I stood at the very back of the crowded bookstore, swallowed by the noise of Austin’s book launch. The moderator smiled, leaning into her microphone. “That lingering heartbreak in the final chapters—the one everyone is crying over. Was that written for your wife?” Austin kept his head down, casually flipping through a copy of his own novel, offering no answer. Beside him, Flora offered a soft, knowing smile. She reached over, smoothly taking the pen from his fingers to sign the book for the fan in front of them. When someone in the crowd yelled out to ask who she was, she looked up, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m just his most important reader.” A ripple of knowing laughter swept through the room. A photographer tapped my shoulder. “Excuse me, can you step back? You’re blocking the light.” I retreated until my back pressed against a cold concrete pillar, the shadows swallowing me. Suddenly, my mind drifted back eight years. I had been burning with a hundred-and-four-degree fever, shivering under three blankets. But the moment Flora called, Austin walked out the door. When he finally returned, his voice had been flat, defensive: “It was just a fever, Georgia. If her debut manuscript got ruined in that flood, she would have lost everything.” It wasn’t until the signing ended and the crowd dispersed that he strolled over to me. “Why were you standing so far away?” “I didn’t want to block the light.” He frowned, his brow furrowing. “You’re acting strange today.” I offered a faint, tired smile. “It’s nothing. I just suddenly realized something.” “What’s that?” I didn’t answer. The truth was simple: I had finally realized that no matter how much ground I yielded over the last eight years, I would never get him to share even a sliver of his light with me. “I’m heading out first.” “You aren’t waiting for me?” “No,” I said softly. “Not today.” Walking out of the venue into the chilly Boston air, I pulled out my phone and sent an email to the editor at Pacific Crest Press: “Regarding the writing residency you offered me in the Outer Banks—I’ve decided to accept.” … When Austin pushed open the study door, I had just closed the digital contract from the publisher. He leaned against the doorframe, lazily rolling his wrist. On it was a beaded sandalwood bracelet Flora had brought back from a temple in Kyoto. She always told him that writers needed to wear it to ground themselves against the vanity of fame. He had scoffed at the sentimentality of it, yet he hadn’t taken it off for a year. Meanwhile, the silver compass keychain I had given him years ago had lost its ring months back, and he hadn’t even noticed. “What are you looking at?” he asked, walking toward me and reaching for my phone. I pressed the power button, darkening the screen before his fingers could touch it. “Nothing.” He was always observant. Writers are like that—they build entire dramas from the slightest shift in tone or a misplaced glance. Except, in the past, he had never bothered to direct that sharp intuition toward me. Tonight, though, he was uncharacteristically stubborn, refusing to let the minor awkwardness slide. He took another step closer, his voice dropping. “Are you throwing a tantrum because of the interview today?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Am I allowed to?” He slipped off his heavy coat and draped it over the back of a chair. “If you’re going to bring up old history over a few harmless jokes from a moderator and some fans, then maybe I shouldn’t have abandoned my work to come home tonight.” He made it sound so effortless. His blatant favoritism was just a joke; my grief was merely “bringing up old history.” I pushed the literary magazine on my desk toward him. The cover bore a quote in bold, mocking print: “I have written of every kind of love under the sun, yet I have kept only one lifelong regret.” “Austin, that regret you wrote about—it’s Flora, isn’t it?” His hand hesitated on the edge of the magazine for a fraction of a second before he recovered his composure. He looked at me, his expression perfectly detached. “Georgia, writers need material. You don’t need to force yourself into every metaphor I write. You’re only making yourself miserable.” I stared at him, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. “So after eight years of marriage, I don’t even have the right to be jealous?” Austin opened his mouth, but before he could find his words, his phone buzzed on the desk. “Flora” flashed across the screen in bright, unforgiving light. He glanced at me instinctively, but when he saw my face remained completely blank, he answered it right in front of me. Through the receiver, Flora’s voice came through, trembling with tears. “Austin, my editor just ripped my new draft to shreds. He said it has absolutely no soul. I… I don’t know what to do…” The coldness on Austin’s face dissolved instantly, replaced