Chapter Text
The insistent beep-beep-beep of Ava's phone alarm sliced through the pre-dawn gloom. 6:30 AM. Another day. Another day of this . She slapped the snooze button with more force than necessary, burying her face in the pillow. The scent wasn't just fabric softener; it was the specific brand of fabric softener Beatrice always used – "Spring Meadow." A pathetic detail, but one that Ava's brain clung to. It was a phantom limb of their domesticity, a ghost scent of a life she no longer had. She inhaled deeply, trying to conjure Beatrice's actual scent – a subtle blend of lavender shampoo, old books, and something uniquely her , a scent Ava couldn't quite define but would recognize anywhere.
She considered getting up and switching pillows, taking Beatrice's, but the thought felt too desperate, too pathetic, even for her current state. She was clinging to scraps, and she knew it.
Ava finally dragged herself out of bed, the chill of the hardwood floor a sharp contrast to the warmth of the duvet. The apartment, a cozy two-bedroom in the Gràcia district of Barcelona, felt vast and empty despite its modest size. Sunlight was just beginning to creep through the gaps in the wooden shutters, painting stripes across the dusty floor. These weren't just any stripes; they were the exact same stripes she'd watched, mesmerized, on their first morning in the apartment, wrapped in Beatrice's arms, feeling like she'd finally found home. Now, they were just stripes of light, mocking her.
She padded towards the bathroom, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboard outside Beatrice's door. It wasn't just a creaky floorboard; it was the creaky floorboard. The one they'd joked about, the one that always announced their movements, the one Beatrice had tried (and failed) to fix with a strategically placed rug. That rug was still there, a silent testament to their shared history.
The unspoken rule was clear: staggered mornings. Ava got the bathroom first, then Beatrice. They'd perfected a silent, intricate dance of avoidance over the past month, a choreography of near misses and averted gazes. It was exhausting, a constant, low-level hum of anxiety that permeated every moment. It wasn't just about avoiding awkwardness; it was about avoiding the pain, the raw, gaping wound of the breakup.
In the bathroom, Ava stared at her reflection. Dark circles underscored her eyes, a testament to sleepless nights and too much cheap wine – the kind Beatrice always wrinkled her nose at. Her usually vibrant, messy curls were limp and dull. She saw a ghost of the "before" Ava in the mirror – brighter, lighter, happier. This Ava felt like a faded photograph.
She splashed water on her face, the cold a momentary shock to her system. She looked at the two toothbrushes in the holder – hers, a bright pink electric one, and Beatrice's, a simple, bamboo one. They used to tease each other about their toothbrush choices, a silly, mundane detail that now felt loaded with significance.
She brushed her teeth with a ferocity that bordered on aggressive, scrubbing away not just the remnants of sleep but also the phantom taste of Beatrice's goodnight kisses. Kisses that now felt like ancient history, artifacts from a lost civilization. She imagined scrubbing away the memories, the feelings, but they were stubbornly persistent, clinging to her like the scent of "Spring Meadow."
Down the hall, she heard Beatrice's door click open. Ava froze, toothbrush halfway to her mouth. She held her breath, listening to the soft padding of Beatrice's feet heading towards the kitchen. Beatrice always wore those soft, grey slippers – a gift from Ava last Christmas. The thought of those slippers, a symbol of their shared comfort, sent a fresh pang of sadness through her.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a ritual they'd once shared, wafted down the hallway, a cruel reminder of what was lost. It wasn't just coffee; it was their coffee – a specific blend of Arabica beans they'd discovered at a small, independent roastery near their apartment. They'd spent an entire Saturday afternoon sampling different blends, laughing, arguing playfully about their preferences. Now, the smell was a weapon, twisting the knife of her loss.
Ava finished brushing, rinsed, and retreated to her room, closing the door with a soft click. She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of ripped jeans and an oversized band t-shirt – a vintage Ramones tee Beatrice had secretly loved, even though she pretended to disapprove of Ava's "noise" music. The clothes screamed "I don't care" even though she cared desperately. She was performing for an audience of one, a silent, painful rebellion against Beatrice's perceived judgment.
