Chapter 10

The house still smelled faintly like yesterday’s curry and whatever candle Manon had decided to light before leaving for the café with Lara.

Megan stood at the edge of the living room, sleeves rolled to her elbows, sponge in one hand and a trash bag in the other.

She could feel the storm behind her eyes before the sky even had a chance to turn.

Daniela was already there, fluffing the throw pillows on the couch like it was a contest.

Her eyes flicked to Megan and then quickly away, back to the pillow, back to her own hands.

Megan’s stomach twisted.

Neither of them said anything.

“Um,” Megan finally muttered, voice low. “I’ll start with the table.”

Daniela nodded without looking at her.

The silence stretched long and sharp between them as Megan began clearing the half-finished coffee cups, empty snack wrappers, and the remnants of someone’s attempt at nail art from the coffee table.

Her hands moved on autopilot, but her brain was anything but quiet.

She had been avoiding this moment all day. She’d volunteered to vacuum the hallway. She’d retreated to the balcony with Lara until the others dragged her inside.

She even offered to fold laundry—Sophia’s laundry. That’s how desperate she’d been.

But now it was just them.

Megan glanced at Daniela again. She was wiping down the TV stand now, shoulders stiff like she was trying too hard not to look bothered.

Her hair was pulled back messily, and Megan hated how beautiful she still looked when she was clearly stressed.

It hurt.

It hurt because Megan knew — knew — that she had made things weird, and even if it wasn’t on purpose, even if her heart had tried so hard to be quiet, it had spoken too loudly.

And now Daniela was uncomfortable. Awkward. Distant.

It was the exact thing Megan had feared would happen, and it had come true anyway.

She dumped the trash into the bag too forcefully, cringing as the sharp crack of a broken mug echoed too loudly.

Daniela flinched.

“Shit. Sorry,” Megan whispered.

“It’s fine,” Daniela said, still not meeting her eyes.

The distance between them wasn’t physical.

They were standing barely six feet apart. But it felt like a chasm.

Megan swallowed the ache in her throat and forced her hands to stay busy, her focus on a stubborn stain on the coffee table even though it had already been scrubbed clean.

She remembered the night before, how she’d broken down in her room when everything had finally caught up with her — the fear, the longing, the impossible truth.

And then Daniela had come in, soft and quiet, and Megan had felt something shift.

It wasn’t a confession, but it was close. It was comfort. Closeness.

Then what happened? Megan thought bitterly. Where did that girl go?

Because this version of Daniela — the careful, avoidant, guarded one — was killing her slowly.

“Hey, uh…” Daniela finally spoke, voice tight. “Did you want me to vacuum or…?”

“No, I can do it,” Megan answered too quickly.

Their eyes met for a second, and Megan thought maybe she saw something in Daniela’s expression — regret? Uncertainty? — but it disappeared too fast to catch.

They worked in silence again.

Occasionally, their hands reached for the same object — a crumpled sock under the couch, a charger left hanging from the wall — and both would retreat like they’d touched fire.

Megan forced a smile once.

Daniela didn’t return.

Megan’s lungs ached.

The walls of the house felt like they were closing in.

When the room was finally clean enough to pass Manon’s standards, Daniela straightened up and looked around. “Looks good.”

“Yeah,” Megan mumbled.

Daniela lingered by the couch, hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “Okay, I’m… I’m gonna go shower.”

Megan nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, Megan exhaled so shakily she nearly dropped the vacuum handle. She stood there in the middle of the spotless room, surrounded by absence, and felt the tears prick at the edges of her vision.

She went straight to her bedroom, ignoring the tight knot building in her chest. Lara wasn’t there — thank god — so she didn’t have to pretend.

She closed the door softly behind her and let her knees give out as she sat on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, she just breathed. In. Out. Shallow. Fragile.

Then she reached under her pillow and pulled out the journal.

It was getting fuller each week, pages dog-eared and ink bleeding through in some places.

She opened to the newest blank page and stared at it.

The pen hovered above it for too long.

There was so much to say, too much, but the words were tangled in her throat.

Dear me,
She paused.
I think I messed up.
Her handwriting was shakier than usual.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even do anything, not really. But everything is different now. And I think she knows.

Her hand trembled as she wrote the next line.

She’s acting like she’s scared of me. Like I’m something she wants to avoid.

The words blurred for a second. Megan blinked back the tears but one slid down her cheek anyway, hitting the page in a smudge of water.

I wish I could go back. Not even to fix anything. Just to feel normal again.

She wiped at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, taking a shaky breath.

Her chest felt too tight. Her heartbeat too loud.

I miss when things were easy. I miss her laugh when we watched dumb reality TV. I miss hearing her hum in the kitchen. I miss her being near me without it feeling like a countdown.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and continued.

I don’t think I’ll ever say it out loud. Not unless I want to lose her for good. And maybe I already have.

There was a knock at the door.

Megan froze, her hand still gripping the pen. She quickly wiped at her face again, panicked. “Yeah?”

No one answered.

Her brows furrowed, and she stood to open the door — slowly, carefully.

No one in the hallway.
Except—there it was.

A small folded note on the floor, no name, just her own handwriting on the back: “You’re not a burden.”

She stared at it, confused, then remembered: it was a page she had ripped from the journal weeks ago after a particularly bad night and shoved into her pocket.

She must’ve dropped it.

She picked it up.

Her fingers were trembling again.

There was something about the way the air felt outside her room, like someone had just walked away.

Like the hallway still carried Daniela’s scent — a subtle trace of her shampoo, the warmth of her presence lingering.

Megan closed the door slowly.
She crawled back into bed, placed the note inside the journal like a bookmark, and tucked both under her pillow.

And for the first time since the breakdown, she let the silence hold her instead of crush her.

Even if Daniela never said a word, even if Megan never found the courage — there was still this.

A quiet truth. Something unspoken. Something that lived in glances and half-finished conversations and rooms too quiet after the other walked away.

She didn’t know what would happen next.

But tonight, Megan wrote until the tears dried and the pages stopped trembling.