Cracks Beneath the Silence
1374 Words
Prisca did not sleep.
She lay on her side, facing the wall, her eyes wide open, her body stiff, as if even breathing too deeply might break something fragile inside her. Gabriel’s side of the bed was empty again. Not just empty—cold and untouched. He had come in late, showered without speaking, and slipped under the covers like a guest who planned to leave before dawn.
No touch.
No argument.
No apology.
That scared her more than shouting ever could.
For years, Prisca had learned Gabriel in fragments. She knew his temper, knew the sharp edge of his anger and how quickly it could flare. She knew how to soften it—tears first, then silence, then guilt. If she cried long enough, he would retreat. If she stayed quiet, he would fill the space. If she reminded him of what she had sacrificed, he would bend.
Those methods had always worked.
But this—this quiet distance—felt different. It felt like standing in a house where the walls were still standing, but the foundation had cracked beneath the floor.
She listened to the sound of his breathing from the other side of the bed. Slow. Even. Controlled. Not the breathing of a man who was angry, but of one who was thinking. Holding something back.
Her chest tightened.
He’s slipping away, she thought.
The idea clawed at her, refused to let go. She stared at the wall until her eyes burned, until the darkness began to blur and shift, shapes forming where there were none. Every memory replayed itself without permission—Gabriel’s voice when he spoke Victoria’s name, the way his face hardened whenever she tried to belittle the woman, the punch he had thrown into the wall earlier that day.
Don’t you ever call her useless.
Prisca swallowed.
She had underestimated that sentence.
By morning, paranoia had settled deep in her bones.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t come as panic or tears. It came quietly, like a sickness spreading through her blood. Every small thing felt suspicious. Every silence felt loaded.
While Gabriel brushed his teeth, Prisca sat on the edge of the bed, her back straight, her eyes fixed on his phone resting on the nightstand. Face down. Silent.
Too silent.
She could hear the tap of running water in the bathroom, the faint sound of the toothbrush against his teeth. He didn’t hum. He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t call out to her.
When he finally stepped out of the room, grabbing his jacket without a word, she moved.
Her hand closed around the phone before she could stop herself.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted it.
She knew his passcode.
She had always known.
At one time, that knowledge made her feel chosen. Trusted. Secure.
Now, it made her feel sick.
The phone unlocked.
Her heart pounded as she scanned the screen.
Nothing unusual at first.
Messages. Work emails. Group chats. Business reminders.
She exhaled slowly, almost relieved.
Then she opened the archive.
Her breath caught.
Victoria’s name was still there.
Not active—but not deleted.
Prisca stared at it as if it might blink or disappear if she looked away. Her throat tightened, a sharp ache forming behind her eyes.
“Why would he keep this?” she whispered to the empty room.
Her fingers moved on their own, guided by fear rather than thought.
She opened her own messages.
Scrolled.
And there it was.
The message she had sent when she believed the battle was over.
Now nothing stands between us.
Her breath hitched.
At the time, she had smiled as she typed it. Her fingers had felt light, almost playful. She remembered the rush—the feeling of power, of victory, of certainty. She had believed she was finally standing on solid ground.
Now, the words looked wrong and dangerous.
Her stomach twisted.
“What if he kept this?” she murmured.
Her thoughts raced ahead of her, faster than she could control them.
What if Gabriel showed this to someone?
What if Victoria had seen it before she disappeared?
What if Aunt Mary had screenshots, backups, proof?
The thought made her chest tighten. Her mouth went dry.
Prisca began deleting things.
Messages first.
Then call logs.
Then photos she had once kept as trophies.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Her fingers flew across the screen, almost frantic.
But the more she deleted, the more her fear grew.
What if it was already backed up?
What if the cloud had copies?
What if it was too late?
Her hands paused.
She opened social media.
Her chat with Victoria.
Empty.
Or so she thought.
She scrolled up.
And froze.
One message remained.
Unread.
From Aunt Mary.
Her heart slammed hard against her ribs, so fast it almost hurt.
“What?” Prisca whispered.
She stared at the name, her pulse roaring in her ears. She didn’t remember seeing this message before. Had it always been there? Or had she been too busy celebrating to notice?
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She didn’t open it.
She couldn’t.
Fear crawled up her spine, cold and sharp.
Prisca locked the phone and pressed it to her chest, breathing shallowly. Control—that had always been her strength. She had built her life on it.
She controlled her emotions.
Controlled her timing.
Controlled Gabriel—at least she thought she did.
But now?
Everything felt loose. Unstable.
Gabriel barely spoke to her anymore. When he did, his words were short, clipped, careful. He avoided her eyes. He spent hours alone, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes leaving the house without explanation.
And worst of all—he wasn’t angry at Victoria anymore.
He was quiet.
And quiet men were dangerous.
The name echoed in her mind all day.
Aunt Mary.
Prisca remembered the woman clearly. Calm. Watchful. Sharp-eyed. The kind of person who listened more than she spoke. Not the type to shout. Not the type to threaten.
The type to wait.
“What do you know?” Prisca muttered under her breath while folding clothes that didn’t need folding, her movements stiff and distracted.
She imagined Mary helping Victoria escape. Helping her hide. Helping her survive.
Her hands clenched into fists.
“No,” she said aloud. “She can’t know everything.”
But even as she said it, doubt crept in.
That evening, while Gabriel showered, Prisca checked the phone again.
Her hands were steadier now.
Focused.
She went straight to the call log.
And there it was.
A missed call.
From an unknown number.
Her breath stopped.
The call was from two days ago.
Right after Gabriel came home late.
Right after his distance began.
Right after everything changed.
Prisca tapped the number.
No name.
But something about it felt familiar, like a shadow she had seen before but couldn’t place.
She copied it.
Pasted it into her contacts.
And her blood ran cold.
Mary A.
“No,” Prisca whispered.
Her knees weakened, and she sank onto the bed, the phone slipping from her hand. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Aunt Mary had called Gabriel.
Not once.
Twice.
And he hadn’t told her.
Prisca picked up the phone with shaking hands and locked it, placing it back exactly where she had found it. She smoothed the bedspread, erased every sign of what she had done.
But inside her, something was unraveling fast.
She knows, Prisca thought.
She knows everything.
Victoria hadn’t just survived.
She had allies.
And Prisca was no longer ahead of the game.
She was behind.
Dangerously behind.
That night, Prisca stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. The woman looking back at her felt unfamiliar. Her eyes were wide, restless. Her smile looked forced, stretched thin over fear.
She pressed her palms against the glass, as if trying to hold herself together.
“Think,” she whispered. “Think.”
Because if Victoria was alive…
If Aunt Mary was involved…
Then the story Prisca had written for herself—the ending she believed was already sealed—was beginning to fall apart.
And this time—
She might not be able to clean up the mess.
- Writer
