Chapter Text
INT. DEB'S HOME - NIGHT
(Deborah's POV, post fight in 4.05)
The front door slammed behind her like a shot, her heart hammering in her chest, the sound flooding her ears. She hadn’t felt so betrayed like this in years. Somehow, this felt worse than what Kathy had said and done.
The echo of her steps rolled through the marble halls of her home, clicking off the carefully curated quiet. Deborah didn’t stop. She was simmering with a kind of feeling that she'd only felt as a lump in her throat, like fighting back tears, Her heels struck the floor like nails into wood, her jacket beginning to slouch halfway off her shoulders, hair slipping from its perfect shape. Her keys flew from her hand with more force than she meant, skittering across the marble countertop, and clanging against a crystal bowl.
Her breathing was already uneven, ragged with an amalgamation of jealous, envy, rage, and something else - something she couldn't identify.
“Just wrote jokes for her,” she muttered bitterly, repeating Ava's words. They were acid in her throat. “What a fucking punchline.”
She moved toward the kitchen like someone bracing for a fight she knew she’d already lost. Her hand reached for a glass from the rack, fingers curling around the stem with hesitation, not resolve. Her eyes landed on the bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée 170 Édition Brut Champagne—tucked neatly where she always kept it, pristine, untouched. The same kind she once poured for Ava in her suite, back when things were easier to pretend about. But there was no comfort in it now. No pleasure. Only a sick aching memory. Before she even moved to uncork it, Deborah felt the sting of recollection wash over her—quiet conversations about loneliness wrapped in bubbles and gold foil, the sound of Ava’s voice threading through it all like static that wouldn’t clear. What Ava had said to her then clung harder now, sharper in the absence she left behind.
"You think you’re only lonely when you have to open a bottle of champagne? Bullshit, you're lonely all the fucking time. And you're gonna die that way, too."
Without a word, without so much as a breath, Deborah hurled the bottle into the sink with all the force of everything she refused to name. The impact rang out like a gunshot—glass shattering on porcelain, champagne erupting in a violent spray that soaked the counter, the walls, her hands. Tiny golden bubbles clung to her skin as the shards scattered and spun, catching the overhead light like falling stars. She flinched—once. Her fists clenched on instinct, knuckles white, as silence returned heavier than before.
“‘Not well,’” she snarled. “We lived together, little shit!”
She spun on her heel and stormed through the house, each step sharper than the last, fury leading where thought couldn’t follow. Past the quiet living room, through the glass doors—the night air waiting like a held breath. The motion lights blinked on, almost flinching at her arrival, casting a sterile glow over the immaculate lawn, the carefully placed stepping stones, the row of hand-painted garden sculptures. All of it suddenly intolerable. The shed door groaned open, hinges protesting like they knew better.
When she emerged, it was with a sledgehammer gripped tight in both hands. Still in heels. Still seething. She didn’t hesitate.
The first swing was blind rage. A ceramic frog exploded beneath the sledgehammer’s weight, its painted grin cleaving straight down the middle before the pieces scattered like shrapnel into the rose bushes. Deborah barely registered the crunch or the satisfying snap of glaze splitting on stone—only that it wasn’t enough. The next blow came faster, harder. A cherub perched delicately on a pedestal was no match; the impact knocked its porcelain body sideways, and a second hit obliterated its face, reducing soft curls and childlike features to nothing but powdered dust and jagged edges. The pedestal wobbled, then toppled. She pivoted, breath short, dress catching on the wind, and drove the hammer into the flamingo she’d once joked about with Ava—the one Ava had called “gaudy” and Deborah insisted was “whimsical.” Metal squealed under the pressure. One hit bent the neck sideways. Another caved in its body. A third knocked it clean from its stake, where it landed in the grass like a corpse in neon. She didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not yet.
“I gave her everything!”
[Swing, crack]
“I cancelled shows for her! I went to a fucking funeral, for her.”
[Swing, another crack]
“I turned the goddamn bus around just for her!”
The swings came faster now—wild, unmeasured. A garden angel shattered at the shoulder, its wings flying off in opposite directions. A swan statue split clean down the middle, like it had always known it would.
