Son Of A Bitch: The Woman Who Raised Wolves by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance

Son Of A Bitch: The Woman Who Raised Wolves

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,146

In Tallahatchie, Mississippi, the word "bitch" was a loaded weapon, and everyone knew exactly where it was pointed: Geneva Bly. They didn’t say it out of disrespect; they said it with the hushed, superstitious terror of people discussing a curse or a storm front. Geneva didn’t just walk the earth; she stalked it, a cigarette-scented shadow living in a rusted-out trailer that loomed behind her son’s house like a gargoyle.

Her son, Langston, was a man carved from silence. Thirty-five, with skin the color of wet earth and eyes as still as stagnant pond water, he moved with the fragile, trembling precision of a man holding a cup filled to the brim with poison. He lived in a house that felt less like a home and more like a museum of his mother’s influence. Every picture on the wall, every choice of paint, every quiet hour—it all bowed to the trailer in the back.

Amani Bell married him at twenty-four, a fool’s errand born of the naive, glowing belief that love could sand down the jagged edges of a man’s soul. She spent ten years trying to be the light in his house, only to find that Geneva was the one who controlled the darkness.

"She too quiet," Geneva would mutter at Sunday dinner, the clatter of her spoon against her ceramic bowl sounding like a gavel in a courtroom. "A quiet woman is a sneaky woman, Langston. You watch her. She’s keeping things inside, and that’s where the rot starts."

"She don’t speak unless she’s got something to say, Mama," Langston would drone, his voice as hollow as a drum. He never looked at Amani when he defended her; he looked at the linoleum floor, tracking the scuff marks his own boots had made.

He never truly stood up for her. He existed in the middle, a human fence post caught between two storms. When Amani begged for a life that didn’t revolve around the trailer in the backyard, or when she suggested they take a weekend trip to the coast, Geneva’s voice was the only one that echoed in the bedroom, louder than any conversation they’d had.

"She just wants to take you away from your foundation," Geneva whispered one night, her voice sliding under the door like gas. "If a woman is soft, she’s either hiding something or waiting for the right moment to gut you. That’s what my mama taught me, and that’s what I taught you. You don’t need the coast, Langston. You need to keep your eyes on what’s yours."

Langston didn’t believe it—not entirely—but Geneva had been pouring that rot into his ear since he was nine years old. She had taught him the gospel of survival: Love just enough to keep them close, never so much that they can break you.

Amani watched him wither. She watched the man she loved become a shadow of the woman who raised him. She tried to counter the poison with tenderness. She cooked, she cleaned, she painted the walls a soft, hopeful yellow, but Geneva just turned the lights down until the house felt like a tomb.

The night the marriage ended wasn't an explosion; it was a cold, surgical extraction.

It was an October Thursday, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. Amani had made oxtail stew, the kind that simmered for hours, a meal meant for comfort. Geneva had sauntered in without knocking, the smell of cheap gin and stale tobacco clinging to her sweater like a second skin. She spent the meal listing the women Langston should have married, the ones who didn't "play mind games," the ones who knew their place.

Amani stood up. She didn't yell. She didn't beg. She simply picked up her plate and walked to the trash can, sliding the stew into the bin with a quiet, decisive thud.

"I’m done," she said.

"Amani, don't—" Langston started, his hands shaking as he gripped his fork.

"I’m not fighting for you anymore, Langston," she said, her voice cutting through the humid room like a razor. "You didn’t marry a wife. You married your mother’s shadow, and you let her move into our bed. I’m tired of being the only living thing in this house."

She left on a Tuesday. She didn't look back, and the house didn't just feel empty; it felt hollowed out, like an eggshell crushed in a fist.

Two years later, Geneva was dead, buried in the same unforgiving Mississippi clay she’d spent her life guarding. Langston remained. He kept the house, he kept the garden Amani had planted, and he kept the silence.

But the silence had changed. It had become a mirror. He started seeing a therapist in the next town over, a woman named Dr. Aris who didn't know his mother’s name or her reputation. He learned that he hadn't been raised; he had been cultivated. He was a bonsai tree, forced into a twisted shape by someone who thought they were an artist but was actually just a jailer.

He began to heal in the messy, agonizing way that people do when they realize their childhood was a lie. He planted the herbs Amani loved. He learned to cook, to speak, to breathe without asking for permission. He grew into a man who was finally, painfully, his own.

