The Hollowing by Olivia Salter | Anti-Romance | Short Story

 

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.