The slam of the door echoed long after he left — reverberating through the bones of the house, through the hollow in Carol’s chest. She didn’t move at first. She stood perfectly still in the center of the living room, fingers curled slightly as if they might still be holding onto something. As if the echo of the argument hadn’t already stripped everything bare.

The silence that followed was not calm. It was cruel. And beneath it, the sound of her breathing — ragged, uneven — like something fragile breaking under pressure.

She walked slowly to the sideboard and poured herself a drink with shaking hands. The amber liquid sloshed against the glass, almost spilling. Her lipstick had smudged — she could feel it, somewhere between the corner of her mouth and the trembling space below her cheekbone. She didn’t care.

She had thought they were past this. Or maybe she just hoped. Maybe she was tired of praying that each new confrontation wouldn’t feel worse than the last.

But this time, Harge had said her name. Rindy. Their daughter — sweet, innocent, caught in the crossfire of an invisible war. He’d used her like a weapon, his voice like ice, each word a reminder that he still believed she was unfit. Not because she was neglectful. Not because she didn’t love her child. But because of who she was.

Because she loved differently.

She sat down on the couch, spine folding in on itself, one hand pressing over her eyes as if that could hold the tears in. It didn’t. They slid, quietly, warm trails down skin too tired to resist.

After a long moment, she reached for the pack of cigarettes and lit one with a familiar motion — a small, ritualistic defiance against the ache in her ribs. Smoke filled the air, bitter and sharp, curling past the edge of her vision.

She stared at the phone on the table. The silence had become unbearable.

Her hand moved before she could stop herself, fingers reaching for the receiver. There was hesitation in the way she dialed — not out of doubt, but fear. Fear of what it meant to need someone. To reach for them like this.

But she needed you.

The girl from the festival. The ballet dancer with ribbon-wrapped ankles and starlight in her eyes. The girl who had smiled at her not like she was someone to be admired from a distance, but seen. Whose hands moved with grace, but whose voice held weight. You had become something of a quiet rhythm in her life — a heartbeat beneath everything else. Never demanding. Never too close. But present. Constant.

Carol closed her eyes as the phone began to ring.

One.

The cigarette burned low between her fingers. She didn’t inhale this time. Just watched the smoke rise and dissipate, her other hand gripping the receiver like it might tether her to something.

Two.

A part of her wanted to hang up. Not because she didn’t want to hear you — but because she didn’t know what her voice would sound like if you answered. What it might reveal. She had spent so long mastering elegance, restraint. But tonight, she was unraveling.

Three.

She could almost hear your laughter in her memory — soft, mid-sentence, the kind of sound that made everything in her chest loosen. She remembered the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you spoke, the scent of theatre makeup clinging faintly to your coat that night you walked her to her car.

Four.

Her throat tightened. She pressed the heel of her palm into her eye, pushing the tears back, desperate for steadiness. Her fingers smudged the corner of her mascara, the gesture automatic and almost tender.

The ringing continued. And still, she stayed.

Because she wanted your voice. Just that. Just the sound of something warm and alive and far from the sharpness of her world. The cigarette burned down to the filter, and still she didn’t move. The room smelled like smoke and perfume and something older — grief, maybe. Or hope, worn thin.