I miss her

The villa was silent, but not the comforting kind of quiet I usually sought after long days. This silence felt heavy, oppressive, like it was wrapping itself around me and squeezing until I couldn't breathe.

I sat in the corner of the small studio room, the half-finished drawing of Layla crumpled beside me. The room smelled faintly of charcoal and cigarette smoke, the evidence of my spiralling laid bare.

I couldn't get her out of my head. Layla's face, streaked with tears, the tremor in her voice as she'd begged me to believe her—that's not true, Zaya, it didn't happen.

But how could I believe her? The image of her with Maeve, their bodies too close, the kiss that seared itself into my memory—it was too vivid, too real to ignore.

And yet... the look in her eyes haunted me.

She wasn't lying.