Page 74 of Surrender
Sophie nodded. She didn’t blame her.
Gwen stepped aside, and Sophie walked in.
The flat was small—modest, lived-in, but hollow in a way that made Sophie’s chest ache. Not just empty, but miserable. The kind of place where someone existed rather than lived.
Dead plants lined the windowsill, their brittle leaves curled and brown. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in just enough light to make the shadows more obvious.
In the far corner, a desk sagged under the weight of unopened mail, flyers and envelopes stacked haphazardly as if Gwen kept meaning to deal with them but never quite got there.
The other tabletops—what little there were—were coated in a fine layer of dust. Not neglectful, exactly. More like someone had stopped trying.
There were no pictures. No mementos. No signs of a life being built. Just the bare bones of what someone needed to get through the day: a couch, a kettle, a blanket tossed over the back of the couch like an afterthought.
It looked like a place someone came to hide.
It was then Sophie, who had spent the last few weeks painting Gwen as the villain in her own mind, suddenly realized she’d gotten it all backwards.
“How long have you lived here?” Sophie asked, needing to fill the silence.
“That’s not really your business,” Gwen said, heading back toward the kitchen, shoulders stiff.
Sophie flinched. Right. She’d earned that.
“I came to talk,” she said, forcing herself to follow. “Not to yell or to accuse.”
Gwen didn’t respond. She poured herself a mug of tea with hands that weren’t quite steady. Another mug sat beside the kettle, already prepared.
She gestured toward it without looking up. Sophie took it—not because she needed tea, but because her hands needed something to hold on to.
She looked around the apartment again. This wasn’t the flat of someone scheming or smug. This was the home of someone who had been surviving, barely.
She glanced at Gwen, who had returned to leaning against the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest like armor. Her sweatshirt sleeves were too long, tugged down over her hands. Her mouth was set in a thin, tired line.
“You don’t even have a painting,” Sophie said softly, voice almost tentative.
Gwen blinked. “What?”
“You don’t have any art or bric-a-brac, or, like, anything. There’s nothing here.”
Gwen’s jaw tensed. She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the same spot on the wall, like if she looked anywhere else the ground might crack open.
“Don’t do that,” she said finally, quiet but sharp. “Don’t come in here and judge me. You don’t get to do that.”
Sophie flinched. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” Gwen cut in. “You came to apologize? Fine. But don’t stand in the middle of my mess and act like you understand it. You don’t. You made your decision about me.”
Sophie’s throat tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Gwen looked at her then, really looked at her—eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, but blazing underneath. “You didn’t even ask me. You just assumed I was the worst version of myself.”
Sophie felt her face burn with shame. There was no good comeback to that. No defense that didn’t sound hollow.
“I came to say that I was wrong,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m sorry. I hurt you, I hurt my brother, and I know that. I just... I needed to tell you in person. Even if it doesn’t change anything.”
Gwen blinked. “Say it again?”
“Don’t push it.”
