"What are you doing tonight, birthday girl?" Clara asked, propping her elbows on the counter with a smirk. Her chipped pink nail polish stood out against the worn wooden countertop.

I shrugged, running a damp rag over the last table. The cloth smelled faintly of bleach, mixing with the lingering aroma of coffee beans and sugary pastries. "I don't know."

Her smirk disappeared, replaced by an exaggerated eye roll. "What do you mean you don't know? Today's your birthday, Bella! You should be out having fun, not wiping down tables in this dump."

"This is fun," I replied lightly, though even I didn't believe the words. My hands worked on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot over and over.

Clara stared at me like I'd just grown a second head. "You've got to be kidding me. What's fun about this? Faking a smile for rude customers all day? Ugh, I wish you'd let me punch that lady earlier."

I smiled despite myself, glancing at her flushed cheeks and the way her nostrils flared. She looked ready to march back into the dining area and start swinging. "No punching, Clara," I said. "Unless you want to lose your job."

She huffed, crossing her arms over her apron. "You're no fun. But you're right. As much as I hate this job, I need the money."

"Glad to see you're thinking rationally," I teased, folding the damp rag neatly on the edge of the counter.

The bell above the door jingled, cutting off whatever sarcastic comment Clara had ready. The sound felt out of place in the now-quiet café, where the hum of the espresso machine was the only other noise.

"I need a hot—"

"We're closed," Clara snapped before he could finish, her voice slicing through the stillness like a whip.

The man's expression hardened as he glared at her, muttering something under his breath before shoving the door open and stomping out. The bell jangled again as the door slammed shut. Clara didn't hesitate, flipping the sign on the glass door to Closed with a loud thunk.

"That was rude," I said, tugging at the knot of my apron. The coarse fabric scratched against my neck, leaving a faint irritation.

"I don't do extras," Clara said without a hint of remorse. She leaned her hip against the counter, arms still crossed. "Not like you, so don't judge me."

I shook my head, sighing. The café felt stifling now, like the walls were pressing closer with every second.

"Want to grab a drink later? Celebrate your birthday properly?" she asked, her tone casual, but her brown eyes studied me too closely.

I hesitated. "No, I already have plans."

Her eyebrows arched, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter again. The sweet smell of mocha from her apron lingered between us. "Care to share?"

"Nope," I said, laughing as I gave her a gentle push back.

"Is it with James?" she asked, her voice dropping a notch, souring as though the name left a bad taste in her mouth.

I nodded, ignoring the faint twist in my stomach.

"Boring," she muttered, her tone dripping with disdain.

"You don't like him, do you?" I asked, watching her untie her apron with swift, jerky movements.

She shrugged. "I don't hate him. But you deserve better, Bella. You know that, right?"

I forced a smile, folding my apron neatly. "James is a good guy," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "He's been nothing but good to me since we started dating a year ago. Perfect, even."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, waving me off as she tossed her apron into a nearby bin. "He's perfect because you're in love. Whatever."

Her footsteps echoed across the now-empty café as she walked away, leaving me standing there, staring at the door she disappeared through.

Her words stuck with me, though. They always did. You deserve better.

I don't know why Clara doesn't like James. He's been nothing but kind to me. I met him here at the café eight months after I started working. He was sweet, charming, and persistent. The kind of guy I thought I'd never have.

But Clara didn't see it that way. She never did.

The café was eerily quiet now, the only sound the faint buzzing of the lights overhead. I sighed, grabbing my bag from behind the counter. The fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows on the scuffed floors, and I suddenly couldn't wait to leave.

Stepping out into the crisp evening air, I pulled my coat tighter around me. The city buzzed with life—distant car horns, the chatter of passersby, and the faint melody of a street musician playing a soulful tune on his saxophone at the corner. My breath fogged in the cool air, tiny puffs that vanished as quickly as they appeared. The sharp cold nipped at my cheeks, but I barely felt it.

My phone buzzed in my bag, and I quickly pulled it out, hoping to see James' name on the screen. He hadn't called or texted me all day, and I told myself it was because he was planning a surprise. He wouldn't forget my birthday—not James. A small smile tugged at my lips at the thought of him waiting to surprise me.

But the smile faded as I read the text.

*Don't forget to buy groceries unless you want to sleep on an empty stomach.*

Aunt Stella. Of course.

I sighed, slipping the phone back into my bag. Aunt Stella was... a thorn in my side. She had been ever since I moved in with her. My mom's twin sister, but you'd never guess it by the way she treated me. Pain in the ass was putting it lightly.