He started writing to her—not letters he sent, but a ledger of his own awakening. He detailed his realization that his mother’s "wisdom" was actually a blueprint for emotional starvation. He confessed to the cowardice that had defined his thirties.

He was thirty-seven now, and for the first time in his life, he felt a flicker of genuine hope.

There were days, however, where the weight of his solitude felt like physical pressure. He would walk to the local corner store, feeling the stares of the townsfolk who remembered his mother’s iron grip. One afternoon, he encountered Elias, an old family friend.

"You're different, Langston," Elias said, leaning against his truck. "Cleaner, somehow."

"I'm just living, Elias," Langston replied.

"Living is hard when the ghost is still sitting in the chair," Elias muttered, looking toward the Bly house. "You think you're clear, but this town… it remembers. Geneva made sure of that."

Langston walked away, his jaw tight. He realized then that he couldn't stay. To be "his own man" meant leaving the geography of his trauma behind. He packed his bags, sold the house to a developer who promised to scrape the trailer off the lot, and started the long, winding drive toward Atlanta. He wasn't just chasing Amani; he was chasing the version of himself that might have existed if he hadn't been born into a cage.

The highway was a grey ribbon unspooling through the dark, and Langston’s mind kept slipping into the rearview mirror.

He remembered a day when he was seven. He had found a bird—a cedar waxwing with a broken wing—in the yard. He had been so proud, crafting a box with grass and a tiny saucer of water. He had shown it to Geneva, his eyes bright with a rare, childish expectation.

"It’s going to die, Langston," she had said, not looking up from her book.

"No, I’m helping it," he’d insisted, cradling the box against his chest. "I’m going to make it strong enough to fly."

Geneva had put her book down then. She stood up, slow and deliberate, and walked over to him. She didn't touch the bird. She looked at him with that same flat, dead-eyed expression that would haunt him for three decades. "You’re wasting your heart on something that’s already gone, baby. Let it go. If you hold onto things that don't belong to you, they only poison the air in your house."

She had reached out, taken the box from his hands, and walked to the porch. Langston had watched through the screen door as she simply tipped the box over. The bird hadn't even struggled; it just hit the dirt, a fragile thing of feathers and bone, and she had stepped on it—not with malice, just with the efficient, grinding boredom of someone finishing a chore.

"See?" she had said, coming back inside. "Now you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Now it’s just dirt. And you’re just you."

He hadn't cried. He had been too stunned, too young to name the horror of it. He had just gone to his room and sat in the corner, feeling the space in his hands where the box had been, realizing that to be her son meant to exist in a world where nothing precious was allowed to survive.

One crisp spring morning, he arrived at the address—a small, sun-drenched apartment in East Point, Atlanta. He stood in the hallway of her building, his heart hammering a frantic, human rhythm against his ribs. He carried the poetry book she’d left behind, with his final confession pressed between the pages, a testament to the man he had become.

He knocked. The door opened.

Amani stood there. She was different. Her hair was buzzed close to her scalp, exposing the elegant, strong line of her jaw. Her eyes were clear, and her posture radiated a fierce, quiet grace he had never seen in their ten years together.

She looked at him, and for a moment, the air in the hallway went thin.

"Langston," she said. Her voice wasn't cold. It was something worse: it was indifferent.

"I… I brought your book," he stammered, holding it out. "I spent two years undoing the knots she tied in me. I wanted you to know… I’m not that man anymore."

Amani looked at the book, then at his hands—hands that were steady, uncalloused, and finally free. She didn't take the book. She didn't invite him in.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a tired, finished sort of smile.

"Langston," she said softly. "You think you’ve changed. You think you’ve buried her."

"I have," he insisted, his voice cracking. "I’m nothing like her. I’m nothing like what she made me."

Amani stepped back and pulled the door open, revealing the small living room behind her. Sitting on the couch was a woman—older, with the same sharp, angular face and eyes that held the same, dark stillness Langston had spent his whole life trying to escape.

The woman looked up, lit a cigarette, and flicked the ash into a chipped saucer on the coffee table. She looked at Langston with a smirk that was as familiar as his own heartbeat.