Deborah’s breath tore in and out of her chest—shallow, uneven, like her body couldn’t decide whether to scream or collapse. Sweat clung to her collarbones, trickled down her spine, sticky and cold against the heat rolling off her skin. The night air wrapped around her like gauze, but it didn’t soothe. It suffocated. Her fury wasn’t clean. It never had been. Beneath the firestorm of anger was something jagged and quieter—betrayal, yes, but not just Ava’s. Her own. She’d let someone in. Let her stay. Let her matter. And now the ache sat in her ribs like a bruise she kept pressing, over and over.
She told herself Ava had crossed a line. That she’d manipulated her way into the show, into that head writer's chair, into Deborah’s head. But some part of her—some treacherous, buried part—knew better. Knew this wasn’t just about the job. Knew it had never been. And still, she swung. Because stopping meant feeling all of it.
Back at the house, the porch light cast a thin halo over Josefina as she stepped outside, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she was bracing against a storm. The sounds had drawn her out—the sharp, guttural clang of metal meeting porcelain, the crack of something beautiful breaking. Again. And again. She froze at the top step, watching Deborah in the yard, silhouetted by the harsh beam of the motion lights. The sledgehammer arced through the air in wild, violent rhythm, garden statues crumbling in bursts of dust and fractured whimsy.
“Jesus Christ,” Josefina whispered, not to anyone in particular. It was half-prayer, half-exhale.
Damien lingered behind her, hands hovering near his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes were wide, almost childlike, flicking from one broken flamingo to the next. One foot stepped instinctively back—like he might run if she turned and came toward them with that thing still in her hands.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Do I call someone? Like a priest? Or a landscaping crew?”
Josefina didn’t laugh. Didn’t blink. She just whispered, “Don’t,” and kept watching.
“She’s grieving,” Josefina said, her tone clipped but not unsympathetic.
“That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Grieving. Raging. Possibly summoning a demon.”
Damien pulled out his phone and began typing furiously to Ava.
what the fuck is wrong with deb?
Josefina took a cautious step forward onto the stone path, her heels clicking against the slate like a warning she didn’t mean to give. The air smelled like soil and shattered glaze. Somewhere in the dark, another statue fell—its destruction met with a grunt from Deborah and the hollow crash of ceramic against rock.
“Deborah!” Josefina called, her voice sharp now, cutting through the chaos. “Do you want to talk about—?”
But before the question could land, another blow answered for her. The sound of something else breaking—louder this time, maybe heavier—cut her off. Josefina winced. It was like watching a dam collapse one brick at a time, knowing she was already too late to stop the flood.
“Not. Fucking. Particularly,” Deborah screamed, not turning around.
Her voice cracked at the end—sharp and broken, like it had torn something on the way out. The hammer slipped from her grip a second later, landing in the grass with a dull, final thud. It didn’t bounce. Just sank into the soil like it belonged there.
She didn’t move. Just stood in the wreckage of her perfectly manicured life, panting like she’d run miles, her chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. Her arms hung limp at her sides, fingers twitching slightly, like her body hadn’t realized the fight was over. She was winded. Shaking. But not from effort—from everything else.
Deborah glanced at her yard. All around her: wreckage. The grass was littered with broken wings, splintered beaks, hollow-eyed fragments of cherubs and swans. Dust hung in the air like smoke. Shards glittered under the porch light, catching at odd angles in the rosebushes and scattered across the stones. Petals—ripped clean from their stems—clung wet to her shoes. Soil bled into the path in thick, dark smudges. It looked like a war zone. Or a funeral. A graveyard of symbols she didn’t even remember buying—gifts, décor, impulse purchases meant to fill space. None of them meant anything. Now they were all she had left.
Not just the statues, or the tacky flamingos she always pretended to hate—but something softer settled inside of her. Something closer to her. Something she couldn’t buy back, couldn’t glue together, couldn’t blame on anyone else. It settled in her chest like cement. The silence after the last swing felt louder than any of her screaming. Her hands were empty now, but they still trembled, like her body hadn’t caught up with the quiet.
