Aftershocks
937 Words
The alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., a thin, insistent beeping that usually coaxed Nicole into the day.
Today it felt like a hammer against her skull.
She fumbled for the phone, silenced it, and lay there staring at the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of yesterday’s rain that had seeped through the window frame. Her favorite mug—still half-full of cold coffee—sat on the desk like an accusation.
Every muscle ached, though she hadn’t run a mile or carried anything heavier than her heart.
It happened. It’s real.
The thought returned like a tide, dragging with it the memory of Cleo’s startled face and Chloe’s guilty hands. She pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes until stars bloomed behind her lids.
Messages Unread
Her phone vibrated again. A preview banner flashed across the screen.
Cleo:Nicole please. We need to talk.
Another vibration followed.
Chloe:I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.
Nicole stared until the screen went black. Then she turned the phone face-down on the nightstand.
No. Not today. Maybe not ever.
The Walk
Classes waited. Life, indifferent, continued.
Nicole dragged herself into jeans and a hoodie, pulled her hair into a loose knot, and stepped into the damp morning. The campus smelled of wet earth and coffee from the corner kiosks. Students hurried past with umbrellas and headphones, wrapped in their own orbits.
She felt as though a sign hovered above her head: *Betrayed.*
Every glance from a stranger seemed to know. She quickened her pace.
Sanctuary in the Library
The library had always been her refuge—its hushed air, the faint scent of paper and dust. Today it felt heavier, like a cathedral holding its breath.
She slid into a corner table and opened her laptop, pretending to read lecture notes. Words swam on the screen, meaningless.
Across the room, two classmates from the journalism club whispered. One of them caught Nicole’s eye, offered a sympathetic half-smile. Nicole looked away quickly.
*They don’t know. They can’t know.*
But part of her wondered if the story had already sprouted wings.
Maya
“Nicole?”
She turned to find Maya, her roommate and oldest friend, standing with two steaming cups of tea. Maya set one down gently. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up. I figured you’d be here.”
Nicole tried for a smile. “You’re psychic.”
“I’m observant.” Maya sat across from her. “You’ve got that don’t talk to me or I’ll break* look. Spill.”
Nicole’s throat tightened. “It’s Cleo. And… Chloe.”
Maya’s eyes darkened. “What about them?”
“They’re together. Or at least… I saw them. Holding hands. At the Hideout.”
Maya set her tea down with a sharp clink. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
For a moment Maya said nothing. Then, softly: “I’m so sorry, Nic.”
The kindness undid her. Tears welled before she could stop them, slipping hot and quick down her cheeks. Maya reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “You don’t have to see them. You don’t owe them anything.”
Nicole nodded, words tangled in her throat.
Afternoon Drift
Classes blurred. Professors lectured, pens scratched, but Nicole absorbed nothing. Her mind replayed every detail of the café: the way Cleo’s thumb traced Chloe’s knuckle, the guilt that had flashed across his face.
Had there been signs? Late replies to texts. Cancelled Friday nights. She’d chalked it up to midterms. She’d trusted him.
By late afternoon she found herself back in her dorm room, curtains drawn against the weak light. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and finally checked her phone.
Fifteen messages from Cleo. Three from Chloe.
One from her mother—simple and warm: *How’s my girl?*
Nicole replied only to her mother: *I’m okay. Busy with school.* A lie, but easier than the truth.
Evening Confrontation
A knock broke the quiet.
“Nicole? It’s Cleo.”
Her heart stuttered. She stayed silent.
“Please. Just a minute.”
Still silence.
“I’m not leaving until you hear me,” he said, voice thick.
Minutes passed. Finally she stood, every step heavy, and opened the door a fraction.
Cleo looked wrecked—hair disheveled, eyes rimmed red. “Nicole, I—”
“Stop.” Her voice surprised her with its steadiness. “I don’t want excuses.”
“It wasn’t—It just happened. I never meant—”
“You *chose*, Cleo. Don’t dress it up.”
He flinched. “You mean everything to me.”
“People don’t do this to someone who means everything.”
He reached for her hand. She stepped back.
“This conversation is over,” she said quietly. “Please leave.”
He hesitated, then lowered his eyes and walked away. The echo of his footsteps down the hallway was both relief and ache.
Night Resolve
Nicole shut the door and pressed her back to it, trembling. But beneath the tremor a strange calm began to form—a thin, hard layer of something like resolve.
She couldn’t change what they’d done.
But she could choose what came next.
She pulled out a fresh notebook, the one she’d been saving for a new journalism project, and wrote a single line across the first page:
This is not the end of me.
The words looked stark against the paper, but they steadied her. Outside, the rain began again—soft, persistent, cleansing.
Nicole closed the notebook and let the sound fill the room.
- Writer
