Eight and a Half Years Ago
John knocked twice before letting himself in. The door creaked as it swung open, and he stepped into the entryway of the apartment.
"Lilly?"
Silence answered him. The kind that prickled at the back of his neck.
No music. No TV. No sarcastic jabs hurled from the couch about his "tragic fashion sense" or his "terminal grumpiness." Just the tick-tick-tick of the cheap wall clock above the mantle and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
He shut the door behind him slowly, frowning.
"Lil?"
She appeared a few seconds later from the hallway, barefoot in worn sweatpants and a hoodie so oversized it looked like it might swallow her whole. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun—more neglected than styled—and her skin looked pale even in the golden hour sunlight filtering through the blinds.
When she saw him, she forced a grin, the kind that looked practiced. "Wow," she said, voice light but tight. "You show up unannounced now? What are we, dating?"
John gave her a long look. "You haven't answered my texts in two days."
She rolled her eyes. "I've been busy."
"You're off work all week."
She waved a dismissive hand and turned toward the kitchen. "You want coffee or something?"
"No. I want to know what the hell's going on."
"I told you—drop it," she said, already rummaging in the cupboard. "Jesus, John. You always get like this."
He followed her in, arms crossed, scanning the apartment as he walked. It was… clean. Strangely so. Not a throw pillow out of place. No books on the coffee table. No wine glass drying on the counter. No unfolded laundry draped over the back of a chair.
It wasn't just clean. It was staged.
Sterile.
He glanced at the wall behind the kitchen table and stopped cold.
There was a hole in the drywall—fist-sized, a ragged circle just below a framed print of a sunlit vineyard. The picture had been tilted slightly to cover it, but not enough to hide the damage.
John's mouth tightened. His voice dropped.
"What happened to the wall?"
Lilly didn't answer. Just poured herself a cup of coffee, carefully avoiding his eyes. Her sleeves slipped down slightly as she lifted the mug—just enough to reveal a dark, deep bruise on her forearm, the shape unmistakably like fingers.
His stomach dropped.
"Lilly…" he said quietly.
She quickly tugged her sleeve back down and turned her back to him, pretending to sip her coffee.
"Did Mark do that?"
"I burned myself cooking."
"Bullshit."
She turned, slamming the mug on the counter so hard it splashed. "I said drop it."
He stepped closer, trying to steady his voice. "You're wearing long sleeves in the middle of a heatwave. There's a goddamn hole in your wall, and you look like you haven't slept in days."
"I'm fine," she snapped. "Stop acting like I'm made of glass."
"You don't have to be made of glass to break, Lil."
She crossed her arms over her chest, like she was holding herself together with the pressure. "Not everything is about you saving the day."
"Is that what you think I'm trying to do?"
"You don't get it," she muttered. "You've never been in love with someone who scares you."
The words came out before she could stop them—and the silence that followed was deafening.
John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "He scares you?"
She looked down at the floor, her voice brittle. "Sometimes."
"Then why are you still with him?"
She didn't answer.
"Lilly," he said, stepping closer. "Talk to me."
Her eyes lifted to meet his. And for a heartbeat, he saw it—pure, undiluted fear. Not of him. Not of confrontation. But of the truth.
Then, just as fast, the mask slid back into place.
"He's under a lot of stress. Work's been rough. He's trying. I just—I push too much sometimes. Say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I don't mean to—"
"You're making excuses for him."
Her jaw clenched. "Because he's not all bad."
"You're scared of him."
"I said drop it."
"I can't."
"You have to."
The buzz of her phone on the counter broke the moment. They both looked.
Mark.
Her hand trembled as she reached for it, turning the screen face-down. Her shoulders dropped like something inside her deflated. "He doesn't like it when I don't answer right away."
John's voice was low, shaking. "You don't owe him anything."
"I love him," she whispered.
"You don't love someone who hurts you."
"You think I don't know that?" she snapped, suddenly shaking. "You think I don't wake up every morning and wonder if today's going to be the day he really loses it? You think I don't look at myself in the mirror and wonder who the hell I've become?"
John stepped back, gutted. "Then leave."
"I can't!" she shouted. "Where would I go? What would I do? He watches everything. He knows when I leave, when I get back. If I stop answering—if I disappear—he'll come find me. You don't know what he's like when he's really mad."
John's hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Let me help you," he said. "Please. Come stay with me. Just for a while."
"I'm not your project," she muttered, her voice hoarse. "I'm not one of your busted trucks you can fix with a socket wrench and a tank of gas."
"No, you're my sister," he snapped. "And I'm not going to stand here and pretend I don't see what's happening."
She shook her head. "You don't get to come in here, look around for five minutes, and act like you know better."
"Then tell me what's really happening."
She hesitated—just long enough that it broke his heart.
But then her phone buzzed again. A second call. Same name.
She grabbed it and mumbled, "I need to go. He'll be here soon."
"Lilly—"
"Just—drop it. Please."
She looked at him then, and he saw it. The tears she wouldn't let fall. The panic just beneath the surface. And something else: shame.
She was ashamed he had seen her like this.
John stood there, throat tight, unsure of what to do.
"If you ever need me," he said quietly, "any time, any day, you call. I'll come get you. No questions."
She gave him a half-nod, avoiding his eyes.
He didn't want to leave. Every bone in his body screamed to drag her out of that apartment. But he also knew pushing her too hard would only drive her deeper into the shadows.
So he left.
But the image stayed with him—the bruises, the hole in the wall, the lie she told herself.
And long after the door closed behind him, he wished he'd kicked it in instead.