My stomach sinks. That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear. Fuck.
Or your prison lover
The front door clicks shut behind me, the sound bouncing off the quiet walls of my townhouse. I press my back against it, exhaling a dragged, quiet breath as the long day finally slips from my shoulders. Home. At last.
I drop my bag onto the entry table, wincing asit tips over, spilling its contents—several lip products, contracts, bridal magazines, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen.
Whatever. I’m too tired to care.
Kicking off my heels, I leave them where they land and head straight to the kitchen. It’s almost a ritual at this point: pour a glass of wine, microwave whatever leftovers I can scrounge up, and pretend I don’t mind eating alone. Tonight’s gourmet feast is two-day-old pasta and a wilted salad that should’ve been thrown out yesterday.
I rest against the counter as the microwave roars, staring out the window at thequiet street below. The glow of the corner lamppost drapes across the pavement, illuminating the row of small shops closed for the evening. Sagebrush Diner, Layered Bakery, Trove and Treasure Antiques—they all look like they belong on a postcard. The kind people send from charming little towns where everyone knows everyone, and no one is lonely.
Lonely is a feeling I’m all too familiar with—it’s my normal. I’m perpetually dateless for big events. Having given up on dating after realizing I’d be resigned to a dating pool filled with incels living in their mom’s basements, guys I grew up with who peaked in high school, and divorcés looking for a wife to take care of them.
On occasion, I’ll entertain a casual fling, but only long enough to scratch the itch and then I’m done. I like being alone. I like that my choices are my own and I never have to defend or explain why I needed to order sushi andTaco Bellin one night.
But for every good day alone, it only takes one bad one to derail me. To make me question all the choices I’ve made leading up to this point in my life. And lately? It’s been more often than not.
Everything is too quiet, too still. I can see through the windows of a wine bar across the street where a couple lingersover a cheeseboard. Outside of it, there’s a bench where teenagers are hanging out, laughing and scrolling through their phones. Beside them, the darkened windows of Wildflower Bookshop stand, still smelling like old pages and weathered wood despite a recent remodel. It’s picturesque. Perfect, even.
And yet, all I feel is how small it all is. How big the empty silence feels in comparison.
By the time the microwave beeps, I’m already regretting not stopping for something fresh on the way home. I eat standing up, fork in one hand, wine glass in the other, flipping through emails on my phone between sips and bites.
Another bride wants to change her floral arrangements—again. The mother of a groom has questions about seating charts, which really means she wants me to referee a family feud. And my favorite—a last-minute cancellation from a DJ who “apologizes for the inconvenience.”
I close my phone with a sigh and set it on the counter. For all its chaos, I love my job. But sometimes, it feels like everyone else is celebrating something—love, family, milestones—and I’m just the facilitator. I make the magic happen but never get to actually experience it for myself.
After finishing my sad excuse for a dinner, I shuffle into the living room and sink onto the couch. My feet throb from hours in heels, and I stretch them out, wiggling my toes like it’ll somehow undo the damage.
The remote sits on the coffee table next to a stack of new books I wish I could dive into if my eyes weren’t so dry and tired. I know if I turn on the TV, I’ll fall asleep halfway through whatever I’m watching. I grab it anyway, flipping aimlessly through streaming services, the silence is unbearable. Romance movies, wedding shows, reality dramas about couples finding love—it’s like the universe is taunting me.
I settle on a documentary about a woman who killed herhusband, something neutral and unromantic. As the narrator drones on, I’m reminded of my jail cell mate and wonder if I’ll ever see her in a documentary one day.
Glancing at the empty spot on the couch next to me, for a second, I imagine what it would be like to come home to someone. To share the leftover pasta, complain about work, and laugh about all my weird work emergencies.
Shaking my head, I push the thought away, fixing my gaze back to the TV. Not sure where that came from.
When even the wife’s murderous confession can’t grab my attention, I reach for my phone, needing a change of plans.
Ignoring the string of missed calls from a number I don’t recognize again, I send a message in the group chat with my sisters, our cousin Tawny, and Marisa, to see if anyone’s up for a drink at The Jackalope. Sometimes, being out in a crowd helps quiet my overactive mind, offering a welcome escape from the solitude of my townhouse.
Anyone free for a drink? On me.
LAYLA
Ugh wish I could. I have a practicum to study for
ARIANA
I’m already in bed for the night. Sorry Elle
MARISA
We’re getting ready for bed. Rain check?
TAWNY
