Fractured Desires by Olivia Salter

Fractured Desires

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 793
 

Lena had sworn off love, or so she told herself. Her last relationship had ended in shards, leaving her with scars she didn’t know how to name. She’d learned to live in survival mode, crafting walls out of casual flings and detachment. No one got too close. No one asked too many questions.

Then she met Julian.

It was at an underground club, the kind of place where shadows hid sins and the music pulsed like a heartbeat. Lena had come to drown herself in the noise, to forget the gnawing emptiness inside her. She wasn’t looking for company. But then she saw him.

He was leaning against a wall, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him like a veil. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unrelenting, as if he could see all the secrets she thought she’d buried. She looked away, unnerved.

But when she glanced back, he was still watching.

“Running from something?” he asked later, when they ended up at the bar.

She smirked, more out of habit than humor. “Aren’t we all?”

Julian didn’t laugh. He tilted his head, studying her, as if she were a puzzle he intended to solve. She should have walked away, but instead, she stayed. Something in his presence—dark, magnetic, and almost predatory—felt like a challenge.

Their second meeting wasn’t in the safety of public noise. It was in a dingy hotel room he’d chosen, where the smell of cheap detergent clung to the air. His text had been cryptic—“I’m waiting”—and when she arrived, she found him sitting on the bed, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t ask why she came. He didn’t need to.

The way he touched her was deliberate, testing. His fingers pressed into her skin as if searching for cracks. She responded with equal intensity, pushing back against him, daring him to go further. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t gentle. But it made her feel something—something other than the endless numbness that had taken root in her chest.

As the weeks passed, their encounters became routine. He never called. She never asked. Their nights were a collision of raw need and jagged edges, both of them using each other as a mirror for their pain.

But cracks began to show.

One night, as Lena lay tangled in the sheets, she asked, “Why me?”

Julian didn’t answer at first. He lit a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim room. Then, without looking at her, he said, “Because you’re already broken. You understand.”

The words hit harder than they should have. She laughed, a brittle sound. “And you’re not?”

He turned to her then, his eyes cold. “I never said I wasn’t.”

That was the thing about Julian. He didn’t lie, but he also didn’t offer truths that could anchor her. His honesty was a weapon, not a gift.

The breaking point came the night she caught him going through her phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

Julian didn’t even flinch. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“You had no right,” she snapped, snatching the phone from his hand.

He smirked, leaning back against the headboard. “I had every right. You’re mine.”

Something in her snapped. “I’m not yours,” she said, her voice rising. “I don’t belong to you.”

Julian’s smirk dropped, just for a moment. Then his face hardened. “You keep telling yourself that.”

After he left that night, Lena sat alone in the silence, staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger—hollow-eyed, with a fading bruise on her wrist where Julian had gripped her too tightly. She touched the bruise lightly, as if it could tell her something she didn’t already know.

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust anymore. It was addiction.

The next time he texted—“I’m waiting”—she hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the reply button, but something stopped her.

She thought of the way he twisted her boundaries, the way he pulled her into his chaos and called it connection. She thought of the girl she used to be, before all the pain, the one who believed in softness and safety. That girl was still in there, buried beneath the wreckage.

And maybe, just maybe, she could dig her way back to her.

Lena turned off her phone and tossed it onto the bed. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to sit in the silence, to feel the ache of her loneliness without trying to smother it. It hurt, but it was real.

Julian had been her spark, yes. But she would not let him be her fire.

Sweet Lies by Olivia Salter

 

Sweet Lies

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 954

When I saw him, the word evil whispered in the back of my mind. But lonely hearts have selective hearing, and mine turned the whisper into a serenade.

***

The coffee shop smelled like burnt dreams and stale hope, but it was warm, and that was enough for me. It was another gray Tuesday, the kind that clung to your spirit like wet clothes.

I was fumbling with a packet of sugar when I heard his voice. Smooth. Confident. Just a hint of arrogance.

"You know, that much sugar probably cancels out the coffee."

I turned, ready to brush him off, but his smile stopped me. It was lopsided, like a door slightly ajar, inviting me in.

"Caramel macchiato?" he asked, gesturing to my cup. "You seem like the complicated type."

I raised an eyebrow. "Do you always analyze strangers’ drinks, or am I just lucky?"

"Let’s call it fate," he said, extending a hand. "Caleb."

Something about him unsettled me, but the loneliness in my chest overruled the quiet warning in my mind.

***

Caleb was the kind of man who made you feel seen, even in a crowded room. He was attentive in ways that felt like a balm on a fresh wound: remembering my favorite author, sending late-night texts just to ask if I’d eaten.

For weeks, I floated on the warmth of his attention. But every now and then, a shadow crossed my mind. His charm was effortless—too effortless. Like he’d perfected it through repetition.

