ARIA'S POV.
I left to find my own apartment after my last encounter with Ethan. The possibility of him coming back was large so i couldn't stand it so I left. Mom understood and I was grateful.
My apartment wasn't big—just a bedroom, a narrow kitchen, and a living room that smelled faintly of lavender because Ella insisted it was "emotionally stabilizing." But it was mine. No shared hallways. No whispers behind doors. No laughter that wasn't meant for me.
Peace lived here.
I dropped my bag by the couch and kicked off my shoes, the events of the day replaying whether I invited them or not. Ethan's face. His voice. The way he'd said he missed me, like the word carried weight but no apology.
Some betrayals weren't loud.
Some of them smiled at you first.
My phone buzzed.
Ella: You home?
Me: Yeah.
A minute later, there was a knock, then Ella and Isabella let themselves in like they belonged here , they do actually but...., arms full of snacks and opinions.
" Tell me you ate today," Isabella said immediately, eyeing me like a detective.
"I did," I replied. "Twice."
Ella grinned. "Progress."
We settled into the living room, legs tucked beneath us, the TV on but muted. They didn't rush me. They never did. That was the thing about real friends—they knew when silence was part of the healing.
"So," Ella said finally, gently. "You ran into him again, didn't you?"
I nodded.
Isabella's jaw tightened. "And?"
"And nothing," I said. "Which somehow felt like everything."
They waited.
"He mocked me," I said slowly, choosing each word. "Not to my face. With his friends. Like my trust was a joke they could pass around."
Ella's eyes softened. Isabella swore under her breath.
"He was my best friend," I continued. "Before anything else. Before feelings. Before confusion. I told him things I never said out loud to anyone."
"And he made you the punchline," Isabella said quietly.
"Yes."
The room felt heavier after that. Truth had weight.
David texted a little later, asking if I was okay. I didn't reply immediately. Not because I didn't care—but because I was learning that I didn't owe everyone access to my processing.
David was… complicated.
Sleeping with him hadn't been about love or desire in the way people romanticized. It had been about drowning out the noise. About proving something—to myself more than anyone else. But waking up beside him had never brought peace.
Just quiet regret.
"I don't want distractions anymore," I said aloud, surprising myself. "I don't want to confuse loneliness for intimacy."
Ella smiled softly. "That's growth, Aria."
After they left, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the shadows shifting slowly. My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number... I knew who had it. Had studied the number off hand.
I let it ring once. Twice. Then stopped.
I wasn't ready to hear his voice again.
The next day, campus felt smaller than usual.
I spotted Ethan near the student center, laughing with the same group of friends who'd once turned my vulnerability into entertainment. My chest tightened—not with longing, but with clarity.
He saw me too.
This time, he excused himself and walked over.
"Aria," he said, quieter now.
"Ethan."
"I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did," he said.
I looked at him. Really looked. The boy who once knew my favorite songs. The man who'd laughed when others repeated my fears like jokes.
"Intent doesn't erase impact," I said calmly.
His shoulders slumped. "I was stupid."
"Yes," I agreed. "You were."
That startled him.
"I trusted you," I continued. "You didn't just hurt me—you changed how safe I felt with people."
He swallowed. "I never thought you'd find out."
"That's worse," I said softly.
Silence stretched between us, thick with what couldn't be undone.
"I still care about you," he said. "I don't know how to stop."
"I didn't ask you to," I replied. "But caring doesn't mean access anymore."
Something broke in his expression—not dramatically. Just quietly.
"I'm not asking to go back," he said. "I just don't want to be nothing."
I thought about that.
"You're not nothing," I said. "You're just… not my safe place anymore."
When I walked away, my hands weren't shaking.
That night, alone again, I realized something that felt both sad and freeing.
Ethan wasn't the villain of my story.
He was the lesson.
I didn't need revenge.
I didn't need replacement.
I didn't need sex to prove I was desirable.
I needed peace. And for the first time, I was choosing it—even when it meant standing alone.
Outside, the city hummed softly.
Inside, I finally felt still.