From Ashes to Forever

E I G H T | Breaking point



Rian

Where is she? I fumed, my anger coursing through me like a raging storm. It was way past midnight—probably closer to 2 a.m.—and Aria still hadn’t come home. I paced the living room, each step fueled by frustration, but beneath the anger, unease gnawed at me. My mind spun with excuses: Maybe she was at a friend’s place. Maybe she was caught up in traffic. Maybe... No. I pushed the darker possibilities aside, unwilling to let them take root.

I told myself I wasn’t worried, that I didn’t care where she was, that it was just her disregard for our sham of a marriage that bothered me. But deep down, I couldn’t ignore the sick churn of concern twisting in my stomach. Whether I liked it or not, she was my wife. And though I’d never admit it—to her or myself—I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.

I’d come home hours earlier, determined to stay sober for once. No more dragging myself to work with a pounding headache and the lingering shame of bad decisions. I’d promised myself this time would be different. But tonight’s blowout at work—the sting of it, the memories—was too much. That fragile resolve crumbled, and I drowned it in whiskey, hoping to blur the edges of my pain.

But instead of solace, I was met with another ache: the heavy, silent presence of Aria in my life. Not her specifically—she was beautiful, too smart for her own good, and once upon a time, she had been my best friend. But this marriage, forced on us by familial expectations, had poisoned whatever warmth we’d once shared. And I’d let my resentment fester into cruelty.

This marriage wasn’t supposed to be like this. Hell, it wasn’t supposed to happen at all. I’d agreed to it for my parents—for their happiness, for all the sacrifices they’d made for me. And for what? To be bound to someone I didn’t even like? Someone who, I was sure, couldn’t stand me either?

I threw back another shot, the burn barely cutting through the frustration coiling in my chest. I hadn’t planned on seeing her tonight. I’d meant to retreat to the second bedroom—the one I almost never used anymore. That room was both a refuge and a reminder, steeped in the bittersweet comfort of a simpler time before everything went wrong.

When I unlocked the door earlier, stumbling to the couch, intending to pass out and let oblivion take over, when something felt off. The apartment was pitch black. Aria always left the lights on, even when she wasn’t home—a quirk of hers, born from her hatred of stepping into darkness.

Curiosity tugged at me, cutting through my haze of self-pity. I checked her room, the bathroom, the kitchen—even the balcony—but she wasn’t here. A pang of something I refused to call worry hit me. I grabbed my phone and called her. No answer. I called again. And again. Each ignored call chipped away at my anger, replacing it with an unbearable tightness in my chest.

She was still my wife, in name if nothing else. And no matter how much we fought, she didn’t deserve to be out here, in this neighbourhood, at this hour.

I didn’t know how long I sat there, staring at the blank TV screen, the faint hum of the city outside only made the silence in the apartment feel heavier. When the sound of giggling broke the silence. The doorknob jiggled, followed by another fit of laughter. My body tensed. Seconds later, the door creaked open, and there she was.

Aria stumbled in, her hair slightly disheveled but her makeup still flawless. She reeked of alcohol, her movements clumsy but oddly confident. As her eyes met mine, her giggling stopped.