She looked down at the mess she’d made, then at her hands—damp, dirty, shaking—and realized the ache in her arms wasn’t from the hammer. It was from holding everything in for too long. Somewhere inside her, a voice she couldn’t shut off whispered that Ava hadn’t destroyed her. She had.
It wasn’t rage anymore. Not really. It was whatever comes after rage, when all that’s left is grief and the sinking realization that you’ve destroyed the wrong things—the wrong people.
She didn’t look at Josefina. Didn’t even turn her head. Just stood there, motionless, eyes locked on the garden like it had conspired against her. Like the statues, the flowers, the careful symmetry of it all had been in on the joke—had watched her fall apart and said nothing. All of it looked wrong now, distorted under the harsh outdoor lights, like a dream warped in the retelling. It wasn’t just wreckage—it was evidence. Evidence of how much she’d let in. Of how much she’d lost. She stared at it like it had betrayed her too—by existing, by reminding her of what it meant to build something only to tear it down with her own hands. And still, she couldn’t bring herself to look at Josefina. Couldn’t stand the thought of seeing pity there. Or worse—understanding.
“Fucking traitor,” she muttered, her voice dropping to almost nothing. “I never should've asked her to come back.”
Josefina took a careful step forward. “Deborah?”
Silence.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Still, nothing. Deborah’s shoulders rose and fell, slower now. Heavier.
Without turning around, she muttered, “Just our golden girl, yet again.”
Josefina blinked. “Ava?”
Deborah’s laugh was humorless. “Why don’t we get Damien to text her?” she said, the words sharp but tired. “Maybe she can explain how screwing over the one person who gave her a career is some kind of progressive power move.”
She moved toward the patio steps, the fire in her stride dwindling with every step—anger fading into exhaustion, like a storm losing momentum. The sledgehammer had long since fallen behind her, forgotten. Each footfall was quieter than the last, dragged by the weight she couldn’t shake. When she reached the top step, she didn’t lower herself so much as surrender—body folding into the motion with a slow, stiff drop. Her spine stayed rigid, but everything else wilted. Her hands dangled uselessly over her knees, fingers slack, nails chipped. She didn’t bother brushing the dirt from her palms. Didn’t blink. Her eyes locked on the distance but saw nothing—just the blur of broken things and the ghost of someone who wasn’t standing there anymore.
Damien and Josefina hovered behind her, trading a glance. Neither spoke.
“What the hell happened?” Josefina whispered to Damien, arms folding tighter.
“I don’t know,” Damien said, already tapping his screen. “But I’m about to find out.”
INT. VARIOUS - NIGHT
(Ava's POV, post fight in 4.05)
The car ride home stretched out long and heavy, thick with a silence that didn’t feel companionable—just weighted, like a coat she hadn’t chosen to wear. The kind that settled into the seams and pressed against her ribs. No one said much. The occasional turn signal blinked like a metronome for the tension in her chest.
Her mind kept replaying the way Deborah had looked at her. The way her smile dropped. The way she’d just... left. Moreover, the echo of it all—the clink of the dessert plates, the forced and empty laughter, the way her voice still rang in Ava’s ears—was louder than anything the car’s quiet could drown out.
Emily sat behind the wheel knuckles tense in the faint glow of the dashboard. Her eyes kept flicking between the road and the rearview mirror, like she was checking for something—Ava’s expression, maybe. Or a crack in it. Devin sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone with the kind of energy people reserve for pretending they’re not uncomfortable. Ava sat in the passenger seat, arms folded tight, her body turned slightly toward the door. Not in anger. Not even in shame. Just… distance. Her reflection in the window looked tired. Washed out. Her mascara had smudged at some point and she hadn’t fixed it. She didn’t care.
“That was… a lot,” Emily said, her voice pitched soft. “I mean… she seemed nice.”
A pause. The soft click of a turn signal. A quiet shift of gears that filled the space where words might’ve lived. Emily glanced over briefly, hopeful, maybe, for a reaction—but Ava didn’t laugh. Not this time. Not even a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Instead, her face stayed still, unreadable in the glow of passing headlights. Not cold—just far away, like her thoughts were somewhere her body hadn’t caught up to. There was no humor left in her, no energy to fake it. Whatever part of her used to rise to meet the tension with a joke or a shrug had gone quiet. She just stared ahead, eyes dull and distant, as if the world outside the windshield made more sense than anything inside the car ever could.