After my parents died in a car crash when I was just sixteen, Aunt Maria, my mom's eldest sister, took me in. Aunt Maria was the kindest person I had ever known, someone who made you feel like the world wasn't so dark. But all that changed when she married Uncle Roberto. That man was a devil in every sense of the word. His temper left bruises on everything it touched, and eventually, Aunt Maria's once-happy home became a place of fear.

I ended up with Aunt Stella—if she could even be called that. She treated me like an unwelcome guest, more of a burden than family, and her daughter, Grace, wasn't any better. Together, they turned my life into a kind of silent misery I couldn't escape.

But I wouldn't let her ruin my night. Not today.

I pulled my phone out again and dialed James' number.

"Hello, babe," he answered, his voice low and distracted.

"Hey," I said, already feeling a little lighter.

"I'm at work," he interrupted. "I'll call you later."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stared at the screen, the cheer I'd tried so hard to hold on to slowly slipping away. He didn't even say "Happy Birthday." No warmth, no reassurance

-just a flat dismissal. My thumb hovered over his contact, contemplating calling him back. But what would I even say? I didn't want to sound needy.

"James was the one stable thing in my life. The one person who didn't treat me like a burden or an afterthought.When everything else felt like it was falling apart, he was there, reminding me that I deserved love, that I wasn't broken. The thought of losing him-or worse, being wrong about him-felt like stepping into a void."

The streetlights flickered on around me, casting their soft golden glow over the sidewalk. I looked up at the buildings towering above me, their windows glowing warmly against the cold night. People bustled past me—some laughing, some walking briskly, huddled into their coats. I stood still amidst the movement, unsure of what to do next.

I didn't want to go home. Aunt Stella would have something cutting to say, and Grace would chime in with her usual snarky remarks. I couldn't face that tonight. Not when I already felt so... empty.

Should I go out for a drink with Clara? The thought crossed my mind, but I shook my head. I didn't want to see her smug face, hear her "I told you so" tone if I admitted James had barely acknowledged my birthday.

That left me with one option.

James' apartment. Maybe he was busy because he was planning something for me there. A surprise, like I'd told myself earlier. He was a good guy, after all, and I needed to believe that.

Wrapping my coat tighter, I started walking toward James's place. The cold seemed to bite harder with every step, or maybe I was just more aware of it. Either way, I didn't care. I needed to see him—to remind myself that I wasn't wrong about him, about us.

When I arrived, the city had settled into its nighttime rhythm, the streets quieter but still alive with the occasional hum of a passing car or the muffled laughter of pedestrians. I stopped in front of his building, glancing at my phone. Nine o'clock. He should've been home by now.

A sigh escaped my lips, fatigue tugging at me after a long shift. The thought of seeing him—even for a little while—had kept me going all day. But as I stood there, something tugged at my attention: his car, parked a few spaces away.

Why hadn't I noticed it before? Did he stay home today? My mind reached for an explanation, settling on his usual complaint about the car acting up. Maybe he decided not to risk driving it. Poor James.

Shaking off my thoughts, I turned toward the door. My legs ached from standing too long, and the cold was beginning to seep through my coat. I knew where he kept his spare key—hidden in the flower pot by the door. But when I reached for it, my fingers only found damp soil.

The key wasn't there.

I straightened, confused, my breath fogging in the chilly air. Was he expecting someone? Or maybe he finally decided to stop hiding the key in such an obvious spot.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The quiet night pressed in around me, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. Then I heard it—a faint sound, barely audible.

My heart lifted. Footsteps? Was James on his way back?

I smiled to myself, taking a step closer to the door. But as I focused on the noise, something about it felt... off. It wasn't footsteps. The sound wasn't rhythmic enough. It was softer, muffled, almost like—

A moan.

I froze.

The faint sound seemed to come from his apartment, seeping through the stillness of the hallway. My pulse quickened, and a chill—not from the cold—prickled the back of my neck.

No. Maybe it wasn't what I thought. Maybe it was the neighbors, or the television. My mind scrambled for an explanation, anything to convince myself that the sound wasn't coming from James's room.

But there it was again. Louder this time. Clearer.

I stood rooted to the spot, my body refusing to move. My heart thudded in my chest, each beat like a drum in the silence. Slowly, almost against my will, I stepped closer to his door, straining to hear, hoping—praying—that I was wrong.