The Girl Across the street

Amelia Frye glanced at the Van Cleef & Arpels watch on her wrist.

The delicate gold hands pointed to 4:45 PM.

Fifteen minutes until the New York City Marriage Bureau closed for the day.

Her thumb unconsciously picked at the already frayed skin beside her index fingernail. It was a nervous habit, one she thought she had kicked years ago.

Clerk Sullivan, a kind-faced woman with salt-and-pepper hair, poked her head out of the office for the ninth time. Her eyes were full of a pity that made Amelia's stomach clench.

"Maybe it's the traffic, dear," Ms. Sullivan offered, placing a cup of lukewarm water on the small table beside Amelia's chair.

Amelia forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. "Yes, New York traffic is always terrible."

Her gaze drifted to the poster on the wall. A beaming couple, with the words "Happy Marriages Start Here" printed in cheerful script below them. The irony felt like a physical weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

A vibration buzzed from her handbag.

Her heart leaped into her throat. Kayson.

She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy and cold. The screen lit up, but the name flashing wasn't his.

It was "Leo Foster." Kayson's assistant.

The last flicker of hope inside her died, leaving a cold, dark void. She took a sharp breath, the air stinging her lungs, and answered the call.

"Ms. Frye," Leo's voice was polite, professional, and utterly detached. "My sincerest apologies. Mr. Edwards has an urgent situation. Ms. Carlisle twisted her ankle during a rehearsal, and he had to go to her immediately."

Kamila Carlisle.

The name was a familiar poison, seeping through the phone and directly into her brain. It was always Kamila. The reason for the first missed anniversary, the third missed birthday, and now, the ninth missed promise.

Amelia said nothing.

She simply ended the call.

The phone's screen went black, reflecting her own pale, numb face. She looked like a stranger.

She opened her message thread with Kayson. Her thumbs moved with a strange, detached precision.

"Kayson Edwards, we're over."

Send.