The first crack appeared on a Friday night. We were curled up on his couch when his phone buzzed. A text lit up the screen: 

Lisa: I miss you, are you coming over tonight?

"Who’s Lisa?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Just an old friend," he said, flipping the phone facedown. "Nothing to worry about."

But worry was a weed, and it rooted itself deep in my mind.

***

The signs piled up like snowflakes in a storm, subtle but suffocating. He started canceling plans with vague excuses. His phone lived in his pocket, buzzing quietly like a trapped insect.

Then I found the box.

It was hidden in a drawer I opened while looking for a lighter. Inside were fragments of another life: love letters, concert tickets, a silver bracelet engraved with Forever, Lisa.

When Caleb returned from the store, I was sitting on the couch, the bracelet dangling from my fingers.

"You and Lisa seem...close," I said, keeping my tone even.

He froze, the grocery bag slipping slightly in his grip. "You went through my stuff?"

"I found your stuff," I said, holding up the bracelet. "Looks like Lisa thought ‘forever’ was more than a suggestion."

He exhaled sharply, setting the bag on the counter. "It’s complicated."

"Isn’t it always?"

***

I didn’t wait for Caleb’s excuses to unravel. Instead, I found Lisa on social media. Her profile was easy to track, her smile too familiar. ???

I messaged her, and her reply came quickly: We need to talk.

We met at a diner the next day, its peeling linoleum floor matching the tiredness in her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she stirred her coffee.

"You’re not the first," she said, finally meeting my gaze. "And if you stay, you won’t be the last."

She told me about the charm, the promises, the way Caleb always knew exactly what to say. How he’d made her feel like she was everything until she realized he was the sun, and everyone else was just orbiting.

"I used to think I could fix him," she said, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "But Caleb doesn’t want fixing. He wants devotion."

Her words hit like a cold wind, chilling the fragile hope I’d clung to.

***

That night, Caleb showed up at my door with his trademark smile and a bottle of wine. "Hey, babe. Thought we could have a quiet night in."

I stepped aside, letting him in. "We need to talk."

His smile faded. "You okay?"

"I talked to Lisa," I said, watching his face carefully. His jaw tightened, but he quickly masked it with a laugh.

"She’s crazy," he said, setting the wine on the counter. "I told you, it’s over with her. She’s just jealous."

"Jealous of what? The lies? The manipulation? Or the shoebox of mementos you forgot to hide?"

He stepped closer, his voice softening. "You’re overreacting. You always do this. It’s one of the things I love about you, though—how passionate you are."

I took a step back, shaking my head. "Don’t. Don’t make this about me. This is about you and the way you use people."

"Come on," he said, his smile gone now, replaced by something darker. "You’re going to throw this all away because of some bitter ex?"

"No," I said, my voice steady. "I’m throwing it away because I finally see who you are."

***

That night, I went through the remnants of our relationship—the notes, the flowers, the bracelet he’d clasped around my wrist on our second date. I hesitated over the bracelet, the weight of it heavy in my hand. For a moment, I thought about keeping it, a reminder of what I’d survived.

But then I threw it into the trash.

The next morning, I messaged Lisa one last time: Thank you for reminding me I deserve better.

Her reply came quickly: We all do.

For the first time in months, my chest felt light.

***

Love built on lies will always crumble, but reclaiming your power is the first step toward building something real.

Evil doesn’t always wear horns. Sometimes, it wears a smile and whispers sweet lies—until you find the courage to silence it.

Breaking the Echo: Have You Ever by Olivia Salter

 

Breaking the Echo: Have You Ever

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 986

Simone believed her relationship sounded like Brandy’s Have You Ever, but as the song played in the empty apartment, she wondered: had she ever been loved, or had she only been a reflection in Marcus’s hollow world?

***

Simone stared at the framed photo perched on the edge of the coffee table. It showed her and Marcus on their first anniversary, arms around each other, her face bright with joy. His smile was smaller, almost polite, as if he’d been asked to pose. She picked up the frame, tracing the glass with her finger. It was the last thing she’d pack, but not because it mattered—because it didn’t.

In the quiet, Brandy’s Have You Ever played softly from her phone, the lyrics looping like a question she couldn’t shake:

"Have you ever needed something so bad you can’t sleep at night?"

Simone set the frame down, facedown this time, and turned to the boxes scattered around the apartment.

***

They had met at a mutual friend’s party. Simone hadn’t wanted to go—crowded rooms and forced conversations weren’t her thing—but Marcus was magnetic. He’d drawn people to him effortlessly, his laugh cutting through the noise like a warm melody.

“You look like someone who hates small talk,” he said, offering her a drink.

Simone smirked. “Depends. Is this small talk?”

“It’s small now, but it could be big later.”

