Three Means 1

Party

The decorations were uninspiring—beige and white dominated the room in a dull monotony that seemed to mock the supposed happiness of the occasion. It was as if joy itself had been carefully muted, pressed flat by some oppressive hand. The guests, too, appeared burdened. Conversations, where they existed, were subdued, punctuated by awkward silences. Yet, amidst this somber gathering, Arthur stood out. His features had an inscrutable tension that seemed to draw the very air from the room. Or so it seemed to Dulce, whose vivid imagination and tendency to dwell on emotions made Arthur's mood feel like the most striking and undeniable aspect of the entire evening.

She couldn't help but wonder—was it the decoration, the guests, or the man himself that seemed to overshadow the entire celebration? What was being celebrated? Certainly not love. At least, not the sort of love that stirred hearts and painted the world in vibrant hues. This was love in its most unconvincing disguise—a cold, colorless thing, dressed up for the occasion but fooling no one, least of all her.

The dress Dulce selected was perfect for the occasion—or, at least, as perfect as the occasion warranted. Her wardrobe boasted a spectrum of choices: rich reds, playful blues, and vibrant yellows, any of which might have lent a semblance of cheer to her appearance. Yet she had reached, unhesitatingly, for black. Black, the color of finality, of mourning, of endings. As the fabric clung to her skin, she could not help but think of funerals. And as she stood among the muted conversations and polite chatter at the party, the familiar, haunting numbness from her mother's funeral crept back into her chest. On the surface, everything appeared normal: people mingling, laughing, being themselves. Yet beneath it all, Dulce felt a quiet sense of loss gnawing at her.

Was she mourning the inevitable end of whatever fragile connection she had once imagined with Arthur?

Speaking of which, she thought bitterly as his voice slid into her ear, low and familiar.

"How are you enjoying the party?" Arthur asked, his tone polite, as if they hadn't been kissing mere weeks ago.

Dulce swallowed. She felt the weight of his gaze pressing against her. "It's... very..." Her words faltered as her eyes drifted across the room, to the beige walls and listless decorations, to the yawns barely stifled behind polite hands and the empty smiles exchanged. She turned back to him, her lips curving into something that might have passed for a smile. "...entertaining," she finished, choosing the word with care.

Arthur's mouth twitched, just slightly, as if suppressing a smirk or a sigh. It was impossible to tell which. "I'm glad you think so," he replied evenly, though his eyes—oh, those beautiful eyes—flickered something she couldn't quite place.

"And you?" she asked, faking interest as she reached for a cupcake from a passing tray. "How does it feel to celebrate your happily ever after in a room that looks as lively as a waiting room at a dentist's office?"

The jab was subtle, wrapped neatly in her sweet voice, but Arthur caught it. His lips curved into a practiced smile. "It's not the decorations that make the party," he replied smoothly, his voice dripping with charm. "It's the company."

Dulce raised the cupcake to her lips, hiding the way her jaw tightened at his words. The company. Of course. She took a small bite, willing herself to ignore the way his eyes lingered on her.

Arthur shifted closer, just enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower and softer. "Do you even realize what you do, Dulce?" he asked, his tone calm, almost conversational, but there was an edge beneath it. "Standing there, pretending you're untouchable. Acting like I haven't thought about you every damn day since—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply, his jaw tightening.