“If I were you, I’d have already paid him back in full—with interest.”
That was my friend’s tone—half tease, half anger, with a little morning wine mixed in. The hot coffee cup in her hand trembled, then slapped down hard on the wooden table, still stained from the last night we cried together.
Outside, the sun sighed over the rooftops, making the tiles shimmer like they too had something to say. Inside, the old ceiling fan moved air so slowly it barely stirred, humming deeply, as if breathing with us.
“Look at you,” she tugged my wrist toward the mirror in the hall. “A beautiful woman, curves like poetry, eyes no fool should ever forget. And the one he’s with now?” She paused, crossed her arms, and laughed—a mischievous, sharp laugh. “She doesn’t even come close. And you know it.”
I didn’t look at her reflection—I looked at myself. Disheveled hair, an old tee that read “Everything passes” (a lie), dark circles as deep as the silence on my bed.
“Put on your best clothes. Let’s go hunting.”
That word—hunting—hit me like a forbidden whisper, like an old memory I wasn’t supposed to have. I walked to my room as if to collect my soul.
Opened the closet. The black dress with thin straps, saved for some special occasion that never showed up. I pulled it out, smoothed it with my hands, then hesitated.
A faint breeze slipped through the window, making the white curtain flutter like a surrender flag. The tree leaves outside rustled. The creaking wood floor moaned.
I thought about his voice, how he used to say I was his everything. Now, he didn’t even answer texts.
But should I really do this? Holding the dress to my body, my voice shook more than my hands.
It was like my friend read my mind: “Don’t waste time thinking if it’s good or bad.”
I stood at the doorway, dress hanging from a finger, and said what was gnawing at me: “Don’t you think if he did that, it’s because he stopped loving me? Maybe I’d just end up feeling even less than I do now.”
She came out of the kitchen, lips red, carrying a plate. She didn’t answer right away.
She placed the plate on the dresser next to our wedding photo—where he looked at me like I was a miracle—and said softly, “Love doesn’t leave all at once. Sometimes it hides behind pride.”
“And if he left, let him regret it. But you? You won’t be crying with an empty glass.”
I slipped on the dress, ready to go hunting, like she said.
But just before stepping outside, I stopped.
“You’re one of the best, friend. I know you want me to be good.”
“But for now? I think I’ll wait a little longer.”