It was cheesy, but the way he said it made her laugh. She had fallen for him in that moment, swept into the easy charm of his confidence.

***

At first, their love felt like a melody in perfect harmony. He’d call her brilliant, tell her she was beautiful in a way that made her believe it. When she was with Marcus, she felt seen.

But as time passed, she realized that Marcus didn’t love the parts of her that weren’t convenient.

When she shared her dream of opening a boutique, he listened with a faint smile. “You’ve got such a sharp mind. Retail seems… beneath you.”

“Beneath me?”

“Yeah, I mean—you’re better than that. Don’t waste your potential.”

She tried to explain that it wasn’t about potential, but about passion. He’d waved it off, distracted by his phone.

When they hosted a dinner party, Marcus had spent the evening bantering with Camille, their mutual friend. His attention was light and playful, but it lingered just long enough to sting.

Later, Simone confronted him.

“You spent the whole night flirting with Camille,” she said, her voice tight.

Marcus sighed, leaning against the counter. “Simone, it wasn’t flirting. That’s just how I talk.”

“It didn’t feel that way.”

“Well, you can’t expect me to walk on eggshells because you’re insecure.”

The words hit her like a slap. She opened her mouth to respond but found nothing. She had already learned that fighting him meant losing—either her dignity or his attention.

***

It was a rainy Wednesday when everything shifted. Simone sat in the car outside Marcus’s office, waiting for him to finish yet another “quick meeting.” The rain drummed on the windshield, the wipers sweeping it away in rhythmic motions. On the radio, Brandy sang:

"Have you ever loved somebody so much it makes you cry?"

Her chest tightened. She thought of all the times she’d lain awake at night, replaying their arguments, wondering if she was the problem. Love wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely.

Marcus slid into the passenger seat, shaking off his umbrella. “Sorry, babe. That took forever.”

She stared at him, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Marcus, do you even love me?”

He glanced at her, startled. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean it,” she pressed. “Do you? Or do you just like the idea of me?”

Marcus frowned, shifting in his seat. “Simone, I care about you. Isn’t that enough?”

Her stomach sank. It wasn’t.

***

That night, while Marcus slept, Simone packed. She moved silently, careful not to wake him. Each item she placed in her suitcase felt like shedding a weight she’d carried too long.

On the kitchen counter, she left a note:

"I can’t keep being someone who loves you more than I love myself. I hope you find what you need, but I can’t wait any longer for you to see me."

She left without looking back.

***

Weeks later, Simone met Camille for coffee. They hadn’t spoken much since the breakup, but Camille reached out unexpectedly.

As they sipped their cappuccinos, Camille hesitated before speaking. “You know, Marcus always said you were too emotional.”

Simone’s throat tightened.

“But honestly,” Camille continued, “he just couldn’t handle someone real. You deserved better, Simone. I hope you know that.”

It wasn’t just the words—it was the validation. For the first time, Simone felt like she hadn’t been imagining the cracks in their relationship.

***

Healing wasn’t easy, but Simone found her footing. She moved into a small studio apartment, filling it with lavender paint, thrifted furniture, and plants that thrived under her care.

One afternoon, as she walked through the park, she passed a street performer playing an acoustic version of Have You Ever. She stopped, her heart tightening for a moment before releasing. The song wasn’t a wound anymore; it was a reminder of what she’d survived.

***

A few weeks later, Simone wandered into a record store. She was thumbing through the vinyl when a man at the next shelf caught her eye.

“Brandy fan?” he asked, nodding toward the album in her hand.

She smiled. “Always.”

The moment felt light, unforced. And for the first time, Simone didn’t feel like she was chasing love. She was ready to let it find her.

She walked out of the store into the crisp afternoon, the weight of her past finally lifting. The song played softly in her mind, not as a question anymore, but as a quiet anthem of her strength.

Untethered by Olivia Salter

Untethered

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 554

I can't remember the last time I didn't feel small. Trapped between the walls of his gaze, his voice. It wasn’t always this way—or was it? I can’t tell anymore. Memories slip through my fingers, slick with the grease of his lies. He loves me, doesn’t he? Or is that just what I tell myself when his words carve holes into me, leaving me torn and empty?

The sink is full of dishes again. My fault, he said, last night when the air was sharp between us. “If you weren’t so lazy, maybe this place would feel like home,” he muttered, half under his breath but loud enough to hear. I stood there, blinking at the cracked ceiling, willing myself not to cry. I don’t cry anymore. Not in front of him. He hates that. “So dramatic,” he always says, waving me off like a fly.

I used to love the sound of his voice. Deep, steady, like the hum of the ocean. Now, it’s the tide dragging me under, pulling me further from myself. I don’t know who I am anymore? My mother used to say I had a fire in me. A spark that couldn’t be dimmed. But he found it, snuffed it out with every quiet insult, every time he laughed at my dreams. “You’re not that special,” he said once, and I laughed too, pretending it didn’t hurt. But it did. God, it did.