She glanced at the easel in the corner of her room, a half-finished canvas staring back at her accusingly. It was a portrait of Beatrice, started months ago, now abandoned and gathering dust. It was Beatrice at her most relaxed, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, her hair loose, a soft smile playing on her lips. Ava couldn't bring herself to finish it. It was a relic of a past she couldn't bear to revisit, a future she couldn't bear to imagine without Beatrice.
The sound of the kettle whistling signaled that Beatrice was done in the kitchen. Ava waited a few more minutes, a calculated delay, giving Beatrice time to retreat to her room, before venturing out.
The kitchen, once a hub of shared meals and laughter, was now a sterile, neutral zone. A single mug sat on the drying rack, perfectly clean, perfectly alone. It was Beatrice's favorite mug – a plain white ceramic one with a tiny chip on the rim, a chip Ava had caused when she'd accidentally knocked it against the sink. Beatrice had pretended to be annoyed, but Ava knew she secretly loved the imperfection.
Ava grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, peeling it with a sigh. She couldn't bring herself to make coffee; the ritual felt too intimate, too much like a ghost of their shared mornings. She remembered the countless mornings they'd spent in this kitchen, Ava leaning against the counter, watching Beatrice meticulously prepare their coffee, the steam rising around her face like a halo.
She ate the banana standing up, staring out the window at the bustling street below. Barcelona was waking up, the sounds of scooters and chattering voices rising from the street. She envied their normalcy, their uncomplicated lives. She imagined couples walking hand-in-hand, sharing pastries, starting their day together. She felt a pang of loneliness, a deep, aching void where Beatrice used to be.
As she was about to leave, she noticed a small, folded piece of paper on the counter, held down by a ceramic coaster they'd bought together at a flea market – a brightly colored tile depicting a whimsical scene of cats playing musical instruments. They'd haggled with the vendor, laughing, their hands brushing as they reached for the same tile.
Beatrice's neat, precise handwriting: “Rent due Friday. Please leave your half on the table.”
Ava crumpled the note in her fist, a surge of anger and resentment washing over her. It wasn't just the money; it was the cold, impersonal formality of it all. They used to share everything, their finances, their dreams, their fears. Now, they were reduced to terse notes about rent, a business transaction between strangers.
She scribbled a reply on the back: "Got it. Don't spend it all on organic kale." It was petty, she knew, and childish and referencing Beatrice's health-conscious eating habits that was a subtle jab. But she couldn't help herself. She needed to lash out, to express her anger, her hurt, even in this small, insignificant way. She left the note on the table, grabbed her bag, and slammed the apartment door behind her, the sound echoing in the empty space.
(Flashback – One Month Ago)
The air in the apartment that night had been thick with unspoken tension, a suffocating blanket of unspoken words. The remnants of a takeout dinner – paella, their favorite, from their favorite restaurant, "La Barceloneta" – sat congealing on the coffee table. Ava had been unusually quiet, picking at her food, her mind miles away, lost in a labyrinth of self-doubt and anxiety. Beatrice had tried to make conversation, asking about Ava's day, her art, anything to break through the wall that seemed to be growing between them, a wall built of Ava's insecurities and Beatrice's growing frustration.
Finally, Beatrice had put down her fork, the clatter echoing in the silence. The sound was sharp, jarring, like a breaking plate. "Ava," she'd said, her voice soft but firm, the tone she used when she was trying to be patient but was reaching her limit, "we need to talk."
Ava had known, deep down, that this conversation was coming. She'd been avoiding it, delaying the inevitable, building a fortress of denial around herself. But she couldn't run from it any longer. The paella suddenly tasted like ash in her mouth. She'd met Beatrice's gaze, her own eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resignation, a pre-emptive surrender.
"I know," Ava had whispered, her voice barely audible, a thread of sound lost in the vast emptiness of the room.
Beatrice had taken a deep breath, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. "I don't think this is working anymore," she'd said, the words carefully chosen, each one a tiny shard of glass piercing Ava's heart, a slow, agonizing bleed.