"He's finally here, Amani," the woman said, her voice a perfect, chilling mirror of Geneva’s. "Took him long enough, didn't it? I told you men like him—they always have to wander before they realize they’re lost."

Langston felt his blood turn to ice. His hands went numb, the poetry book slipping from his grip and thudding onto the welcome mat. "Who is that?"

Amani sighed, a sound of profound, weary resignation. She closed the door slightly, shutting out the hallway noise. "That's my mother, Langston. She moved in last week. I finally realized that if you can't beat the monster, you might as well adopt its habits."

Amani turned to the woman and reached out, touching her hand with a strange, possessive devotion. "You were right, Mama," Amani said, her eyes locking onto Langston’s, cold and hard as a diamond. "He did come back. Just like you said he would. He thinks he’s a new man."

The older woman laughed, a low, rasping sound. "He’s not a new man. He’s just a dog who’s lost his master and is looking for a new one to chain him up."

Amani stepped toward Langston, her presence towering. The vulnerability he had once seen in her was gone, replaced by a steel-plated armor of indifference. "I spent ten years being the 'soft' one, Langston. And you know what that got me? A hollow heart and a decade of misery. I learned that the only way to survive is to be the one holding the leash."

"Amani, what are you saying?" Langston gasped, stumbling back into the hallway wall.

"I’m saying thank you for the lesson," she whispered, her eyes tracking him with terrifying focus. "You taught me exactly how to break a person. You taught me that silence is a weapon, and that if you starve someone of kindness long enough, they’ll do anything to keep the crumbs you drop."

She looked back at her mother, who was watching the scene with the detached amusement of a spectator at a cockfight. "You were always too weak, Langston. You thought you were 'healing,' but all you were doing was clearing the space for something more efficient to take over."

Langston stood in the sterile silence of the hallway for a long time. The only thing he could hear was the faint, rhythmic scraping of a spoon against a bowl, echoing from the other side of the door. It was the sound of a legacy, the sound of a cage being built.

He didn't run. He couldn't. He watched the door, knowing that he had spent his entire life trying to escape the shadow of a bitch, only to find that he was the prey of a pack that had learned to hunt much better than he ever had.

He walked down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the building. He reached his car, the Atlanta sun harsh and indifferent. He didn't turn the key. He just sat there, listening to the hum of the city, feeling the weight of his own existence.

The lesson was complete. He was finally, truly alone. And as he watched the windows of Amani’s apartment, he saw a shadow move behind the curtain—a figure that stood with the same authority, the same stillness, the same terrifying certainty that Geneva had once possessed.

Langston finally turned the key. He didn't go back to Mississippi. He drove until the landscape changed, until the red clay of home was replaced by the gray concrete of the North, until he was nothing but a name on a lease and a ghost in a new city.

But every night, in the quiet of his new, empty apartment, he would find himself sitting in the dark, listening to the silence. And if he sat perfectly still, if he slowed his breathing until his heart was just a whisper, he could still hear it: the scrape of a spoon against a bowl, a sound that never quite faded, a rhythm that was the heartbeat of the only world he had ever truly known.

He was the son of a bitch, and he had finally learned that you don't survive the wolves by running. You survive them by becoming one—or by realizing that there was never any room for a lamb in the first place.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in his life, he didn't pray for forgiveness. He prayed for the silence to stay, and for the wolves to find someone else to tear apart. But even as he prayed, he knew—the wolves were always hungry, and they always, eventually, found their way home.

The city of Chicago was a sprawling, frigid expanse of steel and indifference. It was perfect. Langston lived in a fourth-floor walk-up that smelled of damp radiator pipes and old coffee. He took a job at a warehouse, moving boxes under the flickering orange light of sodium lamps, a life of repetitive motion that required no speech and no soul.

His apartment was sparse. A bed, a table, and a single chair that faced the window. He didn't decorate. He didn't name the plants he kept on the sill. He simply existed, a man waiting for an expiration date.

The North had stripped away the heat of Mississippi, replacing it with a biting, marrow-deep cold that seemed to settle in his bones. It was a good cold. It kept things frozen. It kept the memories from thawing out and bleeding into the present.

He didn't think of Amani anymore, or at least he told himself he didn't. He thought of her in the way one thinks of a fever—a dangerous, irrational event that had once nearly killed him and had finally, mercifully, broken. He didn't look at women in the market. He didn't hold doors. He walked with his head down, his collar turned up, a ghost haunting a city that didn't know his name.

