The sound of the door slamming echoed like a gunshot.
Silence followed. Long. Crushing.
Eliana could hear everything—Nicky's uneven breathing, the ticking of the clock, the sound of her own heart pounding like a warning. Every sound in the apartment seemed amplified. The creak of the floor beneath her bare feet. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The oppressive nothingness between them.
She was sweating cold. Her hands were clammy. Her eyes were burning, the tears on the verge of falling, held back only by pride and a flicker of disbelief.
But he didn't speak.
He didn't say a word.
"Nicky…" she whispered, her voice small, tight, splintering under the weight of everything unsaid. "What do you plan to do now?"
He didn't look at her.
"I don't know," he said quietly.
That broke something in her.
She stepped closer, fists clenched, voice shaking with anger. "You don't know?"
He flinched. "El—"
"No. No more of that. You've been saying that for months."