"What… what do you mean?" Ava had asked, even though she already knew, her voice a strangled whisper, a desperate plea for Beatrice to take it back, to unsay the words.
"We're on different paths, Ava," Beatrice had explained, her voice trembling slightly, a subtle tremor that betrayed her own pain. "I need… stability. I need to know where I'm going, what I'm doing. You're still… exploring. And that's okay. It's wonderful, actually. But I can't… I can't keep waiting for you to figure things out. I feel like… like I'm holding you back. And that's not fair to either of us." It wasn't just about stability; it was about Beatrice's own anxieties, her fear of being a burden, of stifling Ava's creative spirit.
Ava had felt a cold dread creeping through her veins, a chilling premonition of loss. "So, what? You're… you're breaking up with me?" The words tasted like ash in her mouth, a bitter, acrid taste of defeat.
Beatrice had nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, tears that Ava desperately wanted to wipe away, but she couldn't, she wouldn't let herself. "I think it's for the best. For both of us. I don't want to hold you back, Ava. And I don't want to end up resenting you. I love you, Ava. But love isn't always enough." That was the core of it: Beatrice's fear of resentment, of their love turning sour, of becoming a weight around Ava's neck.
The rest of the conversation had been a blur of tears and whispered apologies, a hazy, painful memory. Ava had begged, pleaded, promised to change, to be more "serious," to get a "real" job, to abandon her art, anything to keep Beatrice from leaving. But Beatrice had remained resolute, her resolve born not of cruelty, but of a deep, agonizing love, a belief that she was doing what was best for both of them.
They'd cried together, holding each other close, the scent of lavender and paint – their intertwined scents – mingling with their tears. It was a breakup filled with love and sadness, a bittersweet farewell to a relationship that had once felt like forever, a ship slowly sinking, not with a bang, but with a whimper. It was a quiet, devastating implosion.
(Present – Evening)
The bar was loud, smoky, and crowded – exactly what Ava needed. Or at least, what she thought she needed. A distraction, a sensory overload to numb the pain. She sat perched on a barstool, nursing a gin and tonic, the ice clinking against the glass a rhythmic counterpoint to the thumping bass of the music. The bar, "El Paraigua," was a familiar haunt, a place they'd often come with friends, a place that now held both happy and painful memories.
Lilith, her best friend since childhood, was beside her, her fiery red hair a beacon in the dim light. Lilith was everything Ava wasn't – grounded, practical, fiercely independent. She was also fiercely loyal, a rock in Ava's often chaotic life. Camila, another friend, a free spirit who flitted from one passion to the next, was dancing with abandon, her laughter echoing above the music. Camila represented a different kind of escape – a carefree, uninhibited approach to life that Ava envied.
"So," Lilith said, leaning in close to be heard over the thumping bass, "how's life in the ex-zone? Still practicing your avoidance ballet?" Lilith's voice was dry, laced with her usual sarcasm, but there was an underlying concern in her eyes.
Ava took a large gulp of her drink, the gin burning a path down her throat. "It's… peachy," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We're practically best friends. We braid each other's hair and share recipes. We even have a chore chart. It's adorable."
Lilith snorted. "Right. And I'm dating the Pope. You look like you haven't slept in days, and that shirt smells suspiciously like despair."
"It's vintage," Ava mumbled defensively, tugging at the hem of her Ramones t-shirt.
"Vintage sadness ," Lilith corrected. "It's just… awkward," Ava admitted, swirling the ice in her glass, watching the liquid slosh around, a miniature representation of her own inner turmoil. "We're like ghosts, haunting the same space. We barely speak. We communicate through passive-aggressive notes and chore charts. It's… pathetic."
"Have you even talked to her? Like, really talked?" Lilith asked, her gaze sharp and perceptive, cutting through Ava's self-pity like a laser beam. "Since the… you know… the apocalypse?"
Ava shook her head. "Just about rent. And whose turn it is to take out the trash. And who ate the last of the organic kale." She added the last part with a bitter twist, remembering her childish note.
"Jesus, Ava," Lilith sighed, running a hand through her fiery hair. "You two are pathetic. You're like two wounded animals, circling each other, afraid to make the first move."