One night, as the wind rattled the windowpane like a frantic, desperate hand, he found himself in the kitchenette. He had made a bowl of oatmeal, the only thing he had the energy to sustain. He stood by the counter, the bowl in his hand, and began to eat.

Scrape.

The sound was so small, so innocuous, yet in the silence of the room, it was a gunshot.

Scrape.

His hand froze. The metal spoon was hovering halfway to his mouth. He looked at the bowl, his heart accelerating with a sudden, sharp panic. He placed the spoon down on the counter and stepped back, his back hitting the wall.

He waited. He listened.

The wind roared outside, a chaotic, shapeless sound. But underneath it, in the absolute center of the room, he heard it again. A faint, rhythmic sound, dragging across the bottom of a porcelain dish.

He wasn't in Mississippi. He wasn't in Atlanta. He was a thousand miles away, yet the sound was as present as his own breathing. He closed his eyes, his hands balled into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms.

He had tried to outrun the wolf. He had tried to hide in the frozen reaches of the North. But the wolf didn't live in the woods or the trailer or the apartment. It lived in the rhythm. It lived in the expectation of the next sound.

He realized then that he would never be free, not because someone was hunting him, but because he was the one who had learned to listen for the trap. He picked up the spoon again, his movements stiff and mechanical, and took another bite. He chewed, swallowed, and scraped. He did it again. And again.

He was no longer the son of a bitch. He was the bitch. And as he sat in the dark, he realized that the spoon would never stop, because now, he was the one holding it.

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Have You Ever Loved Somebody? by Olivia Salter/ Short Story / Literary Fiction / Anti-Romance

Have You Ever Loved Somebody?

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 4012

The morning she saw him again, the sky was the color of bruises—lavender smudged with gray, swollen and full of something unsaid. Arielle stood on the porch of her mother’s worn-down house in Atlanta's Fulton County, her coffee cooling in the breeze, her mind still caught in the hangover of an old dream. Anthony.

It had been years. Five, to be exact. But time didn’t erase people like him. It only deepened the groove they left in you. The kind of mark that wasn't loud or gaping, but quiet and aching—like a scar that still itched when it rained.

Her mother’s wind chimes clinked gently behind her, brittle with rust and memory. Arielle took another sip of the bitter brew, wincing. Everything in this place tasted of memory—cheap coffee, porch swings, heartache. And he was back in town. Of course he was.

She heard about it at the hair salon two days ago—between the smell of flat irons, scalp oil, and gossip floating like incense. “Girl, Anthony Evans is back,” one of the stylists said, lips glossed, eyes lit with the spark of remembered crushes. There was a hum in the room after that, like the moment before lightning touches down.

Arielle didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just folded her hands in her lap. But her stomach? It flipped like it used to when he said her name. She kept her face still, the way her mama taught her. “Don’t let nobody see you shake,” her mother always said. But inside, the floor had shifted.

Anthony Evans. The boy who kissed her neck under the bleachers and promised her forever. The man who walked away without saying goodbye. Now he was back—less than ten miles away. And she was still trying to decide if her heart was brave—or just dumb.

She leaned against the porch railing, eyes scanning the sleepy street where cicadas hummed and kids pedaled too fast down cracked sidewalks. There was something about the air—it smelled like cut grass and maybe, just maybe, the edge of a decision. What did it mean, that he returned right as spring began to bloom? That she’d started dreaming about him again before she even knew he was home?

The breeze tugged at her locs, brushing them across her cheek like a whisper. Her phone buzzed on the porch railing. A text from her cousin Shonda: You heard from Anthony yet? Girl, don’t act like you ain’t curious.

Arielle locked the screen without replying. She wasn’t about to confess what she felt—not to Shonda, not to anyone. She didn’t even have the words. All she had was a body that remembered. And a heart that hadn't stopped listening for his footsteps.

Maybe she’d run into him at Kroger. Maybe she wouldn’t. But the wanting? That had already bloomed. Hot. Stupid. Familiar.

And deep down, she knew: Anthony Evans didn’t just walk back into town. He walked back into her bloodstream.