by a tenderness I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. “Don’t cry. Email me the draft. I’ll look over it right now.” Flora whimpered softly over the line. “But… isn’t it Georgia’s birthday today?” Austin glanced at me, pausing for a brief second before speaking with absolute certainty. “She won’t mind.” When the line went dead, the only sound left in the study was the soft, rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane, heavy and suffocating. Austin pulled a small, wrapped box from the desk drawer and slid it toward me. “Happy birthday.” I didn’t reach for it. He pushed it a fraction closer, his tone softening slightly. “I made reservations at that French bistro downtown. The one you’ve been talking about for two months.” I stared at the box. Eight years of marriage, and he could never remember my actual birthday, couldn’t keep track of my food allergies, and had entirely forgotten that lilies made my throat close up. Years ago, I had withdrawn my own manuscript from the final round of the New England Literary Prize just to stay home and help him polish his breakthrough novel—a sacrifice he had washed from his memory long ago. And yet, tonight, he was actually offering to take me out. I looked at him, feeling a sudden, quiet urge to give this dying marriage one last shred of dignity. So, I nodded. “Okay.” The moment the word left my mouth, his phone buzzed again. He glanced down at the screen, then stood up, grabbing his keys. “Go ahead and head over to the restaurant first. Let me just handle this draft for Flora, and I’ll meet you there in a bit. It won’t take long.” He said it wouldn’t take long. But I sat alone at the candlelit table from seven until eight-thirty. The silver utensils across from me remained untouched. The waitress approached for the third time, asking gently if she should clear the cold appetizers. At nine-thirteen, my phone finally buzzed with a text. “Flora’s chronic stomach pain flared up. I’m taking her to the ER.” Thirty seconds later, a follow-up arrived: “Go ahead and eat without me.” I stared at those cold pixels on the screen, a slow smile stretching across my face until my eyes stung with unshed tears. When I got back to our apartment, Austin’s leather shoes from this morning were sitting by the entryway, spotted with rain. Next to them hung the charcoal cashmere scarf Flora had knitted for him. She had told him the color brought out his eyes, and he had worn it every single day of the winter. On the coffee table lay a stack of advance copy editions of his new book, pristine and white. The paper band wrapped around the cover read: “To the one who taught me the meaning of longing.” I picked up a copy. On the title page, in his elegant, sweeping handwriting, was a personal inscription: “For Flora: May you always find the courage to begin again.” Once, on our fifth anniversary, I had begged him to write a simple inscription in a book for me. He had scoffed, saying married couples didn’t need to perform such meaningless, superficial gestures. It wasn’t that he disliked writing them; he just didn’t think I was worth the effort. My fingertips lightly traced the ink of his dedication. After a long moment, I closed the book, went to the closet, and began packing my life into old cardboard boxes. At one in the morning, the lock clicked. Austin walked in, his coat slung over his arm, his face etched with exhaustion. When he saw the half-filled boxes in the living room, he froze. “What are you doing now?” I kept my head down, wrapping packing tape around the seams of a box. “Just sorting through some old books.” He strode over and pressed his hand firmly against the cardboard flaps, stopping me. “Georgia, is this really necessary? Are we going to do this all night?” The harsh, scraping sound of the tape dispenser tearing filled the room. I looked up at him calmly. “I’m not making a scene, Austin.” “Not making a scene?” He let out a bitter, defensive laugh. “I know I missed dinner, and I’m sorry. But Flora had a hundred-and-three fever and was entirely alone in that waiting room. She had no one.” My voice remained entirely flat. “I was alone in a clinic when my fever hit a hundred-and-four.” Austin’s expression stiffened. I kept going, my tone steady, almost clinical. “Three years ago, when I was admitted for internal bleeding from my ulcers, I called you twelve times. You were at Flora’s debut launch.” He locked his jaw, offering no defense. I remembered lying curled on that cold hospital cot, clutching my stomach. The nurse had grabbed my phone to call my emergency contact. When the call went through, the background was loud with applause and laughter. I could hear the moderator asking Austin what drew him most to Flora’s writing, and his voice carrying clearly over the speaker: “It’s her fierce, unyielding spirit. It’s incredibly rare.” The nurse had given me a