Page 6 of American Beauty

The house feels hollowwithout her. Too still. Too quiet. Three months of waking up to her beside me, of her laughter echoing through these rooms, of her presence filling every space. And now there’s just silence. Just absence. Just me.

I went through the motions today—woke up, showered, made coffee. But everything felt off. The sheets still smell like her, but she’s not here to tangle herself up in them. Her coffee mug sits beside mine in the cabinet, but she’s not here to fill it. My playlist shuffles to the songs she loves, and instead of catching her singing under her breath in my kitchen, I just stand there, staring at the space where she should be.

Her name flashes on my phone, and a heavy ache settles somewhere behind my sternum—but in the best way. I press accept, and the second her face fills the screen, the world tilts back into place.

God, she’s beautiful.

Soft lighting glows behind her, casting a halo around her hair. And one word comes to mind: mine.

“Hey, favorite. How’s my American Beauty?”

Her lips curve into a lazy smile. “American Beauty? That’s a new one.”

“It’s fitting.”

She hums, considering. “I’ll allow it.”

I smirk, settling deeper into the couch. “Jet lag kicking your ass yet?”

“You have no idea. It’s like my body doesn’t know what time zone it’s in.”

“You slept on the plane, yeah?”

A dry laugh. “Barely. The guy sitting next to me snored so loud the entire cabin vibrated. I thought about suffocating him with my travel pillow. But I figured murder would only delay dinner.”

“Sounds like the Magnolia I know.”

She grins, shrugging. “Yeah, well. You do know me pretty well.”

I chuckle, but the sound fades as I take her in. The way her shoulders relax just seeing me. The way my body eases at the sight of her. Three months together, and now we’re reduced tothis. A phone screen. A whole damn ocean between us.

I hate it.

She sighs, shifting until her cheek rests against her pillow. “Being home is weird.”

“Yeah?”

“Everything is familiar but strange. Like I know this is my space, but after three months away, it almost doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”

I nod, understanding exactly what she means. “I get it. My house doesn’t feel the same without you in it.”

“It was surprising to come back to that. But what wasn’t a surprise? Violet putting on a full-blown welcome-home spectacle at the airport.”

I laugh. “Sounds about right from what you’ve told me about her.”

“Oh, but wait for it. You haven’t heard the best part yet. She was waiting for me at baggage claim wearing a giant inflatable dinosaur costume, holding a sign that said, and I quote, ‘Customs check: declare your regrets and bad decisions here.’”

Regrets. Bad decisions. It’s a joke, but the words stick.

I wonder if she has any about me. Or about us.

Does she second-guess those nights tangled up in my sheets or the way she let herself soften in my arms or the way we blurred the line between casual and something else?

I wonder if she regrets walking away.

“She had the whole airport staring at us, and people were honking as we walked to the car. The whole thing was just so Violet.”

“Did she ask about us?”

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