The sizzle of onions in the pan should be comforting.
It should anchor me, bring me back into my own body after a day spent trying not to think about the way the apartment felt wrong when I walked in. Cooking usually helps—warm light, familiar motions, the soft rhythm of chopping—but tonight the knife feels heavier in my hand, like it knows what I’m trying not to acknowledge.
I’m stirring the sauce when I hear it.
A laugh.
Bright. Effortless. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission to exist.
Courtney.
My fingers tighten around the wooden spoon. For a moment I stand frozen in the glow of the under-cabinet lights, listening to her laugh ripple down the hallway. It comes from the entry, or maybe Julian’s side of the apartment—I can’t tell. The sound seems to slip through the walls, confident and glossy, like perfume you can’t wash off.
I swallow hard.
She shouldn’t be here.
Or maybe she should. Maybe everyone except me seems to have permission to walk in and out of Julian’s life as they please.
The sauce bubbles too aggressively, snapping flecks of heat onto my wrist, but I don’t move. The laugh comes again, softer this time but unmistakable, threaded with the kind of flirtation that doesn’t need an audience to thrive.
My stomach twists.
Courtney is everything I’m not on my worst days—sunny, bold, unapologetic. She shines without trying. And she has history with Julian. Not romantic, they both insist, but still… history. Enough shared moments to fill a hallway with that laugh.
I set the spoon down, forcing myself to breathe. The overhead light flickers, catching the shadows in the corridor, and for a second the kitchen feels like it’s being sliced in two—warm gold on my side, cool blue stretching toward where her voice echoes.
I hate that the sound of her makes my pulse jump.
I hate that I lean closer, trying to figure out if Julian is with her.
But most of all, I hate that the apartment—the one place that should feel like ours—suddenly feels like hers.
Footsteps approach, light and confident.
I swipe my palms on my jeans, pretending to focus on the garlic I still need to mince, pretending I don’t care, pretending my heart isn’t beating way too fast.
The laughter fades, replaced by whispered conversation I can’t quite make out. But the tone—God, the tone—is enough. Familiar, intimate, the kind people use when they’re so comfortable around each other they forget anyone else exists.
A chill crawls up my spine.
I grip the counter for balance.
This is my kitchen.
My home.
My life with Julian.
And yet, as Courtney’s silhouette finally crosses the threshold between shadow and light, it feels like I’m the one intruding.
The spoon clatters against the stovetop, loud in the tightening air.
I lift my head, steadying myself, forcing my face into something neutral.
Courtney steps fully into view, her smile bright, her eyes flicking over me like she’s assessing the room.
“Hey, Ella.”
Sweet. Innocent. Completely at ease.
And just like that, the simmering pot behind me feels safer than whatever waits in her voice.
Something is shifting.
Something is slipping.
And I’m terrified I already know why.