, making him laugh.
“But seriously,” he said, voice gentle, “I know we’re taking things slow. I respect that. But Ava, I want to be part of the life you’re building.”
Her heart beat loud. Not in fear. In recognition.
“I want that too,” she whispered.
He leaned over and kissed her like a promise.
The next few weeks were a blur of meetings, media attention, and the soft chaos of Ava blooming.
She signed a contract for a book of her art and essays. She recorded the pilot episode of the podcast with Ember. She started painting a new series—this one less about pain and more about becoming.
She called it: The Woman Who Rose.
One night, Ava opened her inbox and saw an email from a name she hadn’t seen in years.
Her mother.
They hadn’t spoken since college. Not after her mother dismissed her fears about Cole with, “Are you sure you’re not just being dramatic?”
But now, the subject line read: I’m sorry.
Ava stared at the message. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then, she closed the laptop.
Some apologies didn’t need responses.
Healing wasn’t always about reopening old doors. Sometimes, it was about knowing when to walk away without anger.
At the launch party for the podcast, Ava stood on stage in front of a crowd that had come to hear her story, her voice, her truth.
She started with:
“Hi, I’m Ava Sinclair. I used to believe survival was the same as love. Now I know better.”
The room went silent. Sacred.
She continued, “This podcast is for anyone who thought they were too broken to be heard. For anyone who mistook manipulation for romance. For anyone who needed someone to say, ‘Me too.’”
Thunderous applause followed.
Luca stood in the back, beaming like her personal sun.
Later that night, as they slow-danced in the dim studio to a playlist Ava made during her rock-bottom phase, she whispered, “I don’t feel haunted anymore.”
“You’re not,” Luca replied. “You’re the ghost now. And every time he tries to sleep, he’ll remember what he lost.”
She laughed and kissed him.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
This wasn’t about haunting.
This was about healing so loud, it echoed.
- Writer