The phone buzzes on the counter. His name flashes on the screen. My stomach twists. Did I forget something? Did I say something wrong? I stare at the phone until it stops vibrating, leaving a thin film of silence that feels heavier than the buzzing. I don’t want to hear his voice right now.

Or ever again.

The thought of him makes me pause. Never again. The words feel foreign, like a language I once spoke fluently but forgot. What would it be like, I wonder, to never hear his voice again? To not feel the weight of his expectations pressing on my chest? The thought is terrifying. And exhilarating.

The mirror in the bathroom is cracked, a thin spiderweb of lines splitting my reflection. It happened months ago, during one of his tantrums. He said it wasn’t his fault. “You pushed me,” he said, like his fists were mine, like his rage belonged to anyone but him. I run my fingers over the crack, watching my fractured self stare back at me. Who is she?

She doesn’t look like someone who belongs to anyone. Not anymore.

The door opens downstairs, and I hear his footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. My heart jumps, instinctively. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. He calls my name, and the sound of it makes my skin crawl. How did three syllables become a weapon?

I don’t answer.

The footsteps grow louder, and I feel my body shrink, curling inward like a dying flower. But then, something shifts. A whisper, barely audible, but insistent. Leave. The word echoes in my mind, gaining strength. Leave. Leave. Leave.

I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a bag packed. But I have legs that can carry me, a heart that still beats, and hands that can open doors.

When he looks for me, I’ll be gone. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find myself again.

The Stillness Between Storms by Olivia Salter

 

The Stillness Between Storms

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,050

Samantha sat by the window, watching the snow fall in heavy sheets, each flake a small, silent confession. The world outside was swallowed by a blanket of white, but inside, the storm between her and Ethan raged just as fiercely. Tonight, she knew it was time to stop hiding.

The wind beat against the cabin’s walls, its howl a constant reminder of the chaos outside. Inside, the air felt thick with the tension between them. The fire crackled, casting fleeting shadows on the walls, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in the space between Samantha and Ethan.

She curled deeper into the armchair, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. Her thoughts scattered, refusing to stay in one place long enough to make sense of them. Everything had changed. They had stopped talking—really talking—weeks ago. Their words had turned into casual exchanges, their touch something automatic.

Ethan sat on the couch, his posture rigid, his eyes not quite meeting hers. He fiddled with the edge of the book on the coffee table—a well-worn copy of the Kama Sutra. It was his last attempt to fix things, and she could feel it hanging between them, heavy and awkward.

“I don’t think this is the answer, Ethan,” she said quietly, the bitterness in her voice catching her off guard. Her eyes stayed on the fire, afraid if she looked at him, the anger would come rushing out.

He didn’t respond at first, his fingers tracing the edges of the book. He never looked at her when he spoke. "I thought... maybe it would help. Maybe we could find something in here that would bring us back to what we had. A way to reconnect."

Samantha’s chest tightened. The book seemed so insignificant in the face of everything they’d ignored. The thing that had kept them distant wasn’t a lack of physical intimacy—it was a lack of real connection. And this... this wasn’t going to fix it.

“Is that really what you think we need? A book?” she asked, her voice small but sharp. “You think this will fix everything?”

He finally met her eyes, the apology already written on his face, though his lips remained sealed. He looked exhausted, as if the weight of his own thoughts were too much to carry.

“I’m not sure what else to do, Sam,” he said quietly, his voice thick with frustration. “I don’t know how to fix us. I don’t know how to make things right.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, Samantha felt the crack of something inside her—something she hadn’t let herself feel in months. She could see his vulnerability, but the anger still churned in her stomach. She had been waiting for him to see her. To see her hurt, to see her need, to stop hiding behind ideas and fixes.

“You don’t see me, Ethan,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You haven’t seen me in so long. This... this isn’t just about sex, or some trick to make it better. It’s about us not being together anymore. I don’t know who we are anymore.”

Ethan flinched, and for a heartbeat, the space between them felt like an entire universe. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

Samantha could feel her heart pounding, her frustration threatening to spill over. She wanted to scream. She wanted to demand answers. But instead, she closed her eyes, willing herself to find some calm.

“I’ve been hiding, too,” she said, her voice softer now. “I’ve been so scared, Ethan. Scared to ask for what I needed. Scared of... us.”

Her breath caught, and she let the tears fall before she could stop them. “I’ve been hiding from the things I don’t even know how to say. I’ve been pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. And now... I don’t even know how to make it right.”

Ethan reached out, his hand tentative, but his fingers brushed hers gently. The gesture was enough to make her look at him. She saw it now—the way his eyes weren’t just filled with regret, but with something else, something deeper: an understanding that they had both been running from the same truth.

