The Wrong Person
1034 Words
The engagement dinner lingered on far longer than I expected.
By nine o'clock, the house was still buzzing with conversation. Relatives wandered from room to room, holding half-empty plates, while soft music played in the sitting room. My aunties had already moved on from discussing the engagement to debating wedding colours, venues, guest lists, and decorations, as though the wedding was only days away.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was watching somebody else's life unfold.
I stood near the dining table, arranging empty glasses onto a tray, when my cousin slipped up beside me with a grin that immediately made me suspicious.
"You and your husband have been avoiding each other all evening."
I almost dropped the glass.
"He's not my husband."
"Not officially," she corrected. "But everyone keeps watching the two of you."
I frowned.
"Why?"
She laughed. "Because neither of you behaves like two people who are excited to get married. You act like you're terrified of saying the wrong thing to each other."
My hands paused over the tray.
Not because she was right, but because she wasn't entirely wrong.
Before I could answer, someone called from across the room.
"Avalan! Your mother is asking for you upstairs."
Relief washed over me.
"Perfect," I muttered. "That's my escape."
My cousin laughed as I turned toward the staircase.
Halfway there, my steps slowed.
Shadric was standing near the bottom of the stairs.
Watching me, again.
"Are you following me now?" I asked.
A corner of his cheek lifted slightly, exposing a part of his teeth, while he blinked his eye.
"When you keep walking away from me, you don't leave me much choice."
I rolled my eyes and continued upstairs without giving him another glance.
My mother was inside her bedroom sorting through neatly folded fabrics.
"There you are," she said. "Help me before your aunties unfold everything again."
I sat beside her without a word and began folding the remaining materials.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The silence felt strangely comforting after the noise downstairs.
Then she said quietly, "You've been avoiding him."
"I haven't."
She looked at me.
"Avalan."
That was enough to tell me she wasn't convinced.
I sighed.
"There's nothing to talk about."
"I don't believe that."
I kept folding the fabric.
"You seem angry."
"Shouldn't I be?"
"I didn't say your anger wasn't justified."
I finally looked at her.
"Then what are you saying?"
She was quiet for a moment before answering.
"I'm saying pain has a way of convincing us we've seen the whole picture."
The words pierced my heart more than it should have.
Immediately, the balcony conversation replayed itself inside my head.
'You trusted the wrong person.'
I hated how easily those words returned.
"You think he's innocent?" I asked.
"I think both of you are carrying things you've never said aloud."
I laughed without humour.
"That sounds exactly like him."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"He spoke to you today?"
I looked away immediately, too late.
She noticed.
"What did he say?"
"Nothing important."
That's a lie. Because the more I tried to dismiss his words, the more they echoed inside my mind.
My mother reached over and rested her hand gently on mine.
"Whatever happened between you two... don't make your future decisions only from your pain."
I gently pulled my hand away and stood.
"I'm tired."
She didn't stop me.
But I could still feel her watching me as I walked out.
Most of the guests had already begun settling into the guest rooms by the time I came downstairs again.
The kitchen was finally empty.
I poured myself a bottle of cold water and leaned against the counter, enjoying the silence.
It lasted less than thirty seconds.
"You've been avoiding me."
I closed my eyes briefly before turning around.
He stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets.
"You make it sound like we're friends."
"No."
He stepped inside.
"I make it sound like you're afraid to have a conversation with me."
I laughed.
"You're giving yourself far too much importance."
His eyes focused on mine.
"You always look away first."
My anger returned immediately.
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Look at people as if you've already figured them out."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Maybe you're easier to read than you think."
"You really haven't changed."
"And you still run whenever the conversation gets uncomfortable."
I intercepted.
"I'm not running."
"Then stop acting like hearing the truth scares you."
"The truth?" I repeated. "You keep throwing that word around like it means or changes anything."
"It means everything."
"No. It changes your version of the story."
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then, he spoke quietly.
"You still believe I enjoyed seeing you hurting and couldn't do anything"?
"I believe you allowed it."
Since we had started talking, this was the first time he had not had an immediate response.
He simply looked at me.
Regret hovered across his face before disappearing again.
"You know what the worst part is?" I asked.
"What?"
"For years, hating you was easy." I swallowed lightly. "Now you keep talking like there's something I missed, and I hate that even more."
His eyes lit up in bewilderment. I could see he looked more tired.
"You did miss something," he admitted quietly.
My fingers gripped the water bottle.
"Then say it clearly for once."
His eyes stayed on mine for a long moment before he answered.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because it's not my truth to expose alone."
Confusion hit me all over again. Before I could ask what that meant, footsteps echoed toward the kitchen.
Both of us turned at the same time. My cousin stopped in the doorway. Her eyes moved from me to him and then back to me again.
A slow smile spread across her face.
"Oh," she said, "I didn't realise I was interrupting."
"Yes, you are," I answered immediately.
"No, you're not," Shadric said at the same time.
Her smile widened.
Interesting.
Without another word, she turned and walked away. I watched her disappear down the hallway. Something told me that whatever she'd just seen was about to make my life even more complicated.
- Writer