Emily tried again, but quieter. “Kind of flirtatious. And territorial.”
Devin glanced sideways, still scrolling on his phone. “Yeah.”
Silence fell again. Not tense, exactly—just delicate. Brittle. The kind that stretches thin across a space and dares anyone to break it. No one did. Not Emily, gripping the wheel like it might anchor her to the moment. Not Devin, shifting slightly in his seat, his mouth opening once like he might say something before thinking better of it. And not Ava, who kept her eyes trained on the passing blur of streetlights like they were the only thing moving fast enough to keep up with her thoughts.
Emily reached for the dial with a kind of quiet precision, as if sudden movement might make things worse. She turned the volume up on the music—just a little. Not enough to fill the car, only enough to press gently at the silence’s edges. To make the quiet feel less hollow. Less accusing. It wasn’t a distraction. It wasn’t comfort. Just something—anything—to make the moment feel less like a vacuum and more like something intentional. Like they were still trying. The song played low in the background, a voice humming something wistful, almost tender. It folded into the silence, not replacing it, just giving it contour. Giving it something soft to lean against while none of them could quite look each other in the eye.
“You okay?” she asked, glancing back.
“I’m fine,” Ava said quickly, too quickly.
They didn’t press further.
[...]
The front door clicked open with a hush, like it didn’t want to be heard—like even the house was trying not to disturb whatever fragile thing Ava was carrying in with her. The air inside was warm, still faintly scented with whatever candles Emily must have lit earlier—vanilla, maybe amber. The lights were dimmed to a soft glow, casting gold across the hardwood, gentle shadows stretching quietly into corners. Everything looked soft. Inviting. Like a home that wanted to be lived in.
It should have felt safe. Comfortable. But instead, it just made Ava feel colder.
She stepped inside slowly, as if her body hadn’t quite decided whether to stay or leave again. Her shoes sank into the rug by the door, and she stood there a moment too long, letting the warmth settle around her like static she couldn’t shake. The coziness of it all—the plush couch, the open throw blanket, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen—it pressed in too tightly, like the house was hugging her in a way she couldn’t return.
Everything looked perfect. And she had never felt more out of place.
Emily kicked off her shoes and turned on a lamp. Devin disappeared into the bedroom to change. The space was calm, unfussy—lived-in in a way that made Ava feel like a guest even though she’d been here countless times before.
“Do you want anything?” Emily asked. “Tea? Or… just quiet?”
“I’m actually just gonna use the bathroom real quick,” Ava mentioned gently in response.
Emily offered a gentle smile. “Of course. Take your time.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, quiet but certain. The lock slid into place with a soft, decisive sound—barely audible, but it echoed through Ava’s chest like something final. Like drawing a line she didn’t have to explain. She stood there for a long second, back pressed to the wood, her body finally still in a way it hadn’t been since the restaurant. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp at the corners, breath catching in her throat. Her fingers hung loose at her sides, trembling slightly—whether from adrenaline or restraint, she couldn’t tell.
The mirror across from her reflected nothing yet. She didn’t want to look. Not just because of the mascara she hadn’t fixed or the flush still clinging to her skin—but because she didn’t want to see the version of herself that had let all of this happen. That had hurt (and been hurt by) Deborah, over and over again. Rinse and repeat.
The air in the bathroom was warm and faintly floral—soft lavender from a reed diffuser in the corner. It should’ve been soothing. Instead, it felt like a blanket someone had draped over her while she was drowning.
She moved to the sink and turned on the cold water. The faucet gave a weak sputter at first, as if reluctant to cooperate, before settling into a steady, quiet stream. It wasn’t loud, but it filled the room—soft, constant, the kind of sound that blurred thought if you let it. Ava didn’t reach for it right away. She just stood there, palms braced on the counter, eyes fixed on the flow as if it might carry some kind of answer with it.
