Convenient

Ellen wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan, the fabric rough against her damp skin. The motion was instinctive, an attempt to hide the tremor in her hand beneath the sleeve, to keep her cheeks dry and erase the evidence of weakness before it could be seen. She tucked the damp cuff back inside her coat sleeve, as if sealing away the grief threatening to spill over.

The air in the small, dimly lit bedroom was thick with the scent of stale perfume . . . too floral, too sweet, like it was trying to cover something rotten. Heavy curtains, layered with dust, filtered the weak street-light into streaks of gold and gray. The wooden floor beneath her feet groaned faintly, each creak stretching the silence thinner, tighter.

She drew in a breath.

Shaky.

Unsteady

Then turned her focus back to the task at hand. Packing . . . Packing up her life into a holdall, a backpack, and a scuffed suitcase. The zipper teeth were worn, the handle cracked from years of use. They sat open on the bed, empty but expectant, silent witnesses of her existence.

One by one, she shoved clothes inside, not bothering to fold, not caring if they wrinkled. A pair of knickers slipped between her fingers, soft cotton against her palm. The scent of soap and detergent clung to them, too clean for this place, this moment. She barely noticed, barely registered what she was doing, until a voice sliced through the air like a blade.

“They’re mine.”

Ellen’s body tensed at the sound.

The voice was possessive and undeniably feminine.

She turned her head slowly.

The woman . . . her . . . was barely concealed by the sheets, her bare shoulders exposed, her dark hair spilling over the pillows, her gaze cool, unapologetic. The sheets were twisted around her like vines, careless, intimate. She wasn’t embarrassed. Wasn’t ashamed. If anything, her persona felt . . . expectant. Even so, the woman still held a fist of duvet in front of her face like a small shield, masking her identity.

Ellen’s fingers curled around the fabric in her hands, her grip iron-tight, nails digging into the cotton. Anger simmered beneath her skin, creeping up her spine, tightening her throat.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled the knickers from her bag and tossed them toward the woman, who caught them with her other hand, before disappearing the knickers beneath the covers.

From beside her, Tod spoke. “Ellen . . . ” he started, voice hoarse, uncertain. His face a mask of guilt and stupid. Like a dog that’s got caught in a pile of feathers and two empty sofa cushions.

Ellen turned on him with a look so sharp it could have drawn blood.

She didn’t need his words.

Didn’t want them.

Not now.

Not ever.

She slipped into the straps of backpack, then yanked the strap of her holdall over her shoulder. Combined, they were heavier than she expected, pulling at her frame, making her stumble for just a second. The weight was wrong . . . more than fabric, more than belongings. It carried something unseen, something that curled around her ribs and squeezed.

She gritted her teeth and straightened her spine.

She would not let him see her struggle. She would rather drag these things down the stairs, one agonising step at a time, than let him think she was anything less than strong.

“Ellen…” he tried again, his voice thick with something insufferable . . . pity. “It’s been over for a while… hasn’t it? We both knew it. I just… I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

She forced herself to keep her expression blank, to breathe through the ache in her chest.

Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him see you break.

“You’re a good person,” he continued, shifting awkwardly as if the weight of his own words was too much to bear. “But we don’t love each other… not really. We’ve been treading water for years… this was just… convenience.”

Convenience?

That’s all I ever was?

Ellen’s breath hitched, but she swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

She paused in the doorway, fingers tightening around the worn handle of the old suitcase. “Well,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I guess I don’t know what love is then. Because… I thought we did.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Ellen… you showed up at my door with a bag of clothes after one date. You only stayed because you didn’t have anywhere else to go. I know you left to get away from your dad…”

She flinched. A small reaction, but he caught it. His expression softened.

“I care about you… but, I want someone who loves me. Really loves me. Not someone who’s just… pretending.”

Ellen’s heart cracked, but she refused to let it show. She forced herself to meet his eyes, her voice like steel when she spoke.

“I didn’t need charity. You had two years to tell me I was just intruding.”

Tod exhaled, the anger bleeding from his expression, replaced by something more passive, more weary. “Just… don’t go yet. Not until you’ve found somewhere else. One of us can take the sofa.”

Her pride burned at the offer. She squared her shoulders, transferring the pain from the holdall strap to a different area. “I’ll be fine. I already have somewhere else to stay.”

It was a lie.

A blatant, bold-faced lie.

But she said it with such certainty that even she almost believed it. She lifted her chin, casting one last glance at him, at the woman tangled in the sheets.

“Goodbye, Tod.” Then, shifting her gaze towards the woman, “Goodbye, Amy.”

Amy lowered the duvet just enough for Ellen to see her face . . . a flash of triumph, tempered by guilt. “Goodbye, Ellen,” she said softly, voice thick with finality.

Ellen turned away before she could hesitate, before she could second-guess herself. Her legs carried her forward, step by step, out the door, down the hall, front door already open, a dimly lit iron staircase beyond . . . But just as she reached the stairs, just as she felt the cold bite of the night air, Amy’s voice cut through the silence.

“I love him, Ellen.”

Ellen stopped in her tracks. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t breathe. The weight of those words crushed the air from her lungs.

“Really…” Amy continued, her voice quiet but firm. “I love him.”

Ellen closed her eyes, her head falling forward, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She let out a slow, measured breath, then whispered, “I know you do, Amy… I’m glad it was you.”

And then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

Inside, Tod let himself slowly fall back onto the bed beside Amy, no words, just silence, they embrace, tangled in each other’s arms, guilt staining every moment, acutely aware of the trail of hurt their love had left behind.