Zaire has waited three long years to reunite with her best friend, Aiyana. Their joy is unmistakable, but her excitement quickly shifts when she meets Aiyana's boyfriend-Omari, the man Zaire once loved deeply.
Unbeknownst to Aiyana, Zaire and Omari...
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The door shuts behind me with a hollow thud, and I drop my suitcase just inside the entryway. My apartment feels foreign, like stepping into someone else's life. The quiet wraps around me, heavy and suffocating, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of the last few months.
I kick off my shoes, one landing sideways in the corner, the other rolling toward the couch. I don't care. My chest feels like a lead weight, dragging me down as I sink into the familiar cushions.
This wasn't how the summer was supposed to go. I was supposed to stay with Aiyana-us, reconnecting after three years apart. Late-night talks, shared memories, mornings filled with laughter and coffee.
Instead, everything came crashing down.
I stare blankly at the wall, replaying her face when she found out. The sharp edge of betrayal in her voice. Her cutting words. "Did you ever really care about any of us?"
I'd wanted to explain. To make her understand. But how could I? There was no defense, no justification strong enough to fix the damage.
She didn't yell. She didn't cry. She just looked at me with this cold, broken anger, the kind that freezes you in place. And then, just like that, she was done with me.
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to push the memory away, but it clings like smoke.
Omari didn't make things any easier. His silence only added to the suffocating tension. Not that I expected him to fight for us-not after the mess we'd made.
Aiyana was right to hate us.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down harder.
I left early. Packed up my things and caught a flight without looking back. Staying would've been impossible; the air between us had grown too toxic.
And now I'm here, in my apartment, back in the city, and nothing feels right.
I glance at my phone lying on the coffee table, its screen dark and unbothered by my misery. No texts, no notifications. The silence is deafening.
Eventually, I pick it up and open Instagram, not even sure why. It's muscle memory at this point, a distraction I barely register.
The first post that pops up is from Aiyana.
Her smile is radiant, her arm slung casually around another friend, someone I don't recognize. The caption reads: "Healing. Moving forward. 🌻"
It stings. I've only been gone 3 days. A bitter knot twists in my stomach. Of course she's moving forward-she's Aiyana. Strong, unshakable, always landing on her feet. I used to admire that about her, but now it feels like a knife in my gut.
I hate that I looked. I hate how it makes me feel, this blend of guilt and jealousy and regret. I lock my phone and toss it onto the couch.
The apartment feels smaller by the second. I get up, pacing aimlessly between the living room and the kitchen, but there's nowhere to go.
