The kettle took time to warm, and the quiet stretched between us. I picked up my phone and opened Instagram, more out of habit than interest.
Rosalie had posted again.
The image showed her holding Lucian’s racing trophy against her cheek, her expression soft and gentle, as though she were cradling something precious. The lamplight behind her made the metal gleam faintly.
Below it, she had written:
[Sleeping peacefully beside Lucian’s most cherished possession.]
It was not the same account I had blocked yesterday.
This was a different one.
I opened the profile and saw we had never even exchanged a message. I could not remember when she had followed me—or when I had accepted.
For a moment, I only stared at the image.
Then I set the phone down.
There was no need to block her again.
I remembered too clearly the day I had moved that very trophy while cleaning. It had been sitting near the edge of the shelf, and I had only lifted it to wipe the dust beneath.
Lucian had walked in at that exact moment.
He had stopped cold.
Then his face darkened in a way I had never seen before.
“Who told you to touch that?” he had asked sharply.
I had been startled, apologizing at once, explaining that I was only cleaning. But he had taken the trophy from my hands with visible displeasure, setting it back in place himself as though I might damage it simply by holding it.
Back then, I had blamed myself.
I had thought I had crossed some boundary without realizing.
Now, it seemed the rule had never been that no one could touch it.
Only that I could not.
How ridiculous.
I used to tell myself that love required patience, understanding, and sacrifice. I had smoothed over every sharp edge until I could pretend it no longer hurt.
But love and indifference had never looked alike.
I had only been too blind to tell them apart.
“Selene,” Lucian said, watching me carefully, clearly displeased by my calm. “I know I shouldn’t have left that day. But it was a matter of life and death.”
Life and death.
The words sounded hollow now.
I picked up my phone again, opened Rosalie’s post, enlarged the image, and turned the screen toward him.
“Life and death is one thing,” I said quietly. “Then what is this?”
His expression shifted slightly.
“Lucian,” I continued softly, a faint trace of mockery threading through my voice, “do you remember the day you shouted at me for touching your first racing trophy?”
I held his gaze.