Isabelle had never liked silence—not this kind, anyway.
Not the loaded, echoing stillness that followed chaos. The type of silence that came after something big, like the hush after a slammed door, or the ache that filled a room once tears stopped falling.
The kind of silence that meant people were watching.
She sat curled on the corner of her apartment couch, legs tucked under her, a blanket drawn loosely over her lap. The room around her was dim and too quiet. Her phone buzzed again on the coffee table, screen lighting up for the seventh time in as many minutes. Group chat messages. i********: tags. Mentions in tweets and stories she hadn’t agreed to be in.
The world had opinions.
About her.
About Sebastian.
About what it meant that he said what he said.
The interview had aired j