Back then, everything felt like summer. Not just the season—but the feeling of it. The soft ache of golden hours, the way light stretched long over sidewalks, and the hum of cicadas whispering promises you didn’t yet know would break. That was the year Arielle met Anthony—junior year, the year the world tilted slightly, quietly, without anyone noticing.

He arrived in the middle of October, when the leaves burned red and orange but the air still held onto warmth like a last breath. A transfer student from some city up north, with eyes that looked like they belonged in a sad song and a mouth that rarely smiled unless he meant it. Mysterious. Not in the cliché way. Anthony didn’t try to be noticed—he just was. Like static in the air. Like the part of a dream you wake up from and try to get back to.

He walked like he had secrets. Like he was already halfway out the door. But when he looked at you, really looked, it was as if the whole world quieted down just to listen.

Arielle was quiet too, but in a different way. The kind of quiet that noticed everything. She memorized the way people tapped their pencils when nervous or how teachers’ voices cracked when they were sad. She didn’t speak unless there was something worth saying. But Anthony? He made silence feel like a shared language.

He noticed her. Not in the way boys sometimes notice girls, all shallow glances and empty words—but like he saw the storm beneath her skin. Like he was listening for the sound of her thoughts. One afternoon he passed her a note in English class, folded neatly like origami. You look like you know where the stars go when they disappear. She didn’t answer. Just smiled.

They started walking home together. Talking about things no one else seemed to care about—fears, dreams, ghost stories, music that hurt too good. She told him about her father who left, and he told her about his mother who cried behind locked doors. Their hands brushed once in the dark. He didn’t pull away.

He wrote her poems—bad ones, mostly, full of crooked metaphors and awkward rhymes. But Arielle kept them, each one, folded in her diary like pressed flowers. Proof of something that once bloomed.

The first time he kissed her, it was behind the school, by the rusted swings that hadn’t creaked in years. The sky was bruised with dusk, and the air held that moment in its teeth. His lips were soft but unsure, like he was scared she might vanish. And in that moment, something unraveled in her. Something wild. Something alive. It was terrifying. It was wonderful.

She believed him when he whispered, “I’ve never felt this way before.” Believed him when he looked into her and said, “You’re the only one.”

She shouldn’t have.

Because even then—even when the world was sweeter—there were shadows forming at the edges. The kind you don’t notice until they’ve already swallowed the light.

He broke her in increments. Not with violence. Not even with cruelty. But with a carelessness so quiet it was almost tender. Like forgetting to water a plant he swore he loved. Like silence after a song you didn’t know meant something to you. It was the way he’d look at her and then through her, his mind somewhere else—somewhere freer, somewhere she didn’t exist.

She wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time he called her by another girl's name and laughed it off. Or when he stopped asking how her day went. When "we" became "I" and "I" became absence. There were other girls, of course. Whispers in hallways. Perfume she didn’t wear on his hoodie. Half-smiles exchanged with women who didn’t know her name—and didn't need to.

He gave just enough to keep her from leaving. A hand on the small of her back. Late-night calls when his world crumbled. The way he held her like she was oxygen, even as he learned to breathe without her.

She stayed. Too long. Longer than her pride wanted, longer than her friends advised. Because once, he had cried in her lap, body shaking, whispering, “My mama never loved me right.” And she’d believed, foolishly, that if she loved him hard enough, loud enough, right enough—she could rewrite his past.

But love doesn’t rewrite people. It doesn’t fill in the hollowed-out places they refuse to touch.

She wasn’t enough. Not for his brokenness. Not for his yearning for everything except stillness.

And when he left—moved cities like it was a casual change of scenery, like she was just another backdrop—he didn’t say goodbye. Not properly. Just a text that said, "Take care, always."

As if he hadn’t once promised forever.

It felt like someone had cut her open and walked away from the wound. And in the quiet that followed, she learned the cruelest thing wasn’t the leaving.

It was the fact that he had started letting go long before she ever realized she was holding on alone.

Years passed like pages in a book she wasn’t sure she wanted to finish. Arielle graduated college with honors, her name called in a stadium echoing with cheers that didn’t quite reach her heart. She became a teacher, poured her energy into molding young minds, into helping her students feel seen in ways she never quite had. She returned home not because she had to, but because something in her still wanted to rewrite the story from the beginning.

