Rowan’s fingers skimmed the stem of her wine glass, her grip so light it might have slipped from her hand if she let her mind drift any further. The clink of silverware against porcelain filled the room, mingling with the steady hum of conversation, but it all felt muffled, distant. The dining room glowed with warm light, the golden hues bouncing off the polished wood of the table. Despite the warmth of the setting, Rowan felt a chill she couldn’t shake.

Her family filled the space effortlessly, as they always did. Voices rose and fell in laughter, the occasional burst of teasing punctuating the meal. Aunt Caroline, ever the matriarch of the moment, presided over the table with her usual sharp wit. Rowan tried to let it all wash over her, focusing on the candle at the center of the table. Its flame wavered and stretched as if caught in a draft, but the air around her was still.

She brought her glass to her lips, the sharp tang of wine cutting through the fog in her mind. She would have preferred silence, but in this family, silence was never an option.

“So, Rowan,” Aunt Caroline began, her voice slicing through the hum of conversation with precision. Rowan’s stomach tightened as her aunt’s gaze settled on her. “What happened with you and Ellis?”

The room didn’t go silent—not quite—but the shift was palpable. The laughter tapered off, and the sound of utensils on plates grew more deliberate, less natural. Rowan felt every pair of eyes dart toward her, some with feigned disinterest, others with the sharp curiosity her family never bothered to mask.

She didn’t look up, instead fixing her gaze on the swirling red liquid in her glass. “It just didn’t work out,” she said evenly, the rehearsed line slipping from her lips like a reflex.

But Aunt Caroline wasn’t one to let a thread unravel without pulling it further. “Didn’t work out?” she repeated, her voice dripping with mock incredulity. “That’s all you’re going to say? The two of you were so—” She paused, waving her fork as if searching for the right word. “—solid. What happened?”

Rowan’s jaw tightened, her fingers pressing into the stem of her glass. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the table, and for a moment, she felt as though she were the only one sitting in darkness.

“We wanted different things,” Rowan said, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. She forced herself to meet her aunt’s gaze, hoping the weight of it would end the conversation.

It didn’t.

“That’s a shame,” Aunt Caroline said, her tone heavy with disappointment. “Ellis was such a good man. Everyone thought you two were perfect together.”

Everyone but me, Rowan thought bitterly, though she didn’t dare say it aloud. She kept her face neutral, nodding faintly as her aunt turned her attention to Uncle Martin, who had begun recounting a story about his latest golf game.

The candle’s flame blurred as Rowan’s vision unfocused, the room fading around her as memories clawed their way to the surface.

Ellis had always been the golden boy. Handsome, charming, the kind of man who lit up a room just by walking into it. He was a hothouse flower—cultivated, careful, thriving in controlled environments. Rowan had fallen for that warmth once, drawn to the safety he seemed to embody.

She could still picture the way he used to look at her, his hazel eyes soft and full of something she had mistaken for understanding. He had a way of making her feel like the center of the universe, but only when it suited him.

The last time they’d sat together at this table, the atmosphere had been entirely different. Ellis had charmed her family with his easy smile and quick wit, his stories flowing effortlessly as he played the role of the perfect partner. Her mother had beamed at him, and her father had clapped him on the back, as if silently giving his approval.

“You’ve got a good one,” her mother had said later that night, her voice low as they washed dishes together in the kitchen. “He’s steady. That’s what you need, Rowan. Someone who can ground you.”

At the time, Rowan had nodded, biting back the words that hovered on her tongue. She wanted to say that steadiness wasn’t the same as connection, that grounding could feel like being anchored in place, unable to move. But she hadn’t said anything. She’d smiled, dried her hands, and let the moment pass.

Her memories shifted, unbidden, to the argument that had finally broken them. It had been raining that day, the kind of relentless downpour that blurred the edges of the world. Rowan had been writing, or trying to, her frustration mounting with each word that refused to come.

Ellis had walked into the room, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. “You’re too hard on yourself,” he’d said, his tone light, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to let go of self-doubt.

The words had been the spark that lit the fire. “You don’t get it,” she’d snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut.

Ellis had raised his hands in mock surrender, his smile faltering. “I’m just trying to help.”

“But you’re not helping,” Rowan had said, her voice breaking on the last word. “You’re making it worse. You always make it worse.”

The argument had spiraled from there, years of resentment spilling out in words they couldn’t take back. By the end of it, they had stood on opposite sides of the room, the space between them feeling insurmountable.

Rowan’s chest ached as she pulled herself back to the present. The memories felt like ghosts, their presence heavy and unrelenting. She glanced around the table, at the faces of her family, so full of life and warmth, and felt the absence of Ellis in a way she hadn’t expected.