The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful — it felt heavy. Stifling. As if every corner held something waiting to be said, but no one was brave enough to speak first.
Isabelle stood in the kitchen, the dim light from the stove casting long shadows against the marble countertops. Her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, and the clock ticked in slow, deliberate beats above her.
11:47 p.m.
He was late.
She told herself she wasn’t waiting. That where Sebastian spent his evenings wasn’t her concern — not anymore. But her eyes still flicked to the clock every few minutes, and the ache in her chest grew heavier with every second that passed.
It had been like this all day — this strange, silent limbo where neither of them acknowledged wha