She dated kind men. Gentle, respectful, predictable. Men who opened car doors, texted back, remembered birthdays. Safe ones. The kind you’re supposed to want.

But none of them sparked the fire Anthony once did—and none of them burned her to ash, either.

Then, on a quiet Sunday morning when the sky was the color of cold milk, she wandered into Kroger to pick up lemons and oat milk. She was reaching for a bag of oranges when a voice, low and familiar, sliced through the hum of grocery store chatter like a song she hadn’t realized she still remembered.

“Ari.”

She froze.

He stood at the end of the produce aisle, holding a bunch of cilantro, looking at her like the years had never passed. His smile hadn't aged, but his eyes—those had changed. There was something quieter in them now. Less of the wild boy who once made her feel infinite and more of the man he’d become in her absence.

Her hand trembled. The bag of oranges slipped from her fingers, scattering across the linoleum like startled thoughts.

He knelt without hesitation, gathering the fruit. His fingers brushed hers, and a rush of memory bloomed in her chest—late-night car rides, whispered promises, the weight of his hoodie on her shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, looking up at her. “For years.”

Her breath snagged somewhere between hope and warning.

She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe that the boy who once broke her heart open like a window in a storm had become the man who could now close it gently, without shattering anything.

But memory has sharp teeth.

She remembered what it felt like to lie awake wondering why love had to hurt. Remembered the silence after their last argument, the way he walked away like she was just another door he didn’t want to open anymore. Remembered how she had to learn to stand up straight again without his arms around her.

“People change,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m not who I was. I hope… neither are you.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“No,” she said softly. “I’m not.”

Because scars don’t fade just because someone says they’re sorry.

They fade because you learn to wear them like armor.

And even now, when the world is quieter and her life more whole, some part of her still remembers the sound of breaking.

And how long it took her to stop blaming herself for it.

They talked for hours in the Kroger parking lot, the night thick around them, quiet except for the occasional thrum of an engine passing by. They leaned on her car like they were teenagers again—like time hadn’t carved out a thousand days, a thousand silences, a thousand goodbyes between them. Arielle's breath clouded in the chill air, and Anthony’s jacket smelled faintly of sawdust and cologne, of sweat and something that tugged at memory.

Anthony looked older now. A little more worn at the edges, like a page too often turned. His beard had filled in with streaks of silver, and his eyes—those eyes—held something quieter. Tired, maybe. But still deep. Still familiar. Still dangerous.

His voice curled around her like smoke, smooth and slow. "I've been back a few months," he said. "Working construction. Helping my cousin get his business off the ground. Just trying to rebuild, you know?"

"Rebuild what?" she asked, not even knowing where the question had come from.

"Myself." He looked down, then back up at her, gaze steady. "I had to. I was... a mess before. I know that now."

Then, softer: “I think about you. All the time.”

The words landed heavy in the space between them, heavier than the humidity in the Southern night air. Arielle's mouth parted, but the words she wanted—Don’t, or You lost that right—dissolved somewhere behind her teeth, too raw to reach daylight.

So instead, she asked, “Why now?”

Anthony shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Because I couldn’t get you out of me.”

And the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing not blurred in the rearview mirror—made something inside her flicker. Something she thought she’d buried.

And that’s how it started again. With old ghosts and new words. With memory and maybe.

They met for coffee the next morning, sitting across from each other at the corner table in the café where she used to grade papers after school. He ordered her drink without asking—oat milk, one sugar, extra cinnamon—and she hated how much that still touched her.

Then dinner. Then walks around the lake trail where they used to go after Sunday brunch. Slowly, like breath returning after a long hold, it began to feel like something was waking up between them.

Anthony told her he’d been going to therapy. That he was learning to sit with things. His pain. His shame. His choices. “I know I hurt you,” he said one night, voice low, eyes fixed on the gravel. “I don’t want to be that man again. I’m not.”

She studied his profile, the curve of his jaw in the streetlight, the way his hands fidgeted. She didn’t say anything at first. Because what did you say to someone who shattered you, then came back holding glue?

But when he brought her sunflowers the next week—bright and tall and defiant—he said, “Not roses. Too easy. You’re more like these. Strong. Resilient. Not fragile.”

She laughed, despite herself. And the way he looked at her in that moment—like he had waited a lifetime just to hear her laugh—knocked the air out of her chest.