“I’ve been running, too,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Running from facing it. From facing you—and from facing myself. I thought if I could just get us back to... the way it was—back to the spark—I’d fix it. But I see now, it wasn’t just the spark I needed. It was all of you, Sam. All of this.”

Samantha’s heart fluttered, but there was still a weight in her chest. He had been running, and so had she. They were both afraid—afraid of the vulnerability, of the messy parts of themselves they hadn’t shared. And it was in that space—the vulnerability, the rawness—that they had lost each other.

“What now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He shifted closer, the distance between them shortening. “I don’t have all the answers, Sam. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’m here. And I want to try. I want to stop running from you. From us.”

She nodded, a wave of emotion crashing over her. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing was. But the truth hung between them now, raw and unspoken, and somehow that felt like enough.

“I don’t need perfection, Ethan,” she said softly. “I just need us to try. I need to know that you’re here, with me, for real.”

The fire crackled louder, the wind outside still raging, but inside the cabin, everything felt quieter. The storm was not over, but it had softened. And for the first time in a long while, they sat together, not just physically, but emotionally, knowing that the hardest part was over. They had finally stopped running.

As the storm outside began to ease, Samantha realized something: their fight had never been about physical closeness, but emotional distance. The storm wasn’t just the weather—it was the gap they had allowed to grow between them, a gap they had now begun to bridge with the hardest thing of all: honesty.

The Ruins of Us by Olivia Salter

 

The Ruins of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,244

The roar of bulldozers echoed through the humid jungle outside Villahermosa, Mexico, as Natalia Vega stood on the sidelines, her boots sinking into the damp soil. She hated construction sites—the chaos, the noise, the constant smell of diesel. Yet here she was, overseeing her father’s latest project: a new highway slicing through the dense rainforest.

“Ms. Vega!” a foreman called, his voice barely audible over the machines. “We’ve hit something!”

Natalia sighed, pushing her hair out of her face as she made her way to the pit. Her heart dropped when she saw it: a jagged, black surface peeking out of the earth, slick as oil under the setting sun. She crouched down, brushing aside the soil with trembling fingers. The surface was carved with intricate hieroglyphic, spiraling inward like vines ensnaring prey.

“This isn’t natural,” she whispered, her stomach knotting.

“What do you want us to do?” the foreman asked, clearly uneasy.

“Shut it down,” Natalia said, standing abruptly.

“But the deadline—”

“I said, shut it down!” Her voice cracked, drawing stares from the crew. The foreman hesitated, then waved at the machines. The rumble of engines died, leaving an unnatural silence in its wake.

Natalia stared at the exposed stone, her chest tightening. She’d spent years as an archaeologist, but something about this site felt... wrong.

***

Natalia had always been drawn to the past. She once believed uncovering ancient worlds would bring her closer to understanding herself. But the career she’d built unraveled after her ex, Diego, a fellow archaeologist, betrayed her in ways she hadn’t seen coming.

Diego had been her partner—in work and in life. His charisma and brilliance drew her in, but it masked a darker side: his need to dominate, his knack for twisting truths until she questioned her own. Their breakup wasn’t just messy; it was catastrophic. Diego took credit for her discoveries, spread rumors, and left her reputation in pieces.

When her father asked her to help manage his construction business back home, she agreed, hoping the change of scenery would help her rebuild. She hadn’t anticipated finding something like this—a relic older than any she’d encountered, buried beneath her feet like a secret waiting to be exposed.

***

The excavation revealed more of the pyramid, its black stone surface dotted with carvings. The glyphs depicted figures intertwined—lovers locked in embraces that seemed more like battles. Their faces were contorted, mouths open in silent screams.

“What do you make of it?” one of the workers asked, his voice low.

Natalia didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced one of the carvings, the stone cool and smooth under her touch. “It looks like a binding ritual,” she said finally. “Maybe even sacrifices. Love turned into obsession.”

The worker crossed himself and muttered something in Spanish about curses.

That night, Natalia stayed late, flashlight in hand, as she descended into the pyramid’s shadowy depths. The deeper she went, the more oppressive the air became, thick and humid like a living thing. At the end of a narrow corridor, she found it: a massive obsidian mirror framed by jagged glyphs.

The mirror’s surface was impossibly smooth, rippling faintly as if it were liquid. Natalia stepped closer, her reflection staring back at her. But it wasn’t quite her. The image in the glass looked hollow-eyed, weary, and broken.

“What are you trying to show me?” she whispered.

***

The next morning, Natalia’s heart sank when she spotted a familiar figure stepping out of a dusty SUV.

Diego.

“Surprised to see me?” he called out, striding toward her with the same infuriating confidence that had once drawn her in.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Natalia said, folding her arms.

