Page 17 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

There’s something unnatural about silence when your world’s about to implode.

I close Lucian’s door behind me with care—my eyes falling to the floor.

My plushy slippers are there, right by the entrance. A little worn at the heel.

But they’re not alone.

No. There’s a pair of black stilettos sitting beside them. Sharp. Sleek. The kind of shoes you don’t wear for walking.

They weren’t here this morning, I think uselessly.

I stare at them like they’re some kind of puzzle, like they might start explaining themselves if I wait long enough. But they stay quiet. They say nothing.

And neither do I.

I toe off my shoes and slide into my—the slippers. Like this is just another normal night, and I’m not about to walk into a crime scene where the corpse is my trust.

I take a step. Then another. My body moves, but everything inside me has gone still. I’m operating on pure, fractured instinct.

I don’t call his name. I don’t ask questions I already know the answers to.

I just walk toward the bedroom.

Because I need to see .

Not because I don’t believe it.

But because I do.

And some part of me—stupid, masochistic, hopeful—wants proof that this pain has a shape. A face. A reason.

That it’s real.

That we weren’t.

And I sardonically find myself thinking— this is how Lucian felt that night. Even now, even in this moment, my brain still wants to empathize with the man undoing me.

I don’t brace myself. I don’t look for courage. I don’t even have the impulse to hesitate.

I just push. The door swings open.

I’m expecting it.

But my breath still hitches. My chest still caves inward at the sight.

Lucian is standing near the bed. His bed. Our bed.

Doesn’t matter anymore.

He’s naked from the waist down, a crisp shirt still on him, two top buttons undone—like even in his lowest, he needed some semblance of control. I don’t know why my brain registers these details. But it does.

I don’t look at his face, not at first.

I want to see her .

Her .

She’s perched on the edge of the bed. Shocked and speechless—much like I was. But she’s not hiding.

Not even trying cover up.

And why should she?

She’s beautiful.

She’s got gorgeous breasts. They’re not small or large. They’re... perfect .

Her hips curve like an invitation. Her body looks soft and curvy in all the right places. Her mouth is red. Flushed. Kissed .

Lucian probably already knows what all of her feels like. I did notice that his dick was limp. Maybe I have just walked into the aftermath and he’s done for the night.

My gaze finally crawls back to him.

He’s swaying slightly. Drunk, maybe. But his eyes are locked on me.

Fixed. Clear. Unapologetic.

When he speaks, his voice is raw.

“This...” he chokes, his whole body trembles like he’s holding back more than words, “This is how it feels.”

My lips part with shock, but I’m not planning to interrupt.

I wouldn’t dare.

I want to hear every syllable of the speech he’s been practicing since the day we met again. His ceremonial monologue at the altar of my devastation.

“This is what I felt.”

His voice is steady now, deliberate. “This is what I never got closure from.”

He turns to face me fully.

“Do you understand now?” he asks. His voice breaks. “Do you get what it feels like to be made a fool of?”

The woman mumbles a faint, confused, “What the fuck,” —but we both ignore her. She doesn’t matter.

Like I didn’t. I still don’t.

“Do you?” he asks again, quieter this time. But his voice quivers slightly.

I nod.

I do understand.

I understand what it’s like to have your heart ripped out, like it’s been hollowed out from the inside.

To feel numbness where feelings used to be. But I don’t say any of that.

Because the devastation hasn’t arrived yet.

It will—soon. In a minute, maybe. Just not now. But I certainly won’t be here when that happens.

I look into his eyes—eyes I once memorized like scripture.

Then at her.

Then back at him.

And I make my throat move. Force a sound to emerge from it.

“I understand.”

Inhale .

He watches me. Like he’s waiting for more. I don’t know why he’s frowning in confusion. Because there’s nothing more. Why would there be?

Exhale .

I turn around and walk toward the exit.

Every step feels too soft. Too slow. Like I’m moving through water instead of air.

At the door, I crouch down—my fingers trembling slightly as I remove the slippers. The ones I used to leave here so casually. So shamelessly mine. A claim I didn’t realize I’d need to revoke.

I’m slipping back into my sneakers when I hear the woman yelling. I ignore it.

And then, wordlessly, I reach into the small pocket of my tote.

The copy of his key.

I place it on the small console table by the door. Not hidden. Not dramatic. Just... there.

Without looking back, I open the door. Stepping into the hallway, I let it click shut behind me.

And then I simply walk away—empty, weightless, almost floating.

Another apartment. Another escape. Another humiliation.

Same man.