He asked about her students. Her favorite novels. What music made her cry lately. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t dominate. He listened. Or at least, he seemed to.

But underneath it all, in the place she rarely looked, there was a whisper behind her ribs: Don’t forget. It didn’t shout. It didn’t scold. It just… waited. A quiet echo of the girl who once cried herself to sleep in the silence he left behind.

Still, Arielle let herself want. Let herself hope. She cracked the door open to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, people could change. That maybe love could learn how to come back better.

Some nights, they sat in his truck, the dashboard lights dim and warm, old R&B drifting like a heartbeat. He’d press his forehead to hers, palms resting on her thighs, and whisper, “I got it wrong before. I won’t get it wrong again.”

And for a while, that promise was enough. Enough to hush the whisper. Enough to believe.

But hope, she knew, was a match. And all it takes is a gust of truth to snuff it out.

But love doesn’t live on promises alone.

At first, it was little things. The dates he canceled last minute with vague excuses—“work stuff,” “traffic’s insane,” “rain check?”—stacked like unattended mail. The calls grew fewer, shorter. Texts turned from full sentences into half-hearted emojis. She tried not to notice. Tried to rationalize. Everyone gets busy. Maybe he just needs space. But silence isn’t space. Silence is absence. And absence, she was learning, is its own kind of answer.

When she asked—carefully, gently—he’d sigh like she’d just ruined everything. Like her desire for clarity was sabotage.

“You’re overthinking. Don’t mess this up, Ari.”

There it was again. That script he knew by heart, and she, unfortunately, had once memorized. His tone was smooth, practiced. Not cruel—no, he was too polished for cruelty—but sharp enough to make her bleed inside. And the moment she began to doubt herself, he knew he had her. Just like before.

It wasn’t a breakup. It was a slow unraveling. A steady ghosting that wore human clothes. And the worst part? He still held her hand in public. Still called her “baby” in front of his friends. Still looked at her like she was the only one in the room—when he wanted to. But in the quiet moments, in the unlit corners of their relationship, there was a coldness he couldn’t quite disguise.

One night, he dropped her off and didn’t walk her to the door. No kiss. No lingering touch. Just a casual wave through the window like she was a neighbor, or worse—a stranger. She stood there for a beat too long, the porch light flickering behind her like a warning.

Her heart thudded like thunder against her ribs. It was as if her body understood something before her mind did.

It was happening again.

The forgetting. The withdrawing. The way he faded like the last few bars of a love song she used to dance to.

She didn’t cry—not then. She just stood on that porch, hands clenched, breath caught, staring at the space his car used to be.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t reach for her phone. Didn’t send a follow-up. Didn’t chase him down.

Because somewhere deep inside, the fog was lifting.

She found out from a cousin—an accidental text meant for someone else, followed by an awkward phone call filled with too much stammering. Anthony had been seeing someone else. A girl who worked at the local bar. Twenty-three. No baggage. No history of shared trauma. No late-night talks about trust issues and childhood wounds. Just a blank canvas he could paint over with lies he hadn't recycled yet.

Arielle sat with it for a full day, nausea curling in her stomach like spoiled milk. The pieces clicked together too easily: the sudden distance, the unanswered texts, the nights he claimed he was “figuring things out.” She had believed him—believed that people could change, especially when they swore they would.

When she confronted him, he didn’t even flinch.

“It’s not like we were official,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed like a man too comfortable in his own cowardice.

Her voice trembled, but it held. “You told me you wanted to fix what you broke.”

He looked away, almost like he was bored. “I meant it. In the moment.”

There it was again. Moment. That word he used like a shield and a shovel—shielding himself from accountability, burying everything they had shared.

As if love lived in the heat of a glance or the brush of a hand, and not in the quiet, unglamorous work of showing up. Every day. Especially when it was hard.

She stood there, hands clenched, pulse thudding in her throat. Small. Furious. Done.

“You know what?” she whispered, her voice steadier now. “You don’t love anybody. You just like being wanted.”

He laughed—bitter and careless, a sound with no weight behind it. “You’re still so dramatic, Ari.”

But she didn’t flinch either. Didn’t cry. Not then.

She just turned, grabbed her keys, and walked out of his apartment with the same dignity she walked in with. It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t a statement. It was survival.

