Drowning
1580 Words
Three days.
That's how long Ariana stayed in her apartment after that night, the door locked, the curtains drawn, her phone turned off and shoved into a drawer she couldn't bring herself to open.
The first day, she'd cried. Curled up on her couch—not the bed, never the bed again—she'd let the tears come in waves that left her gasping and hollow. She'd replayed every moment of the past six months, searching for signs she'd missed. Late-night "work emergencies" that Ryan had. Girls' nights that Clara had cancelled at the last minute. The way they'd both been so insistent that she take that weekend trip to visit her parents in August.
God, had they laughed about it? About how easy she'd been to fool?
The second day, the crying stopped. In its place came a numbness that felt almost worse. She'd moved through her apartment like a stranger, seeing it all with new eyes. The framed photo of her and Clara at graduation—she'd turned it face-down. The hoodie Ryan had left draped over her desk chair—she'd stuffed it in a trash bag. The birthday cake, still sitting where it had fallen in the entryway, the box crushed and frosting smeared across the hardwood—she'd finally thrown it away, though the stain remained.
On the third day, her sister Melissa had shown up, pounding on the door with enough force to wake the neighbors.
"Ariana! Open this door right now or I'm calling the landlord!"
Ariana had considered not answering, but Melissa wasn't the type to give up. She'd likely make good on the threat, and the last thing Ariana needed was her landlord getting involved.
She'd opened the door to find Melissa standing there in her usual polished perfection—designer jeans, silk blouse, hair blown out to glossy perfection. At twenty-eight, Melissa had always been the successful one, the pretty one, the one their parents bragged about at family dinners.
"Jesus Christ, Ari." Melissa had pushed past her into the apartment, her nose wrinkling as she took in the scene. "Have you showered? When's the last time you ate something?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Ryan called me. Told me what happened."
Of course he had. Ryan and Melissa had always gotten along too well, both of them sharing that same ambitious, competitive edge that Ariana had never quite possessed.
"I don't want to talk about it," Ariana had said, her voice flat.
Melissa had sighed, setting her expensive purse on the counter with more force than necessary. "Look, what he did was shitty. Really shitty. And Clara? God, I never liked her anyway. Always thought she was fake."
Ariana had wanted to point out that Melissa had never mentioned that before, but she'd been too tired to argue.
"But," Melissa had continued, moving into the kitchen and opening the fridge, which was predictably empty except for some questionable takeout containers and a half-empty bottle of wine, "you can't just fall apart like this. You have a job. Responsibilities. You need to pull yourself together."
Pull yourself together. As if it were that simple. As if she could just glue the broken pieces back into place and pretend they'd never shattered.
"I'm taking a few sick days," Ariana had muttered.
"Fine. But after that, you need to get back out there. Show them you're not broken."
But I am broken, Ariana had thought. I'm so goddamn broken I don't know if I'll ever be whole again.
Melissa had stayed for another hour, cleaning up the apartment with the same brisk efficiency she applied to everything in her life. She'd thrown out the old takeout, washed the dishes Ariana had left piling in the sink, and even changed the sheets on the bed—though Ariana still couldn't bring herself to sleep there.
"Call me if you need anything," Melissa had said as she left, though her tone suggested she hoped Ariana wouldn't.
That night, alone again, Ariana had stood in front of her bathroom mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her skin pale, her hair a tangled mess. She looked like someone who'd survived something terrible.
And maybe she had.
She'd turned on the shower, standing under water so hot it turned her skin pink, trying to wash away the feeling of Ryan's hands, Clara's betrayal, her own stupidity for not seeing what had been right in front of her.
When she'd finally climbed out, wrapping herself in a towel, she'd made a decision.
She couldn't stay in this apartment. Not forever. Not surrounded by ghosts and memories and the phantom scent of Clara's perfume that still lingered in the air.
She needed to get out. Just for one night. Just to prove to herself that she could.
So on the fourth night—a Friday—Ariana had done something she'd never done before in her life.
She'd gone to a club. Alone.
The place was called Obsidian, a sleek downtown Manhattan hotspot that she'd only heard about through Clara, who'd always been more social, more adventurous. The line stretched down the block, but Ariana had walked straight past it, her black dress—the one she'd been supposed to wear to her birthday dinner—hugging her curves, her heels clicking with a confidence she didn't feel.
The bouncer had barely glanced at her before waving her through, and suddenly she was inside, swallowed by pulsing bass and flashing lights and bodies moving in the semi-darkness.
She'd headed straight for the bar.
"Vodka soda," she'd told the bartender, a woman with purple hair and a septum piercing.
"You got it, hon."
The first drink had gone down smooth. The second, even smoother. By the third, the edges of the world were starting to blur in a way that felt almost pleasant.
She'd been sitting there, nursing her fourth drink and watching the crowd, when she'd felt someone slide onto the barstool next to her.
"Rough night?"
The voice was deep, smooth, with an edge of amusement that should have annoyed her but somehow didn't.
She'd turned to find a man watching her with dark, intelligent eyes. He was older than her—early thirties, maybe—with sharp features and the kind of confident posture that suggested he was used to getting what he wanted.
He was also, objectively, the most attractive man she'd ever seen in person.
"Something like that," she'd replied, her words only slightly slurred.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
He'd smiled at that, a small, knowing curve of his lips. "Fair enough. I'm Ethan."
"Ariana."
"Pretty name."
She'd laughed, bitter and sharp. "Pretty terrible week."
"Hence the drinking alone in a club on a Friday night?"
"Hence the drinking alone in a club on a Friday night," she'd confirmed, raising her glass in a mock toast.
Ethan had ordered his own drink—whiskey, neat—and they'd fallen into an easy conversation. Or maybe it wasn't easy. Maybe it just felt that way because she was drunk and desperate for someone, anyone, who didn't know her story, who didn't look at her with pity.
He hadn't asked about her week. Hadn't pushed. Had just talked to her like she was normal, interesting, worth his time.
And when he'd leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear as he'd murmured, "Want to get out of here?" she'd said yes without thinking.
Because thinking hurt. And forgetting—even just for one night—sounded like heaven.
She didn't remember much of the cab ride to his place. Just flashes—his hand on her thigh, the city lights blurring past the window, the way her heart had pounded with something that might have been anticipation or might have been panic.
His apartment was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, modern furniture that probably cost more than her annual salary, art on the walls that she was too drunk to appreciate.
"Nice place," she'd managed, her voice thick.
"Thanks."
And then his mouth had been on hers, and she'd stopped thinking altogether.
The rest of the night was a blur of sensations—his hands, gentle but firm, the way he'd whispered her name like it meant something, the tears she'd cried at some point and the way he'd kissed them away without asking why.
It had been nothing like being with Ryan. This was desperate, raw, two broken people seeking comfort in the only way that made sense in the moment.
When it was over, she'd fallen asleep wrapped in sheets that smelled like expensive cologne and something uniquely him.
And when she'd woken up the next morning, the sunlight streaming through those massive windows, his arm draped across her waist, reality had crashed back in.
What had she done?
She'd carefully extracted herself from his embrace, her head pounding from the alcohol and her heart pounding from something else entirely. He'd stirred but hadn't woken as she'd gathered her clothes from where they were scattered across his bedroom floor.
She'd found a pen and paper on his kitchen counter and scribbled a note with shaking hands:
Thank you for helping me forget.
And then she'd left, closing the door softly behind her, hoping she'd never have to face the stranger who'd seen her at her lowest, who'd held her while she fell apart.
Hoping she could pretend it had never happened at all.
- Writer