look of profound pity, and I had quietly taken the phone back, lying that I must have dialed the wrong number. When he finally came home at dawn and noticed the medical tape on my wrist, his only reaction was: “Why didn’t you tell me it was that serious?” I had told him. But his world was always too loud, too crowded with applause, for my quiet cries to ever reach him. Austin looked away, his impatience flaring. “That was years ago, Georgia. Why do you insist on digging up the past right now?” “I’m not digging anything up.” I reached into the box and pulled out a worn, paperback copy of Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet”. I held it out to him. “Here. This is yours.” He refused to take it. The slim volume hung in the air between us like a delayed verdict eight years in the making. “This was the first book I ever bought you,” I said softly. “Which is why I’m returning it.” With an irritated flick of his wrist, he slapped the book out of my hand. It hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud, the pages sprawling open, and a faded photograph slipped out from between them. It was a picture of me at twenty-two, and him at twenty-four. Back then, before the publishing deals and the glowing reviews, he had been a struggling writer living in a damp basement apartment. A heavy rainstorm had flooded the pipes, soaking his manuscript. I had spent hours sitting on the floor with a hairdryer, carefully drying each page one by one. I remembered him sitting amidst the ruined papers, looking up at me with such fierce sincerity: “Georgia, when I finally make it, my first book is going to be dedicated to you. Only you.” I suppose the twenty-four-year-old Austin could never have predicted that by thirty, he would have erased that promise entirely. He stared at the photograph now, a shadow of conflict crossing his eyes. He started to bend down to pick it up, but then, his phone buzzed again. I beat him to it, snatching his phone off the table before he could. Austin’s face darkened. “Georgia, put that down.” I looked down at the screen. Two notifications from Flora were glowing on the lock screen. “Austin, I had a nightmare that you left me.” “Can you come back and stay with me for a bit? Just a little while.” Austin’s fingers twitched. I slid the phone back into his palm. “Go. You wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.” He stared at me, his tone turning accusatory. “Do you have to be so incredibly bitter?” I let out a soft, tired laugh. “Austin, I sat alone in a quiet restaurant for three hours tonight.” But he didn’t get it. He never would. I picked up my own phone and sent a quick email back to the residency coordinator: “I can leave early. The sooner, the better.” He left anyway, slipping back into the rainy night to comfort Flora. When the door clicked shut, the silence in the apartment was deafening. My phone rang almost immediately—it was Chase Crane, the editor-in-chief of Pacific Crest Press, his voice bright and eager over the line. “Georgia, the cottage overlooking the shore just freed up. If you’re still interested, you can move in as early as three days from now.” I stared out the window at the endless, gray Boston rain. “Three days,” I murmured. “I’ll be there.” Austin didn’t return that night, nor the next morning. I spent the day packing my life into suitcases: my ID, my laptop, a few changes of clothes, and the yellowed, handwritten manuscript of “Southern Tides” that I had kept tucked inside an old binder. Eight years ago, I had been on the verge of finishing that novel. When I had nervously handed him those pages back then, he had flipped through only two sheets before tossing them aside with a shake of his head. “Your prose is too soft, Georgia. It doesn’t have the weight to carry a full-length novel. Don’t waste your energy.” I had believed him. For eight years, I never touched a novel draft again. At ten the next morning, the door opened. I had just zipped my suitcase when Austin walked in, supporting a pale, fragile-looking Flora. She was wearing his wool coat over her shoulders, one hand clutching her stomach. The moment her eyes fell on my suitcase, her eyes welled up with tears. “Georgia, please don’t misunderstand. My stomach was hurting so badly, and Austin was worried the paparazzi would spot us at the hotel, so he brought me here to rest.” I looked past her to Austin. “Why is she here?” He helped her onto our sofa, then looked up at me, his tone completely matter-of-fact. “It’s not safe for her at her hotel right now.” “And?” “Go prep the guest room for her.” He said it so casually, so naturally, as if in this home where I had spent eight years of my life, I was the guest and she was the family. My hand tightened around the handle of my suitcase, my feet glued to the floor. Austin’s brow furrowed, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Georgia, don’t