“Your father did,” Diego replied, grinning. “He thought you might need someone with experience. And let’s face it—you’ve always needed me.”

Natalia clenched her fists, willing herself not to react. “Stay out of my way.”

But Diego had never been good at staying in his place. As the days passed, he insinuated himself into every aspect of the dig, questioning her decisions, undermining her authority. And yet, there were moments when he seemed almost vulnerable—when he ran his fingers over the carvings with something like reverence, or when he stared at the mirror for just a little too long.

“This is incredible,” he said one evening, standing beside her in the dim light of the chamber. “These rituals... they weren’t just about love. They were about control. Possession.”

“Sounds familiar,” Natalia muttered under her breath.

Diego glanced at her, his expression darkening. “Don’t start.”

***

The site grew stranger with each passing day. Tools broke inexplicably. Workers reported hearing whispers in the tunnels. The air seemed heavier, the shadows darker.

One night, a foreman burst into Natalia’s tent, his face pale. “Something moved down there,” he stammered. “In the chamber with the mirror. I swear I saw it.”

Natalia dismissed him, but unease gnawed at her. That evening, she returned to the chamber alone.

The mirror greeted her with its unnatural stillness. She stepped closer, her reflection shifting in the rippling surface. This time, she saw flashes of her past: Diego’s anger, his cutting words, the way he’d smiled as he took credit for her work.

“I hate you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

A shadow stirred in the glass, and for a moment, she thought she saw Diego’s face staring back at her.

***

Diego found her in the chamber the next morning.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

Natalia turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Why do you care?”

“I—” Diego hesitated, for once at a loss for words. His gaze shifted to the mirror, and something in his face changed. He stepped closer, drawn to the glass like a moth to flame.

“Don’t,” Natalia warned, but he ignored her.

When his fingers touched the surface, the mirror pulsed, the glyphs around its frame glowing bright. Images erupted in the glass: moments from their relationship, each one sharper and more painful than the last. Diego yelling. Natalia crying. The silence that had grown between them like a black hole.

“This isn’t real,” Diego said, his voice shaking.

“It is,” Natalia said. “This is us.”

The mirror rippled violently, and shadows spilled from its surface, wrapping around Diego like tendrils. He screamed, clawing at the air as the darkness pulled him closer.

“Natalia!” he cried. “Help me!”

Her breath hitched. For a moment, she hesitated, torn between the memories of the man she’d loved and the reality of who he was.

“No,” she said finally, stepping back. “I won’t save you.”

The shadows dragged him into the mirror, his screams fading into silence.

***

By dawn, the pyramid was sealed. Officials deemed it too dangerous to excavate further, leaving it buried beneath layers of earth.

Natalia stood on the edge of the clearing, watching the workers pack up. In her pocket, she fingered a shard of obsidian she’d taken from the mirror, its surface smooth and cool.

For the first time in years, the weight on her chest felt lighter. Diego was gone, but so was the part of her that had clung to him—the part that had believed she needed him to be whole.

She turned away from the site, the jungle closing in behind her. The ruins were a part of her past now, and she had no intention of looking back.

The Hollowing by Olivia Salter

  

The Hollowing

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,427

The rain came down in relentless sheets as Carla stood alone on the bridge, her arms wrapped around herself to shield against the biting chill. She looked down at the dark, swirling water below, watching as the current twisted and churned like a pot boiling over. Each drop that struck her felt like a needle, a sharp reminder of the raw emptiness inside her. The world around her felt heavy, a blank canvas filled only with shadows, with nothing left to guide her forward.

But in the back of her mind, he was still there—Evan, his ghost a phantom that haunted her every thought.

She had fled his apartment barely an hour ago, her heart pounding as she escaped through the rain. Their argument had been vicious, but it had left her with an unexpected, liberating realization: she could walk away. After years of giving every part of herself to him, of sculpting her life around his whims, she had finally found the strength to say “enough.” But even now, she could still feel the scars he had left, the hollow places within her that he had carved out bit by bit, like a master sculptor molding a figure from stone.

Carla shivered, her mind drifting back to the night they’d met. The memory was hazy, a blend of warmth and charm, the faint smell of cologne, his voice low and smooth. She could still remember how he’d moved through the party like he owned it, flashing smiles at everyone but lingering on her, his gaze intense, magnetic. She’d felt a thrill as he laughed at her jokes, his fingers grazing her arm as he leaned in close, as if drawn to her in a way he couldn’t control. That night, he’d kissed her in the dim light of her apartment, his hands tracing her face with a adoration that had left her breathless.

Looking back, she wondered if that had been real at all.

“What did you expect?” His voice, sharp and familiar, cut through the rain-soaked silence. Carla’s heart jolted. She turned to see him standing at the other end of the bridge, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, a faint smirk on his lips. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if this was all a game he was tired of playing. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with that same cold, detached amusement she had come to know so well.