The water caught the overhead light and fractured it, silver ribbons dancing across the porcelain. The air in the room, warm from the house’s heating and Ava’s own flushed skin, began to fog faintly around the edges of the sink. A soft mist clung to the mirror, not yet enough to obscure her reflection—just enough to blur it. Just enough to make her feel like she was watching herself from the outside. She stared at the water like it might speak first. Like it might break the silence she couldn’t.
Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her—washed out beneath the too-warm lighting, mascara smudged like a bruise beneath one eye, her cheeks blotchy from the effort of holding it all in. She looked like someone who’d swallowed a scream and was still waiting for it to pass through her, slowly, painfully, as if grief had to burn its way out.
She didn’t look like herself. Or maybe she did—just the version she didn’t want anyone to see. The one who couldn’t pretend she was fine anymore. The one who wanted things to go back—to something soft, something familiar. Something before. Before everything got messy. Before the tension, the betrayal, the sting of Deborah’s smile falling away like it never meant anything. Before the distance.
She missed it all—the laughter that used to crack between them like lightning, the quiet moments when Deborah would rest a hand on her shoulder and forget to take it back, the little touches that didn’t mean anything until they meant everything. The way Deborah once looked at her like she was the only one who understood. The warmth in her voice when she said her name. The way she’d forgive her, over and over, like love came naturally and didn’t need to be named.
Ava blinked, and her reflection blurred. She pressed her palms to the counter again, steadying herself against the weight of wanting things to be what they were—before she ruined it. Before either of them said things they couldn’t unsay.
She splashed water on her face. Once. Twice. It hit her skin sharp and startling, stung in places. She didn’t dry it. Just let it bead and drip from her chin.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, loud in the quiet.
[TEXT FROM DAMIEN]: what the fuck is wrong with deb?
She stared at the screen, her expression unreadable—like she’d stepped out of her own body and was watching someone else try to make the right choice. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, unmoving at first, then restless. She typed out a sentence, short and sharp. Deleted it. Tried again—softer this time, too soft. Deleted that too. Her thumb twitched against the edge of the phone. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt like enough. She didn't feel enough.
Every version said too much or not enough—never the right shape, never the right weight. Every draft felt like a trap. An apology disguised as defensiveness. Anger wrapped up in hurt. A plea pretending to be indifferent. She couldn’t tell anymore which parts were for Deborah and which were for herself. Yes, she was in the wrong, but so was Deborah. That was the truth that made it impossible—too much blame on both sides, too much pride, too many unsaid things stacked up like glass between them.
She didn’t want to be the one to crack first. Not again. Not when she wasn’t the only one who should be sorry. But she didn’t want this silence either. Didn’t want this space that used to be filled with laughter and teasing and warmth now echoing back nothing but cold.
She typed again—a sentence, a fragment, then furiously backspaced. Her thumbs hovered like they might do it without her permission, but they didn’t. Her hands trembled slightly, a fine tremor barely visible in the dim bathroom light. Her breathing shortened. Shallower. Like the air itself was getting harder to hold.
What could she even say that would undo what she’d already broken?
She didn’t know what she wanted more—for Deborah to say something first, or for the silence to stay long enough to mean she never would.
[TEXT TO DAMIEN]:
i don't know, ask her.
The screen dimmed, the light fading as if even the phone had given up on her finding the words. Ava didn’t. She blinked, tapped it back to life, jaw clenched like she was bracing for something. Her finger hesitated for half a second before she opened Josefina’s thread—anything to distract from the mess of half-written messages in the other one. The thread opened with a quiet flutter, and there it was: unread. The bubble glowed softly on the screen like it had been waiting for her, patient and undemanding. She stared at it, eyes skimming the words without really absorbing them, a strange tightness pressing behind her ribs. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it said—but she knew she would read it anyway.
[TEXT FROM JOSEFINA]:
Everything OK?
Ava didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her fingers hovered uselessly over the screen, then fell away.
She sat down slowly on the edge of the tub, like her body had forgotten how to carry itself upright. The tile was cool against the backs of her calves—grounding, almost startling. She pulled her knees in close, arms wrapping around them like scaffolding, like if she held herself tight enough, she might not fall apart.
The faucet still ran behind her, its steady trickle echoing in the quiet like a ticking clock she couldn’t mute. She didn’t move to shut it off. Couldn’t. The sound was something to focus on. Something constant. Something that didn’t ask her to speak.
