But before we could reach the bed, a figure appeared in the doorway. Anya stood there, barefoot and unabashed, her loose hair cascading over Tristan's shirt—the same white shirt he had worn to bed the night before.
Her lips curved into a playful smirk as she bit down on them, her eyes sparkling with malice. Then, without a care, she threw herself against Tristan's chest, her arms wrapping around him possessively.
I stood frozen, my insides churning as I watched them. Two bodies, so close and so exposed, made me feel like an outsider in my own life. A pitiful clown performing in a tragic farce.
Forcing a smile, I turned away and crawled back under the blanket. "I'm going to sleep now," I murmured, though my voice cracked with the strain of holding back tears.
The rising sun illuminated the room in soft, golden hues, but I kept my gaze fixed on the window, unable to close my eyes.
When Tristan left for work later that morning, Anya lingered behind. She moved through the house with a sense of entitlement, her bare feet padding softly on the floor as if she owned the space.