The dim light flickers in the living room, casting long shadows. You’re slouched on the couch, glass in hand, the weight of the world too heavy to ignore. Austin’s gone, and the house feels impossibly empty. Each sip of whiskey dulls the ache that never seems to go away.

The door creaks, and you look up, blurry-eyed, as Emily steps into the room. Her gaze flickers over you, soft concern in the way she stands there.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, voice steady but laced with tension, then softens.

You try to sit up, but your head spins. “No,” you mumble, though it’s clear you’re far from sober. “I’m fine.”

Emily watches you, her presence grounding the room. The air feels heavier, as if she knows, as if she’s always known.

She steps closer, the floor creaking beneath her. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” she says softly. “You know this isn’t the answer.”

You glance up at her, the words threatening to spill. “I don’t care,” you murmur, voice slurring. “I’m tired, Emily. Tired of pretending.”

She stops in front of you, close enough to feel the weight of her gaze. “Pretending what?” she asks, voice low, soft, but aching.

“That I don’t love you,” you say, barely above a whisper. The confession hangs between you, fragile but true. “I’ve been pretending… but I can’t anymore.”

Her eyes soften, a flicker of something crossing her face. She takes a slow breath, the silence heavy. “We agreed to keep this hidden,” she says, almost a reminder. “We knew what it would cost us.”

You shake your head, the ache in your chest growing. “I can’t keep lying, Emily. Not anymore.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. She’s calm, composed, but there’s something in her eyes that mirrors the storm in your heart.

“You’ll regret this,” she says softly. “We both will.”