— Why did you tell me all this? — Irene asked quietly, her voice strange and distant.
— I don’t know myself, — Jane replied just as hollowly.
She seemed about to say more but caught Irene’s gaze—sharp, wary, piercing. The kind of look you give someone you no longer trust.
That Friday, as always after work, Irene and Jane stopped by their usual café. Years of ritual: a glass of wine, warm chatter, laughter, the occasional tear. Just two women tired of life, of family, of chaos. Here, at their table by the window, they could be themselves.
But that evening, everything went wrong.
Irene suddenly jumped up, glowing with excitement, muttering, “Sorry, just a moment!” before dashing outside. Jane raised a brow, watching her through the glass.
There—Irene embracing a woman. Slender, well-kept, with a soft smile. Jane froze.
One second. Another. The woman’s face surfaced in her memory, and a chill ran through her.
She knew her.
When Irene returned, everything had already shifted. Jane forced a strained smile.
— Who was that?
— Oh, Vanessa. My cousin. Why?
— Just… thought I recognized her.
— You know each other? Want me to introduce you properly? She’s lovely!
— No! — Jane blurted, too loud, too sharp. Heads turned. — Sorry… it’s nothing.
Irene frowned.
— What’s going on?
Jane dropped her gaze, fists clenched under the table.
— Irene… Vanessa had a husband. His name was James, didn’t she?
— Yes. So?
— He was with me. I ruined their marriage.
Everything Irene knew about Vanessa’s divorce came from her cousin. Betrayal. Heartbreak. A silent, bitter dissolution. Pain, unbearable and unspoken.
And now—Jane’s confession. Her friend. The woman she’d trusted.
Jane spoke as if unraveling a knot that had festered for years.
— Vanessa and I grew up together. Same street, same school, same uni. Then she met James. At first, I was happy for her. But then… I lost my head. His laugh, his voice… he held me during a dance at their wedding, just a friendly spin. And I *felt* it. I didn’t know how it happened. Only that I wanted him. Being Vanessa’s friend wasn’t enough—I wanted to be her rival.
First, it was glances. Then touches. Late-night walks. Then… when Vanessa was in the hospital, I went to help. Left as her husband’s mistress.
He came to me. I thought it was a new beginning. But it was hell.
James compared me. Judged. Said how perfect Vanessa had been, how I fell short. Got drunk and wept on their anniversary. *Every* time.
I lived in a fantasy. Until I realized—he never loved me. I was just a hiding place. Never a home.
Irene listened, lips pressed tight. She trembled. Years of friendship with Jane. Advice, late-night talks, support. All from someone who’d shattered her family. Broken her cousin’s soul.
— Did you know Vanessa was my cousin? — she asked, voice rough.
Jane shook her head.
— No. Not till now. And whatever you say—I’ll take it. I’m guilty. I’ve known that for years.
Irene stood.
— Then we’re done. Goodbye, Jane. Good luck.
Jane went home. Clothes strewn, wine on the table, dirty plates. James had been here. And not alone.
In the bedroom—a girl. Young, asleep.
Jane turned and walked silently to the kitchen. James appeared soon after, swaying in her dressing gown, drunk.
— Go on. Scream, cry, beg. I don’t care. I’m leaving.
— Pack your things. And get out.
He didn’t expect it. He wanted a scene. Resignation. *She* was supposed to break.
But she didn’t. The tears had dried long ago. Inside, only emptiness pulsed.
Irene told Vanessa everything. Her cousin listened in silence. Then, softly:
— Jane died to me years ago. So did James. I forgave them. But I’ll never let them back in. Forgiveness is easy. Trust? Impossible.
