My fiancé, his brother

The sweet morning song mingled with the first rays of sunlight filtering through the light curtains of Léa's apartment. A stream of light caressed the white sheets, warming the still cool air of dawn. Léa slowly emerged from her sleep, her eyelids still heavy with vague and fleeting dreams. The bedroom, decorated in a minimalist style, reflected her taste for simplicity: white walls, a shelf filled with carefully organized architecture books, and a green plant, the only touch of life, that seemed strangely to thrive despite the little light.

Beside her, Thomas, her fiancé, slept peacefully. His chest rose and fell at a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. Léa watched him for a moment. His relaxed features could have moved her, once upon a time. Now, she felt little. Or rather, she felt too much, but nothing of what she would have wished: weariness, a vague feeling of suffocation, silent melancholy. She looked away.

She got out of bed carefully, making sure not to creak the floorboards. As she crossed the narrow hallway, she passed by the vestibule mirror without stopping. This morning again, she didn’t want to look at herself.

The kitchen was bathed in pale light. Léa turned on the coffee maker, then hesitated and opted for an old stainless steel pot. The touch of the cold metal against her fingers anchored her in reality. The slight clinking of the flame, the bubbling of water on the stove… Repetitive, automatic movements, almost soothing.

But deep inside her, a persistent sensation rose, like a rumor that refused to be silenced. She had the unpleasant feeling of being trapped in a life that was no longer really hers.

Each morning resembled the one before. Thomas, silence, coffee, thoughts she tried to stifle… and that nagging question: "Is this really what it means to be happy?"

She leaned against the countertop, arms crossed. No matter how much she checked all the boxes—a stable partner, a fulfilling job, an apartment in a quiet neighborhood—something was missing. But she didn’t know what. Or perhaps, she wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

When the aroma of coffee began to fill the space, Thomas emerged from the bedroom, his hair tousled, rubbing his still sleepy eyes. He approached with a casual step, lightly tugging at the hem of his wrinkled t-shirt. He gave her a tender smile, one of those smiles that used to make Léa’s heart beat a little faster, but now felt almost learned, programmed.

— Good morning, my beautiful, he whispered, leaning down to kiss her.

Léa returned his kiss out of habit more than desire. Her lips brushed against his softly, but her gaze darkened for a moment. A fleeting shadow of sadness or perhaps fatigue. She looked away, suddenly focused on the empty cup she was holding between her fingers.

— Did you sleep well? he asked, stretching.

She remained silent for a few seconds. That question… She found it out of place here, in the kitchen, amidst domestic noises, the harsh morning light, and the overpowering scent of coffee. This wasn’t where he should have asked her that. He should have asked her in a bed where she would have felt loved. In a moment of intimacy, not in this impersonal setting.

— Yes, slept well… And you? she finally replied, her voice soft but absent, as if reciting a line.

— Like a baby, Thomas replied with a tired smile. He sat for a moment, took a sip of coffee, grimaced slightly—he preferred it sweeter—but didn’t make any remarks.

He left the kitchen without adding anything. Léa watched him leave for a moment before returning to what she was doing.

She prepared breakfast and set the table.

They sat down at the table, where a simple breakfast awaited them: still warm toast, some carefully cut fruit, and the steaming black coffee that filled the air with a comforting warmth. But even this peaceful scene lacked life. Thomas grabbed his phone as soon as he sat down, scrolling through his emails, focused, his brows slightly furrowed.

Léa, on the other hand, stared at the wall across. A precise, insignificant point, but one she fixated on to avoid looking at Thomas. A bubble of silence enveloped them, only disturbed by the soft sound of Thomas’s fingers tapping on the screen.

— Do you have something on your mind? he asked, in a distracted tone, without looking up.

It took her a few seconds to respond.

— No, everything’s fine, she finally said, in a whisper.

She forced a smile, that kind of smile one puts on to avoid alarming others, to evade questions… but she herself didn’t fool herself.

A few empty phrases were exchanged, small talk about the weather, traffic, errands to run. But Léa was elsewhere. Her mind wandered to a past where everything seemed more alive. Where glances were full of promises, weekends unpredictable, silences… companionable.

Today, even silence seemed hostile.

She hesitated for a moment, then spoke up, her voice a bit more fragile than she would have liked:

— I wanted to talk about something, Thomas.

He barely looked up.

— Now?

— Yes… if you’re available. Otherwise, tonight, over dinner. Just you and me.

He sighed, picked up his phone again, as if giving himself permission to return to his world before even responding.

— You know, I have an important project at the office this week.

He paused, tapped again.

— I need to finalize the file for the client; it’s tense. Can we talk another evening?

Léa nodded. She didn’t respond. What was the point? She knew this tune by heart.

Thomas's projects, although important, seemed to create a universe in which she was just a background character. A silent silhouette in the background.

And at that precise moment, she knew she didn’t want to wait for "another evening" anymore.