Camila, breathless from dancing, rejoined them at the bar. "What's pathetic?" she asked, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the counter, her energy a stark contrast to Ava's subdued mood.
"Ava and Beatrice's living situation," Lilith explained. "They're basically living in a rom-com, except it's not romantic, and there's no comedy. Just a whole lot of angst, passive-aggression, and the lingering scent of lavender shampoo."
"You need to move on," Camila said, her tone more gentle than Lilith's, offering a different perspective. "Find a new place, a new… everything. Start fresh. Get a cat. Or a plant. Something to take care of that isn't your broken heart."
"Easier said than done," Ava muttered, swirling the remaining liquid in her glass. "Have you seen the rental market in this city? I'd have to sell a kidney to afford a shoebox. And besides," she added, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't want to move on. Not really."
"Then get back together," Lilith said bluntly, her pragmatism cutting through the emotional fog. "Or at least, figure out a way to co-exist without wanting to strangle each other. Or without driving yourselves – and everyone around you – crazy."
Ava finished her drink and signaled to the bartender, a tall, muscular man with a shaved head and intricate tattoos, for another. She recognized him; he'd served them many times before, when she and Beatrice had come here together. He gave her a small, knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of her changed circumstances.
"I don't know, Lilith," Ava said, her voice heavy with doubt. "I don't think there's a 'getting back together' option. She made it pretty clear that we're… incompatible. She said… she said she was holding me back. That I needed to… figure things out. And she's right. I'm a mess."
"People change," Lilith said, shrugging, offering a glimmer of hope. "Maybe you've both changed enough in the past month to make it work. Or maybe not. But you won't know until you actually talk to her. Have a real conversation, not just a snippy exchange about kale."
Ava knew Lilith was right, but the thought of having that conversation filled her with dread. It was easier to hide behind sarcasm and avoidance, to drown her sorrows in cheap gin and loud music, than to face the raw, messy reality of their broken relationship. The fear of rejection, of further pain, was paralyzing.
The bartender placed a fresh drink in front of Ava, the ice clinking against the glass. She took a sip, the familiar burn of the gin a temporary distraction from her thoughts, a fleeting moment of numbness.
"Look," Lilith said, placing a hand on Ava's arm, her touch firm and reassuring, "I'm just saying, don't torture yourself. Either find a way to move forward, together or separately, or… well, you'll end up driving each other – and me – completely insane. And I really don't need that in my life."
(Back at the Apartment - Later That Night)
Beatrice sat curled up on the sofa, a worn copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude open in her lap, but her eyes weren't focused on the words. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator, a constant, low-level drone that usually faded into the background but tonight seemed amplified, a symbol of the emptiness around her. She'd spent the evening trying to lose herself in Gabriel García Márquez's magical realism, but her mind kept drifting back to Ava, to their argument, to the painful reality of their separation.
She'd seen Ava's note on the counter, the childish jab about organic kale. It had stung, more than she cared to admit. It was a small, petty act of rebellion, but it spoke volumes about Ava's anger, her hurt, her frustration. She knew she was being cold, distant, that she was pushing Ava away, but it was the only way she knew how to cope. Letting her guard down, showing any vulnerability, felt too dangerous, like opening a floodgate of emotions she couldn't control.
Her phone buzzed, a text message from Mary. “How are you holding up? Still channeling your inner ice queen?” Mary's messages were always direct, often laced with humor, but always filled with genuine concern.
Beatrice hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to say she was fine, that she was moving on, that she was strong, that she was embracing her newfound freedom. But the truth was, she was barely holding it together, clinging to a facade of composure that threatened to crumble at any moment.
She typed back: “It’s hard. Harder than I thought it would be. I keep seeing her everywhere, in everything. Even the smell of coffee makes me miss her.” She deleted the last sentence, then retyped it, then deleted it again. She finally settled on: “It’s hard. I miss her.” It was the truth, stripped bare, a raw admission of her vulnerability.
