Jealousy has a way of distorting truth.
Elara convinced herself that Adrian's laughter with Mara meant more than it did, that shared history outweighed present connection. She replayed moments endlessly, assigning meaning where none had been spoken aloud.
Adrian, meanwhile, struggled with his own reflection. He had always been cautious with attachment, careful not to rely too heavily on anyone. But Elara's withdrawal unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Mara noticed both of them unraveling.
"You're afraid," she told Adrian one afternoon, blunt but gentle. "And you're hurting her because of it."
Adrian didn't deny it.
Later that night, he confronted Elara.
"You don't get to decide what I feel without asking," he said quietly.
"And you don't get to make me feel replaceable," she replied, voice trembling despite her efforts.
The argument didn't resolve anything. It exposed too much, too soon.
But beneath the misunderstanding was something undeniable: they cared.
And caring, once acknowledged, could no longer be ignored.