So she stayed there, breathing. Not deeply, not well—just enough. Just quiet, shallow inhales through her nose, exhaled slow like if she made any sudden movement the moment might crack in half.
[...]
In the bedroom, the light glowed warm and golden, spilling gently across the hardwood like something out of a catalog—too perfect, too untouched. Emily and Devin were in sleep clothes now, curled into their usual rhythm. Pillows fluffed just right, the blanket turned down with practiced ease. A soft hum of music played from a speaker on the dresser—something ambient, low, designed not to disturb. Their laughter drifted out into the hallway, quiet and private, like a shared secret. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant for anyone else. Just the easy kind that happens when people know each other well enough to find comfort in silence, or in nothing at all.
It floated toward the bathroom like a reminder—of what stability looked like, what softness could sound like. But to Ava, it felt distant. Like a scene behind glass. Something she could observe but never quite enter.
“You okay in there?” Emily called, gentle.
“Yeah,” Ava answered. Her voice didn’t quite clear the door.
She opened the bathroom door slowly, the soft latch giving way with barely a sound. The hallway felt colder now—like the warmth from the bedroom had retreated while she was gone, or maybe she’d just left too much of herself behind on the bathroom floor. When she stepped into the room, both Emily and Devin looked up. Their smiles were easy, natural—habitual. The kind reserved for someone you care about and live beside. No tension. No edge. Just welcome. But Ava hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she could wear that version of herself right now. The one who smiled back like everything was fine.
“We can just hang out,” Emily said, sitting up. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Ava stood in the doorway a second too long, like she’d forgotten what came next. Her eyes flicked between them, the soft bed, the warm light, the version of comfort she couldn’t quite step into yet. She shifted her weight, fingers curling slightly at her sides, like maybe they were supposed to be holding something. Or someone. Then, slowly, she stepped forward.
“I think I’m just gonna go home,” she said finally.
Emily’s smile softened. “You sure?”
Ava nodded. “Yeah. I just… I need to be alone.”
There wasn’t judgment in the pause that followed—no sharp glances, no questions waiting just behind their teeth. Just concern, steady and quiet. The kind that didn’t demand an explanation or try to fix anything. It lingered in the way Emily’s brows pulled together slightly, in the way Devin’s posture softened, as if they were both trying to make room for whatever Ava was carrying. It wasn’t the kind of concern that overwhelmed. It just sat there, still and patient, offering her space to speak if she wanted, or not. No rush. No expectation. Just a shared understanding that something was off, and they were still choosing to meet her with kindness.
“You want us to call you a ride? Or one of us can take you home?” Emily asked.
“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
Emily didn’t follow her to the door. She stayed in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, offering Ava a small, tired smile from across the room.
“Text me when you get home?” she said, her voice light but kind.
Ava paused by the door, slipping her shoes back on slowly. She looked up, returned the smile—grateful, but muted.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I will.”
And that was it. No hugs. No lingering. Just a quiet understanding. Ava stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her with a gentle click.
[...]
The street was still. Empty. Cold in that quiet, aching way that slips past your skin and sinks into your sleeves, your bones. Ava pulled her coat tighter, arms crossing over her chest like maybe she could hold herself together if she just stayed small enough. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the sidewalk, each one a reminder of how alone she was in this moment. Head down. Eyes stinging, or rather, burning.
She didn’t cry. Not yet. But the tears were there—pressing behind her eyes, threatening with every breath. Her throat ached from holding them back, jaw clenched too tight. The city felt vast and indifferent around her, the kind of silence that made your memories louder.
And god, the memories.
Deborah brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lingering longer than she had to, glancing at her lips. Deborah dragging her out of bed at some hideous hour with shitty coffee just because she thought of a new joke. Deborah demanding they go shopping together. Deborah defending her—sometimes brutally, sometimes silently. Deborah showing up when no one else did. Holding her hand after the cyst ruptured. Attending her father's funeral. Demanding they turn the bus around, missing time, all to find her father's ashes again, even when everyone else didn't want to. Climbing into that stupid dumpster to get her father's ashes back. Publicly declaring her gratitude for Ava. Teaching Ava to float. All for Ava.
