Page 35 of Shattered

“Living together. Notliving together. Whatever temporary situation this is.” She stared into her tea. “I’m not used to having someone around. Or someone caring if I eat or sleep or burn down the apartment.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t burn down the apartment.”

“Me too. It’s rent-controlled.”

I almost smiled.

She set down her tea and looked at me. “Truce?”

“Truce.”

“I’ll try to be less defensive. You try to be… less perfect.” She narrowed her eyes.

“I’m not perfect.”

“You made breakfast this morning while I was still asleep. The eggs were flawless. The toast was golden. The fruit was arranged artfully. It’s honestly offensive.”

“I’ll make worse eggs tomorrow, I promise. I’ll even leave in some eggshells for an extra crunch.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Thank you.” Then she smiled—real and warm—and something in my chest swelled with warmth.

“I’m going to bed,” she said, standing. “Try not to organize anything while I’m asleep.”

“No promises.”

She headed toward her bedroom area, then paused. “Axel?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For coming tonight. Also, for not making it weird after what my mom said. For just… being there.”

“Always.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it—too honest, too revealing.

But she just smiled and disappeared to her room.

I sat on her couch for a while longer, finishing my tea, trying not to think about Elena’s words or the way Delia had looked at me in the kitchen or the fact that “always” was both a promise and a confession.

Eventually I stood, started my usual evening routine of checking doors and windows and making sure everything was secure.

That’s when I saw them.

Delia’s paintings, stacked against the wall in her art corner. I’d been trying not to look too closely at them all week—it felt invasive, like reading her diary without permission. But tonight, with her words still echoing in my head and Elena’s observation still burning in my chest, I couldn’t help myself.

I moved closer.

The paintings were raw. Bold colors and violent brushstrokes, figures that were simultaneously breaking apart and trying to hold themselves together. Pain rendered visible. Grief made tangible.

One in particular caught my attention—a woman in a white dress, surrounded by shattered pieces of something that might have been mirrors or windows or promises. Her face was turnedaway but her posture screamed devastation. The colors were harsh and beautiful and absolutely gutting.

This was what Delia saw when she looked at herself—and it gutted me.

I stood there for a long time, studying the paintings, understanding for the first time just how hurt she was. Not just her heart or her pride, but her belief in herself as a whole person. Not something broken.

I turned off the lights, settled onto the couch that was definitely too short for my frame, and stared at the ceiling.

Truce, she’d said.