“Did you really think I’d stay forever?” he asked, voice laced with mockery. His words were soft, almost gentle, and yet they held a quiet cruelty, a satisfaction in the hurt he’d caused.

Carla clenched her fists, her voice shaking as she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You made me believe you cared, Evan. You made me think I was... enough.”

He laughed—a low, disdainful sound that sliced through the rain. “Enough?” he echoed, rolling the word around as if tasting it. “Carla, you wanted too much. I told you that from the start. You kept trying to make me into someone I’m not.”

She felt the words hit her, sharp and painful, like a knife twisting in her chest. For a long time, she had believed him. She had taken his words to heart, convinced that the problem was her, that her needs and her desires were unreasonable. She’d tried to mold herself to fit his vision, dimming her own light so he could shine, cutting herself down so he wouldn’t feel overshadowed.

It had started innocently enough, with little criticisms that seemed like simple observations. He’d mentioned that her friends weren’t “serious enough” for the life he envisioned for them. She’d argued at first, but he’d worn her down, reasoning that they were holding her back, keeping her from her potential. Gradually, she’d let go of those friendships, convinced that they hadn’t truly understood or supported her.

Then he’d started in on her art, once her greatest joy. “It’s nice,” he’d say, studying her paintings with a critical eye, “but a little too amateur, don’t you think?” She’d tried to defend her work, but he’d always counter with gentle, reasonable suggestions—ways she could improve, techniques she could learn. Over time, she’d stopped showing him her art, and eventually, she’d stopped painting altogether, her hands too paralyzed by doubt to pick up a brush.

And now, staring at him across the rain-soaked bridge, she could see it all with a startling clarity. Evan hadn’t loved her. He had wanted a version of her that fit neatly into his life, one he could control and manipulate. He’d stripped her down, piece by piece, until she was nothing but a shell, an echo of the woman she’d once been.

“You took everything from me,” she said, her voice raw, each word a tremor of the rage simmering within her. “Every dream, every friendship, everything I loved—you tore it all down. And I let you.”

Evan’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, his expression flickering with something close to surprise. But he recovered quickly, shrugging with a dismissive smile. “You gave it to me, Carla. Willingly. You wanted to be with me, didn’t you?”

For a moment, the words hit her with their familiar weight, stirring up old doubts and guilt. But this time, she didn’t let them burrow inside her. She didn’t let him twist her pain into something he could use against her. She looked him straight in the eye, her voice steady, strong. “Yes, I gave it to you. But that was my mistake. And it’s a mistake I won’t make again.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away, each step carrying her further from him, from the memories, from the hollow space he’d left in her. The rain washed over her like a baptism, cold but cleansing, stripping away the last remnants of his hold on her. By the time she reached the other side of the bridge, she could barely feel the chill at all.

***

Back in her tiny apartment, Carla sat on her bed, pulling out her phone and hesitating for a moment before scrolling through her contacts. She stopped at a name she hadn’t spoken to in months: Alyssa. Her best friend, the one Evan had convinced her to leave behind.

Taking a deep breath, she typed a message: I’m sorry. Are you around?

The response came almost instantly: For you, always.

An hour later, Carla found herself in Alyssa’s kitchen, the familiar warmth of the room surrounding her like a blanket. They sat together at the table, mugs of tea steaming between them, and for the first time in years, Carla felt truly safe.

“So,” Alyssa said quietly, her eyes full of understanding and a fierce protectiveness, “do you want to tell me what happened?”

Carla took a deep breath, feeling the words rise up within her, raw and unfiltered. She told Alyssa everything, every painful detail, every small, insidious way Evan had chipped away at her confidence, her dreams, her identity. She spoke of the isolation, the doubt, the way he’d made her question her own worth. And as she spoke, she felt a strange weight lifting, as if each word was a piece of Evan’s hold on her, slipping away into nothing.

Alyssa listened without interrupting, her hand steady on Carla’s, grounding her. When Carla finally finished, her voice a hoarse whisper, Alyssa gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m so sorry, Carla,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “I wish I’d seen what was happening. I should have—”

“No,” Carla interrupted, shaking her head. “This was his fault. He kept me away from everyone, even you. I thought I was protecting our relationship. But I was just... disappearing.”

They sat in silence, the weight of those lost years settling between them. Then Alyssa spoke, her voice firm, unyielding. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. And I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

Carla managed a smile, small but genuine, as she squeezed her friend’s hand. For the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope, a warmth filling the emptiness Evan had left.

***

Over the next few months, Carla slowly began to rebuild her life. She reconnected with friends she hadn’t spoken to in years, threw herself back into her art, and rediscovered passions she’d once abandoned. And each day, she felt herself growing stronger, more whole, filling the hollow spaces within her with the things she loved.

