Page 36 of American Beauty

A soft knock interrupts my downward spiral, and I glance up as Violet slips inside, holding a cup from my favorite coffee shop. Her expression is gentle, her eyes full of kind understanding only your closest friend can offer.

“Morning,” she says, placing the cup on my desk. “I figured you could use this.”

The familiar scent of caramel and espresso drifts up, but instead of comfort, it only makes my stomach roll. “Thanks, Vi, but I’m not sure I can keep anything down.”

She sits in the chair across from me. “I’m sorry, Mags.”

A fresh wave of pain crashes over me, and I blink, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. “I can’t talk about him anymore.”

Before she can respond, my office door opens with a quiet click, and Elijah steps inside like he belongs here. His gaze sweeps over me, slow and assessing.

“You look… tired.” He steps closer, too close, as if he’s testing how much I’ll tolerate today. “Rough morning?”

Violet straightens in her seat, throwing him a warning glance, but Elijah doesn’t acknowledge her.

I sit up straighter. “It hasn’t been a great morning.”

He moves around my desk and perches on the edge. “I worry about you, Mags. You push yourself too hard. You always do.”

I clench my jaw, my patience wearing thin. “I’m fine.”

Disappointment flashes across his face. “I’m trying to look out for you. I hate seeing you this way.”

Violet clears her throat, her tone sharper than usual. “She said she’s fine, Elijah.”

“Sure.” He pushes off my desk and stands. “I’ll be around if you need anything. You know where to find me.”

Violet gets up and shuts the door he left open. “Forget Elijah. Forget everything else for now. Let yourself feel this. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I nod, staring down at the untouched cup on my desk. “Thanks, Vi. For always being here.”

She reaches for my hand and squeezes. “Always. And I mean that. If you need to fall apart, I’ll be right here to help you put yourself back together.”

“It may come to that.”

“I’ve got a broom, duct tape and Gorilla Glue ready to go.”

“You’re the best, Vi.”

“I know.”

She leaves, and I let my head fall into my hands, wondering how much longer I can hold myself together before I break apart.

The morning drags on in a blur of unanswered emails and half-finished sketches, my brain refusing to focus on anything but the text burning a hole in my phone screen.

Don’t call or text me again. That would only make this worse. This relationship is over.

I’ve read it so many times I can see the words even when I close my eyes, looping through my mind like a broken record I can’t turn off.

I stare down at the mood board glowing on my tablet, the layout of fabrics, color swatches, and furniture samples blurring together into an uninspired mess. I’ve rearranged them at least a dozen times, but nothing clicks. Every combination is wrong—disjointed and lifeless.

My work, the thing that has always grounded me, is foreign today. Like I’m grasping at something that just isn’t there. I set the tablet aside, rubbing at the ache forming between my brows.

A shaky breath escapes me, and I blink hard against the sting in my eyes.

I don’t understand. I just don’t. We were fine. Weren’t we?

I squeeze my phone so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.

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