start a fight right now.” Flora immediately scrambled to her feet, her voice trembling. “No, Austin, it’s fine. I’ll leave. I don’t want to make Georgia uncomfortable, and I certainly don’t want to come between you two.” She turned toward the door, but as she took a step, she stumbled, leaning heavily into the coffee table. A glass of hot tea wobbled and went over, splashing scalding water across the wooden surface. I jumped back, but a spray of the near-boiling liquid caught the back of my hand, leaving a bright red welt. Yet, it was Flora who clutched her wrist, tears streaming down her face. “Georgia, why did you push me?” I stood frozen, the absurdity of the accusation stealing the air from my lungs. Austin didn’t hesitate for a single second. He rushed forward, pulling her into his arms, desperately checking her hands. “Did you get burned? Let me see.” Flora whimpered, holding up her wrist to show a barely visible pink mark. Meanwhile, the back of my hand was throbbing, a blister already starting to form. Austin didn’t even look in my direction. “Apologize to her,” he snapped. I stared at him, convinced I had misheard. “What did you say?” He looked up, his eyes cold, his words cutting deep. “I said, apologize to Flora. She’s sick, and you just shoved her. When did you become so petty, Georgia?” I stared at him in silence. If he had cast even a single glance at my hand, I might have found a way to lie to myself—to believe that eight years of history couldn’t possibly be reduced to this. But he didn’t look. Flora leaned against his shoulder, her voice dripping with sweet reason. “Austin, don’t be angry with Georgia. I’m sure she only did it because she loves you so much.” Austin adjusted his coat around her shoulders. “Loving someone doesn’t give you the right to hurt people.” A short, dry laugh escaped me. “Austin, do you honestly believe I pushed her?” His gaze was entirely flat. “I know what I saw. I believe my own eyes.” “And did your eyes catch my hand getting scalded?” His gaze flicked down, resting on the raw, red skin of my hand for less than a second before he looked away. “You should have been more careful.” The final, fragile thread that had held us together for eight years snapped. I didn’t bother arguing. As Flora sat back down on the sofa, a delicate silver crescent moon pendant slipped out of her collar. On the inner curve of the crescent, a tiny inscription was engraved: “The tides will bring the moon back home.” I stared at the words, the blood in my veins turning to ice. “Where did you get that pendant?” Flora’s hand flew to her neck, trying to cover it. But Austin answered coolly, “I designed it for her.” “Those words,” I whispered, “were from my unfinished manuscript.” Austin’s jaw tightened. “Georgia, don’t start obsessing over a few scrap pages of a dead project. Flora needed a central metaphor for her new book. I thought it fit, so I let her use it.” “Did you ever think to ask me?” He finally lost his temper. “You haven’t written a single sentence in eight years, Georgia! Those pages are just kindling gathering dust in your closet. In her hands, they actually have a chance to become literature.” Flora looked up, eyes wide and innocent. “Georgia, if it bothers you that much, I’ll take it off…” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp, and the heavy silver pendant fell, landing directly in the mug of hot tea. A fresh wave of scalding liquid splashed onto my raw skin. I gasped at the sharp, biting pain. But it was Flora who sobbed first. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I just got nervous…” Austin’s expression darkened completely. “Georgia, enough is enough. Apologize to her. Now.” I looked down at my blistered hand, feeling a strange, hollow calmness wash over me. “And if I don’t?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, commanding threat. “At the New England Literary Gala in three days, you will stand in front of the press and clarify this.” “Clarify what?” “You will tell them that Flora’s novel does not use any stolen material. You will tell them that your early drafts were never intended to be serious literary works.” He pulled a folded document from his pocket and slid it onto the table. It was a single sheet of paper, light as a feather, yet heavy enough to crush the remnants of my life. It was a waiver—a declaration stating that my early manuscripts had no independent creative value, and that I was freely transferring all rights to Flora to use my metaphors, sentences, and character designs. I read every single line before looking up at him. “You wrote this?” Austin calmly adjusted the cuff of his shirt, giving a disinterested shrug. “Our publisher’s legal team helped with the wording. It’s airtight.” “You want me to sign a paper saying the work I spent years of my life pouring my soul into isn’t even worth being called writing?” He walked