Mary’s reply was immediate: “I know, Beatrice. It takes time. But you made the right decision. Remember why you did this. Remember the paella incident. Remember the constant anxiety. Remember feeling like you were suffocating.” Mary was reminding her of the reasons for the breakup, the underlying issues that had led to their separation.
Beatrice closed her eyes, replaying the conversation with Ava in her head, not just the final breakup, but the weeks, the months leading up to it. The mismatched life goals, the fear of resentment, the feeling of holding Ava back, of stifling her creative spirit. The "paella incident" Mary referred to was a particularly painful memory – a night when Ava had forgotten about a dinner they'd planned, a dinner Beatrice had spent hours preparing, a dinner that had ended up in the trash. It wasn't just about the paella; it was about a pattern of forgetfulness, of irresponsibility, that had chipped away at Beatrice's trust and patience.
She had made the right decision, hadn't she? So why did it feel so wrong? Why did every fiber of her being ache for Ava, for her touch, her laughter, her presence?
She heard the key turn in the lock, the sound of the door opening and closing, a familiar sound that now sent a jolt of anxiety through her. Ava was home. Beatrice's heart rate quickened. She considered retreating to her room, avoiding another awkward encounter, but something stopped her. Maybe they need to talk. Maybe avoidance wasn't the answer.
Ava walked into the living room, her cheeks flushed from the night air, her eyes slightly unfocused. She'd clearly been drinking, the scent of gin and something else – a faint, unfamiliar cologne – clinging to her clothes.
"Hey," Ava said, her voice a little slurred, her usual vibrancy dimmed.
"Hello," Beatrice replied, closing her book and placing it on the coffee table, her movements deliberate, controlled.
An awkward silence descended, a heavy blanket of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Ava shifted her weight from one foot to the other, avoiding Beatrice's gaze, her hands fidgeting with the strap of her bag.
"So," Ava said, breaking the silence, her voice a little louder than necessary, "I saw your note."
Beatrice nodded, her gaze fixed on Ava's face, trying to read her expression. "Yes. The rent…"
"I left my half on the table," Ava interrupted, her words clipped, her tone defensive. "Along with a witty rejoinder. I'm sure you appreciated my comedic genius."
Beatrice felt a flicker of amusement, despite the tension, a brief flash of the old Ava, the playful, sarcastic Ava she loved. "I saw that. Very… insightful."
Ava finally met Beatrice's gaze, her eyes searching, questioning, a mixture of anger and vulnerability swirling within them. "Are we really going to do this, Bea? Live like strangers in the same apartment? Pretend that… that we don't… that we didn't…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, the weight of their shared history too heavy to bear.
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions, a challenge, an accusation, a plea. As the silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable, the TV in the living room, which had been on mute, suddenly switched to a channel showing a cheesy rom-com – a scene Beatrice recognized, a scene they'd watched together countless times, a scene where the two main characters, after a bitter fight, finally reconciled.
A couple on screen were bickering playfully, their argument dissolving into laughter and a passionate kiss. The scene was predictable, cliché, but it was also a reminder of what Ava and Beatrice had lost, of the easy intimacy, the effortless connection they'd once shared.
Ava and Beatrice both glanced at the TV, then back at each other, their eyes locking. A brief, involuntary smile flickered across Ava's lips, a ghost of their shared amusement. Beatrice, mirrored the expression and after a few seconds, they both let out a small, choked laugh. It wasn't much, not a real laugh just an involuntary release.
It wasn't hilarious, but in their current mood, in their current situation, it felt like a release, a momentary break in the tension.
The laughter died down quickly, replaced by a heavy awkwardness, a renewed awareness of their separation. The reality of their situation crashed back down, the weight of their unspoken emotions pressing down on them. The brief moment of levity had cracked the ice, but the deep freeze of their breakup remained, a vast, icy chasm separating them.
"I..." Beatrice started, then stopped, unsure of what to say, her carefully constructed defenses crumbling. The shared moment of levity had cracked the ice, but the deep freeze of their breakup remained. How were they going to do this? How were they going to navigate this impossible situation, living together as strangers, haunted by the ghosts of their past? The answer, she realized, was that she didn't know. And that, more than anything, terrified her.