Chapter 6 : Questions

Aria

My couch is a mess of throw blankets and open books, but I’m curled into my usual corner, hoodie pulled over my knees, wine glass untouched on the coffee table. My phone rests propped up against a candle jar, Elena’s face glowing on the screen, her background a blur of fairy lights and bad dorm lighting.

“Wait…back up.” Elena leans in, brows up. “You’re telling me Damien came inside?”

I nod slowly. “Sat at a table. Too long, Maeve didn’t know what to do with him.”

She blinks. “Was he lost?”

“Apparently, he came for a croissant. But he hates croissants.”

“Elaborate.”

“I gave him a lemon tart instead,” I mutter.

“Because you know he likes lemon tart better,” she says, like it’s the most obvious, most damning thing in the world.

I sink deeper into the cushions. “He looked... like he didn’t know what to say. Like the idea of me serving him dessert was this foreign, devastating concept.”

Elena’s voice softens. “How did you feel?”

“Like my lungs forgot how to function,” I say. “Like time jumped sideways.”

She tilts her head. “And how did he act?”

“Like I was just…just someone he used to know. Polite. Calm. All very civil. And then Adrian walked in and the whole temperature dropped ten degrees.”

Elena raises an eyebrow. “Adrian showed up then?”

“Yeah,” I say, biting my lip. “Perfect timing. Like the universe sent him as an emotional security blanket.”

“God, I love Adrian,” she says. “Did Damien say why he was there?”

“No. Just... small talk. Asked for coffee. Sat there too long. It was weird.”

Elena frowns. “You think he’s trying to what? Start something?”

I shake my head. “He’s married. There’s no ‘starting something.’ Whatever he came for, it’s not that.”

Elena leans back against her pillows, crossing her arms. “Aria... don’t bite my head off, but…”

“Oh no.”

“There’ve been... rumours,” she says carefully. “Just whispers, but still. About Damien and Vivienne. That things aren’t picture-perfect anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “Elena.”

“I’m serious.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say firmly. “Even if it were true, I’m not--this isn’t some Jane Austen side plot. I’m not sitting around waiting for him to remember he used to love me.”

“Okay,” she says, hands up. “I hear you. But also, you don’t have to pretend like none of this affects you.”

I stare down at my lap. “I don’t know what he wants. That’s what’s killing me. If he just came in to confuse me, it worked.”

“Do you know what you want?”

The question lands heavier than I expect. I glance back at the screen. Elena’s not pushing. She’s just... Elena. Straightforward. Gentle.

“I want to move on,” I say. “I want to want someone who actually shows up. I’m not a ghost. I’m not some unfinished sentence in his story.”

Elena’s voice is soft. “You’re the main character, Aria. Not a footnote.”

“I know that,” I say, even though part of me still hurts like I don’t.

She pauses. “Okay. Then let’s get out. I was going to call you tomorrow anyway but now feels better.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to talk to you,” she says. “Properly. Face to face.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is this a crisis?”

“No. Maybe. Depends on your definition. It’s not about Damien, I swear. But I didn’t want to text it.”

“You’re being cryptic.”

“I’m being suspenseful.”

I laugh. “Fine. When?”

“Tomorrow night,” she says. “Come meet me at Viña. Karissah’s joining too.”

“Viña?” I blink. “Fancy.”

“We deserve it,” she says. “You’ve been emotionally hijacked by a lemon tart, and Karissah’s on her third situationship of the year.”

I smile. “Okay. I’ll come. But you better buy me a drink.”

“Done.”

We sit in silence for a second. That warm kind of quiet only real friends can hold.

“Thanks for letting me rant,” I say. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to.”

“I’m always here,” she says. “Even if you just want to scream about pastry choices and unresolved romantic trauma.”

“Why does it still feel like it’s not over?” I whisper. “Why does it feel like the door never actually closed?”

“Because maybe it didn’t,” she says gently. “But that doesn’t mean you have to keep walking through it.”

I nod. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

She smiles, sleepy and soft. “Okay. Get some rest. I’ll text you details.”

“Night, El.”

“Night, Aria.”

The call ends. I sit there for a while, watching the screen fade to black. The room settles around me—quiet, still smelling faintly of sugar and citrus and lavender detergent.

I glance toward the window, where the city glows with distant noise and light. Somewhere out there, Damien is living his life. Maybe tangled up in one he doesn’t know how to leave. Maybe not.

Either way, I’m not just waiting.