over, standing over me. “Georgia, look at the bigger picture. Flora’s book is already topping the bestseller pre-order list. If a plagiarism rumor gains traction now, her career will be over before it starts.” A bitter tightness caught in my throat. “So it’s fine if you destroy mine instead?” Austin went quiet. After a few seconds, he reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. It was a tender gesture, but his words were pure condescension. “You’re different, Georgia. You have me.” How beautiful. A poison pill coated in honey. I looked at him and felt a sudden, profound embarrassment for the woman I had been. For eight years, everyone in our circle had told me the same thing: “Be reasonable, Georgia. Don’t make a fuss. You have Austin, and that’s enough.” I lowered my gaze, forcing back the burning behind my eyes. Sensing my silence, his tone grew more pressuring. “Pacific Crest Press is currently bidding for my next essay collection. Their editor-in-chief flew in just to have dinner with me last night. If you drag this out into the public eye and make it a scandal, do you really think they’ll side with a nameless writer who hasn’t published a single page in eight years over me?” He paused, letting his tone soften into a patronizing promise. “Support Flora at the gala. Once this blows over, I’ll talk to my old mentor at the university. If you want to start writing essays or short reviews again, I won’t stand in your way.” I stared at the waiver, the black ink blurring before my eyes. Eight years ago, a single dismissive comment from him was enough to make me bury my dreams. Eight years later, he was asking me to sign a confession of my own worthlessness just to clear the path for another woman. He was truly ruthless. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t argue. I simply picked up the document, folded it neatly, and slid it into my purse. “Fine. I’ll do it.” Austin blinked, caught off guard by how quickly I had bent. He studied my face, trying to read me. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” I kept my eyes on the floor and gave a quiet nod. “Yes.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but from the living room, Flora’s weak voice cut through the air. “Austin… my wrist is really throbbing…” He turned instantly, leaving the study. At the threshold, he paused, looking back at me one last time. “I’m glad you’re finally being sensible.” The moment the front door closed, I wiped my eyes. I reached into my purse, pulled out the waiver, and tore it into tiny, unrecognizable shreds. While they were occupied in the living room, I quietly slipped out of the side door, leaving behind the apartment that had been my prison for eight years. When Austin finally returned to the study, he found only a cold glass of water on the desk. The room was empty. A book lay open under the desk lamp; he glanced at it, unconcerned. I had always been like this—running away when I was upset, crying in a corner until I got over it, waiting for him to offer a few hollow words of comfort so we could go back to normal. He frowned, pulling out his phone. “Where did you run off to now?” There was no reply. He added: “Make sure you sign that waiver tomorrow.” Still, nothing but silence. Austin stared at his screen and let out a dry, irritated breath. “You’re getting more dramatic by the day,” he muttered. In the living room, Flora asked softly, “Is Georgia still angry with me?” Austin pocketed his phone. “She agreed to help. Let her cool off on her own.” He was entirely convinced that I was just throwing a childish tantrum, that once the gala was over, he could buy me a slice of chestnut cake and a bouquet of flowers, and I would open the door with teary eyes and forgive him. He had no idea that by then, I was already boarding a flight heading south. For the next three days, I didn’t send a single text or answer a single call. The night before the gala, Austin’s assistant rushed up to him at his hotel, looking frantic. “Austin, we can’t get in touch with Georgia. Her phone is off, and she isn’t answering any emails.” He tried calling my number himself, only to be met with a cold automated voicemail. His texts went undelivered. No matter how badly we had fought in the past, I had never let him lose face in public. But this time, I hadn’t even grasped the need to leave an explanation. Flora stood nearby, watching anxiously. “Austin, do you think Georgia is still holding a grudge against me?” Austin ignored her. Half an hour later, his assistant ran back over, his face entirely devoid of color, holding out his phone. On the screen was an official announcement just posted by Pacific Crest Press: “We are thrilled to welcome novelist Georgia Wilde to our coastal residency program. Her long-awaited debut novel, Southern Tides, is officially back in production.”
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