Anya stood at the window, gazing out at the misty shoreline as waves lapped lazily against the rocks. It was a view she'd come to cherish, even as it symbolized the growing distance between her and Victor. The sound of the ocean was constant, soothing, and yet, it could never quite drown out the silence that had crept into their home over the years.
Victor sat at the dining table behind her, flipping through a newspaper. He didn't look up or acknowledge her. His presence, though physically close, felt miles away.
"Did you remember to book the plumber?" she asked, her voice soft but strained.
Victor muttered, "I'll take care of it," without looking up.
Anya sighed. This had become their rhythm—a monotonous dance of perfunctory exchanges and unspoken frustrations. Once, their home had been filled with laughter and shared dreams. Now, it was a house of strangers.
She poured herself a cup of tea and sat across from him, studying his face. The sharp features that once captivated her now seemed etched with perpetual distraction. She thought about their early days—how Victor used to surprise her with flowers, how they'd stay up late planning their future. Somewhere along the way, that version of Victor had vanished.
Anya didn't know when it started. Perhaps it was after their third anniversary when Victor began staying later at work. Or maybe it was when Elena left for Paris, taking her vibrant energy and effortless charm with her.
Ah, Elena. The thought of her half-sister brought a pang of something undefinable—envy, admiration, perhaps even guilt. Elena had always been a force of nature. Born just a year apart, they were close in age but worlds apart in personality. Anya, the quieter one, had often felt like the moon to Elena's sun.
When Elena left for Paris five years ago, the family had celebrated her courage. Anya had envied it. While Elena painted her way through Europe, Anya settled into a steady, if uninspiring, life with Victor. She had thought stability would bring happiness. Now, she wasn't so sure.
"Do you want anything for dinner?" she asked, breaking the silence.
Victor finally looked up, his brow furrowed as if annoyed by the intrusion. "Whatever you make is fine."
His tone stung, but Anya didn't react. She had learned to swallow her hurt. "Okay," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
As she moved to the kitchen, she noticed Victor's phone buzz on the counter. She wasn't one to snoop, but the name flashing on the screen stopped her in her tracks: Elena.
She turned away quickly, her heart pounding. It was nothing, she told herself. They were family. Of course, they kept in touch. But the unease in her chest lingered, refusing to be dismissed.
That night, as Victor fell asleep beside her, Anya lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She felt trapped in a life that no longer felt like her own. The man she once loved felt like a stranger, and the growing suspicion in her heart was something she couldn't ignore.
In the darkness, she whispered to herself, "Something has to change."