Chapter 3: The First Day Alone
The click of the front door lock was a sound of finality. Silence rushed in to fill the space his presence had occupied, a thick, humming quiet that felt heavier than any noise. You stood in the gleaming kitchen, your fingers trailing over the cool marble of the island where you’d made breakfast. A single crumb of brioche sat near the sink. You picked it up, rolled it to dust between your thumb and forefinger.
His apartment was a museum of a good life. You wandered.
The living room was bathed in soft light, the record player silent now. You touched the spine of a book on the shelf—a dense medical text. You opened it. His handwriting filled the margins, small, precise notes. See also, contraindication, interesting. The intimacy of it was a violation. You closed it fast.
In the bedroom, the bed was still a chaos of white sheets, the shape of your bodies barely gone from the fabric. His scent was strongest here. On the dresser, a framed photo: Brian and an older woman, mountains behind them, both of them squinting in the sun. His mother, maybe. He looked younger, less contained. Happy.
Your phone, set to silent, glowed from the nightstand. Another text from Jay: You owe us an explanation.
You put the phone in a drawer and closed it.
Then you were standing before the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. You saw her. Marcella. Disheveled hair, the borrowed clothes, the wide, dark eyes full of someone else’s panic.
Your hands went to the hem of the top. You pulled it off. The jeans followed. You stood naked in the silent, sun-warmed room, facing yourself.
The reflection was a masterpiece of foreign engineering. The curves were drastic, impossible slopes and swells that felt like they belonged to a statue. Your eyes traced the line from the narrow waist out to the hip, the pale skin there so soft, so unmarked. You raised your arms. The body in the mirror moved with a fluid grace you still hadn’t internalized.
Your hands came up, hovering, then settled on your breasts. The weight of them was a constant, low shock. Your thumbs brushed over the nipples, and a sharp, bright sensation, wholly separate from your mental recoiling, shot through you. You looked away from your own face, focusing only on the body. Your hands slid down, over the flat plane of your stomach, through the coarse dark hair below, to the smooth, closed lips beneath.
A deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.
You thought of the three of them back in that stale apartment. Jax’s laugh, the way he’d look you up and down like assessing livestock. Mitch’s “friendly” hand always landing on your lower back, sliding lower. Jay’s quiet, transactional offers. You’re broke. We have rent. This body is a tool. Use it. You had. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to know how they saw it, how they wanted to use it.
Your stomach turned. A sour taste filled your mouth.
The woman in the mirror was their creation as much as the pill’s. A currency. A thing to be traded. And here you were, in this clean, beautiful room, trading it again for sanctuary. For French toast and gentle hands. Brian’s kindness felt like a spotlight, exposing the grime you’d brought in from your old life.
The wave of nausea crested. You stumbled to the bathroom, made it to the toilet just as the morning’s sweetness came up, acidic and burning. You retched until there was nothing left, until your muscles ached and tears streamed down your face from the strain.
You slid down to the cool tile floor, pressing your cheek against it. The crying then wasn’t pretty or quiet. It was a raw, guttural thing, stolen from Marco. Sobs tore out of your throat, messy and desperate. You cried for the body you lost, for the mind trapped in this soft prison. You cried because you wanted Brian’s hands on you again and the thought made you want to peel your skin off. You cried because you had a list of errands for a life that wasn’t yours, and a clinical check-in in four days to prove you were committed to the lie.
Eventually, the storm passed. You were hollowed out, empty. You turned on the shower, sat under the scalding water until your skin was pink and the steam filled the room, hiding the mirror.
You wrapped yourself in a towel and went back to the bedroom. You didn’t go to your bag. You went to his dresser, opened the second drawer. His t-shirts were stacked, neat and soft. You pulled out a grey one, worn thin at the collar. It smelled like him, that citrus and clean linen scent. You put it on. It drowned you, falling to mid-thigh.
In the kitchen, you found a notepad and a pen. You sat at the sunlit table, the same spot from breakfast, and you began to write. Learn his favorite meal. Cook it. You texted him, trying to make your words light, breezy. So what’s your ultimate comfort food? Thinking of practicing my culinary skills. Deal with the old phone. You took it from the drawer. You typed a message to the group chat with your roommates: Family emergency out of state. Will be gone a while. Rent will be under your door tomorrow. You’d have to go back, just once, to get cash. The thought made your skin crawl. Practice. You stood, walked to the living room, watched the way your hips moved in the reflection of the dark TV screen. You sat, crossed your legs, uncrossed them. You spoke aloud, pitching your voice softer, smoothing out the cadence. “Hi, Brian. How was your day?” You sounded like a bad actress.
Your phone buzzed. His reply.
You’re sweet. Honestly? My mom’s chicken piccata. Lemon, capers, the whole deal. But you don’t have to do that.
You wrote back: Consider it a challenge. See you at six.
You added to the list: Chicken. Capers. Lemons. White wine.
The afternoon stretched, quiet and long. You were a ghost in his home, learning its contours, trying to mould yourself to fit them. You practiced your smile in the microwave’s reflection. You planned a trip to the grocery store, calculating the time before he’d come home.
The record player caught your eye. You found a stack of vinyl, mostly jazz, some classical. You put one on. A piano started, slow and solitary. You sank into his armchair, pulling your knees up to your chest inside his t-shirt.
For a moment, you let the music wash over you. You let yourself imagine that this was your life. That the peace was yours. That the man coming home to you was coming home to your truth.
The song ended. The needle hit the run-out groove, a repetitive, soft click-hiss, click-hiss.
You got up. You had a list. You had a performance to perfect. You had to move, to outrun the silence and the creeping dread that when he looked at you tonight, he’d see the effort behind every smile, the calculation in every touch, and that the beautiful dream would shatter, leaving you with nothing but the echo of that lonely, scratching sound.