Page 88 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
His hand lingered on the doorframe for a second before he stepped away, and it made my stomach twist. He’s probably wondering what the hell happened. I hate that I let him walk away without telling him.
My phone buzzes again on the couch—tenth time, maybe more. I don’t check it. I can’t handle their names lighting up my screen right now.
Ethan. Jake. Liam. Over and over, like a song on repeat that I don’t know the lyrics to anymore.
I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to talk. I want to go back to yesterday, when things were complicated, but in a manageable way.
There’s a sudden knock on my front door.
I freeze mid-step. The sound punches the breath out of my lungs.
I reach for the knob with a hand that trembles, my heart hammering so hard I think they might hear it through the wood.
I almost don’t want to open it, not because I don’t want to see them, but because once I do—once I tell them—I can’t take it back.
The door creaks open, and there they are.
Ethan stands in front, his brow furrowed in quiet concern, his hands at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me. Liam is just behind him, tall and still, his mouth a tight line.
Jake has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to take up less space even though everything about him isloud.
My throat constricts. Just like that, I’m out of air again.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice so small it almost gets lost in the wind rushing through the open doorway.
Ethan steps forward, voice soft, careful. “Can we come in?”
I nod and move back wordlessly. They file in slowly, the silence dragging behind them like a storm cloud, heavy with expectation.
The door clicks shut, and it feels final. Like a gate closing behind us, locking us into the moment.
I just stand there, staring at the backs of their heads as they move into the living room, which feels too small all of a sudden. The walls inch closer with every breath I take.
The sheer curtains let in the fading light, golden and stretched across the floor like spilled honey.
It lands in warm patches across the coffee table, highlighting the stack of unopened mail and an old mug with dried tea leaves clinging to the rim. Dust floats through the beams of sunlight, suspended, waiting.
Jake’s the first to speak, turning slowly toward me. “Maya, what’s going on?”
He stands near the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle like he needs something to hold onto. His jaw is tight, his brows pulled together. There’s tension in his shoulders, but underneath it—worry. Real, raw worry.
Liam moves next, easing down onto the edge of the worn-out gray armchair. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me. His eyes follow every small motion I make like he’s trying to read between the lines of my silence.
“You don’t have to tell us if you’re not ready,” he says gently. “But we’re not leaving until we know you’re okay.”
My chest caves in. I can feel it. The way I’m cracking open. The way the truth claws its way up my throat even though I’ve tried to bury it under layers of doubt and fear.
I rub both hands over my face, trying to steady my voice, but it shakes anyway.
“I was going to tell you. Iamgoing to tell you. I just… I didn’t know how.”
They wait.
No pushing. No impatience. Just three men who’ve seen me at my worst and are still here, waiting to hold whatever pieces fall.
I sink down onto the edge of the couch. The cushions sigh under me like they know the weight I carry. My legs bounce nervously as I stare down at my hands. They’re trembling.
I tuck them under my thighs like I can hide the evidence of my unraveling.