She had never done that for anyone else.
Ava blinked hard, and the tears finally broke loose—spilling over before she could stop them, warm against the sting of the cold night air. They traced down her cheeks in slow, aching lines. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, quick and furtive, like if she moved fast enough, maybe they wouldn’t count. Like she didn’t want to give the night the satisfaction of seeing her break. Or admit, even to herself, that she already had.
She just wanted it to go back. Not even to the beginning—just back to the version of them that worked. Where the fights were fire but the forgiveness was real. Where the touches meant something but no one had to name it. Where Deborah looked at her like she was necessary. Where she could believe that maybe she was.
The ache in her chest pulsed like a bruise—deep and stubborn, like something she’d pressed too hard for too long. It didn’t throb with fresh pain anymore. It just sat there, constant and dull, like part of her had been hollowed out and filled with something she couldn’t name.
She kept walking, her boots scuffing lightly against the pavement, each step slower than the last. The city didn’t notice. The streetlights didn’t flicker. The world kept turning as if nothing had changed, as if it hadn’t all come undone for her hours ago. She didn’t know where she was going, not really. She told herself she was just heading home, but it didn’t feel like a destination—just movement. Forward.
[...]
Her apartment felt darker than usual. Not just unlit—but dense. The kind of dark that pressed in from the corners rather than faded out with time. It wrapped around her like a weight, like silence with hands. She didn’t bother with the lights. Didn’t need them. The space was familiar enough to navigate by memory, and besides, she wasn’t in the mood to see things clearly.
She kicked off her shoes with a half-hearted shove, dropped her bag where it landed, and stood there in the middle of the room—still in her coat, arms loose at her sides. Just breathing. Just existing in the hush of everything she hadn’t said.
Her phone buzzed again, the sound sharp and sudden against the quiet, like it didn’t belong. Like it had broken something sacred.
[TEXT FROM JOSEFINA]:
She won’t talk to us, won’t say what happened. She's not OK.
Ava’s jaw clenched—sharp and tight, the muscles twitching with restrained fury. Her thumbs hovered over the screen for half a second, then moved with purpose, angry and fast, like the message was already burning in her fingers and just needed a place to go.
She was so tired of this. Of being the one who fixed things. Of cleaning up the messes Deborah made while pretending they weren’t hers. Every time, Ava stepped in. Every time, she solved the problem. The show, the chaos, the goddamn ashes in the bus. She always put the pieces back together. She was just so fucking tired of watching her skirt around apologies like they cost more than all the fucking crystal in her house. And Deborah never once just said the words.
No, instead, Deborah had begged her to come back. Had pulled her in—again—under the pretense of trust, of care, of needing her. She asked her to be head writer. Told her she was the only one who got it, the only one who could do it. And then the second it got uncomfortable, suddenly she was disposable.
Ava’s eyes burned again, this time not from sadness—but from that sharp, aching edge of resentment that lived just beneath the grief. The kind that made it hard to breathe.
[TEXT TO JOSEFINA] :
i’m not reaching out just so she can shut me out or hurt me again.
she can’t keep burning bridges and pretending she’s the victim.
She set the phone aside with more force than she meant to, the dull thud of it hitting the table echoing louder than it should have. Her limbs moved on autopilot, carrying her to the couch, where she collapsed without ceremony or thought, still wearing the weight of the night like another layer of skin.
The throw blanket was crumpled at the far end. She tugged it over herself, rough and tight across her chest, like armor stitched from cotton. Like if she held herself together tightly enough, she wouldn’t have to feel everything unraveling inside her.
She didn’t close her eyes. Didn’t even blink much. She just stared at the ceiling, the shadows, the dim slant of light from the window. Letting the silence settle around her like dust in a room no one had touched in years.
If Deborah wanted distance, she had it, Ava thought. If she wanted coldness, control, detachment—she could have that too.
Ava had peeled herself open too many times for someone who couldn’t even say I’m sorry. She’d been soft. She’d tried. And she was done. If Deborah wanted a shark, she got it, because she fucking made one of Ava.