One night, after hours spent working on a new painting, Carla stood back and looked at her work, a vibrant canvas of colors and movement, each brushstroke a declaration of her reclaimed identity. The painting was raw, imperfect, but it was hers—a reflection of the woman she was becoming, free from Evan’s shadow.

And in that moment, she knew she would never let anyone take her light again. Her heart was hers, filled with a strength that no one could ever hollow out.

***

Several weeks after completing that painting, Carla was at her first solo art exhibit—a modest gallery in the city, but still, it was a dream she’d all but abandoned. She walked through the space, brushing her fingers along the frames of her canvases, each one alive with the textures of her journey. Bold strokes of reds and blues, shadowed landscapes, and fractured faces filled the walls, raw and unfiltered. They were parts of herself she’d thought lost forever. But they were here, real and solid, for the world to see.

She heard murmurs of appreciation as people examined her work. Some faces looked thoughtful, others moved. The gallery wasn’t large, but it was full, and for the first time in years, Carla felt proud of herself—of her story and her strength.

Alyssa was there too, standing by her side, a glass of wine in her hand as she beamed with pride. They shared a quiet look, a moment of understanding and triumph. Alyssa had been her anchor, her constant, and knowing she was here to witness this made it all the more meaningful.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Carla saw a familiar figure by the doorway—tall, poised, wearing that same calculating smile she knew so well. Her stomach tightened instinctively, but she didn’t let it show. She straightened her spine, drawing herself up with the strength she’d fought so hard to reclaim. Evan was here.

He walked toward her slowly, his gaze flickering from her to her paintings, a look of mild surprise and, perhaps, admiration in his eyes. When he reached her, he offered a small, almost awkward smile. “Carla,” he said smoothly, his voice lower than she remembered, but no less disarming.

She met his gaze, keeping her face neutral, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. “Evan.”

He glanced around the room, nodding slightly as his eyes roamed over her work. “I heard about your show and… I wanted to see it for myself. To see you.”

His words were soft, almost reverent, but she could feel the familiar weight of his manipulation behind them, the way he always knew exactly what to say to make her doubt herself, to make her feel like he cared. But tonight, she was different. She was not the woman he had once controlled.

“Thank you for coming,” she replied simply, her voice steady. She wanted to leave it at that, but she sensed he wouldn’t. He never did.

Evan hesitated, his expression wavering as he searched her face, as if looking for some sign of the Carla he’d once known—the one who would have looked at him with pleading eyes, waiting for his approval. But she wasn’t there anymore.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I know I wasn’t… everything you wanted,” he said, his tone softening. “But I missed you. I miss… us.”

She could feel him trying to pull her back, weaving a web of nostalgia and regret, an old habit he used to keep her on edge. But as she looked at him now, she felt nothing but distance, a growing sense of clarity.

“I don’t miss who I was with you,” she replied, her voice firm. “I was someone I didn’t even recognize.”

Evan’s face tightened for a moment, the smooth facade slipping. He let out a faint sigh, feigning disappointment. “It’s a shame, Carla. You’ve… changed,” he said, his tone laced with subtle criticism. She knew this tactic—he wanted her to question herself, to feel uncertain, unsteady. But she wasn’t falling for it anymore.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty. “I have. And I like who I am now.”

Something flickered in his eyes—irritation, maybe even anger—but he masked it quickly, offering her a forced smile. He took a step back, as if realizing she was no longer his to control, his hand slipping into his pocket in a gesture of retreat. “Well… congratulations, then,” he muttered, his voice hollow.

She watched as he turned and walked away, his shoulders tense, his confident stride faltering just slightly as he disappeared through the doorway. And as she watched him go, she felt an unexpected lightness settle over her, a freedom that was deeper and truer than anything she’d felt before.

Alyssa nudged her, raising an eyebrow. “Was that…?”

“Yes.” Carla let out a small, relieved laugh, glancing back at the room full of her art. “And he’s finally gone.”

They shared a smile, Alyssa’s eyes shining with pride and warmth. “I’m so damn proud of you, Carla,” she whispered, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “Look at what you’ve done. Look at who you are.”

Carla looked around, taking in the faces of the people who were moved by her work, who saw her story in her art. She felt the air fill her lungs, the weight of the past lifting, leaving her unburdened. For so long, she’d been haunted by what Evan had taken from her, by the pieces of herself he’d hollowed out. But here she was, whole and complete, every inch of her belonging solely to herself.

“I’m proud of me too,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Together, they walked through the gallery, and Carla could feel each step grounded, real. She knew, now, that she had the strength to stand on her own, to create and live without fear or apology. Evan was a part of her past, a chapter she had closed. And ahead of her was a future that was finally, fully hers.