And this time—this time—she didn’t look

Weeks passed. Then months.

There was no dramatic epiphany, no thunderclap of closure—just the slow, deliberate unfolding of space. Space between thoughts of him. Space between the ache and the acceptance. Space she could finally fill with herself.

She deleted his number. Not in anger, but as an act of clarity. She blocked his socials—because healing required silence, not surveillance. She even burned the old poems tucked inside her nightstand drawer. Not because she hated him, but because she was done preserving pain like it was something sacred.

It wasn’t about revenge. It never had been.

Healing looked nothing like the movies. It looked like peace—quiet and unassuming. Like making breakfast on a soft Sunday morning, flipping pancakes while sunlight spilled across the kitchen tiles. Like reading a book and getting lost in it, not flipping the page just to distract herself. Like laughing too loud with her friends over wine, not apologizing for taking up space. Like walking past the spot where he used to pick her up and realizing—her chest didn’t tighten. Her breath didn’t catch. Her heart didn’t reach for what no longer reached back.

It wasn’t perfect. Some days still stung. Some songs still hurt. But she stopped checking his last seen. Stopped wondering if he ever regretted letting her go. She realized that wasn’t the point.

She didn’t stop loving him all at once. Love doesn’t disappear like that. It dissolves slowly, like sugar in coffee—bittersweet until it’s gone.

But in that slow unraveling, she found something sacred.

You can love someone deeply and still decide they are not worthy of you.

She had always believed love was about holding on. Now she knew—it was just as powerful to let go.

Months later, spring unfolded in soft pinks and golds, and Ari found herself back in that same Kroger parking lot, now with a different rhythm in her chest. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t bracing. The air was kind, the sky wide and forgiving.

She spotted him before he noticed her—alone, slumped on the curb outside the automatic doors, head bowed, fingers raking through his hair like he was trying to untangle a life that had unraveled. His jeans were faded now, frayed at the knees. There was a crumpled receipt in one hand, a nearly-empty bottle of Mountain Dew in the other.

He looked up, blinking as if pulled from some internal static, and his eyes met hers. Recognition hit his face like a slap.

“Ari,” he called. His voice cracked in that familiar way, the way it used to when he tried to lie gently.

She stopped. Just for a second. Long enough to let the past settle without weight.

“I’m good,” she said, her tone soft but unshakable. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And she meant it. There was no malice, no residual ache—only a quiet truth she’d earned.

He opened his mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to reach backward. But Ari had already turned.

She walked away, the sidewalk firm beneath her sandals, the breeze lifting the hem of her dress like a whisper of freedom. The sun poured over her shoulders, warm and golden.

Her heart was whole. Not because someone else had come to heal it, but because she finally had.

And behind her, the past stayed seated on the curb, no longer invited to follow.

Have You Ever Loved Somebody?

Yes.

And sometimes, loving them means leaving them. Not because the love wasn’t real. Not because the moments weren’t magic. But because staying meant shrinking. Because loving them started to mean forgetting yourself—your laughter, your light, your wholeness.

There comes a time when your heart whispers truths you’ve tried to silence: that peace is not found in walking on eggshells, that love should not taste like sacrifice every single day.

Sometimes, the greatest act of love is choosing yourself. Not out of bitterness, but out of grace. Not because you stopped loving them, but because you finally started loving you. To love somebody deeply is one thing. To realize that love should never come at the cost of your soul is everything.

So yes. I have loved somebody, and I walked away. And in that leaving, I came back to life.

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© 2026 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Through My Fingers by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

Through My Fingers

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,755

The first time Michael saw Naomi, she was slipping between crowds like smoke, her dark curls catching the light of the setting sun. He had been leaving a coffee shop, distracted by a voicemail he didn’t want to hear—his mother’s voice, clipped and urgent, reminding him of a dinner he had no intention of attending—when she passed him. Just a whisper of sandalwood and something sweeter, lingering in the air like the afterthought of a dream.

By the time he turned, she was already across the street, her laughter spilling into the dusk. It wasn’t the loud kind that demanded attention, but something softer, a private amusement shared with the person beside her. Michael couldn’t hear what was said, but the way she tipped her head back slightly, the way the neon signs reflected in her eyes, made him wish he had. The moment stretched—too brief, too fragile—and then she was gone, swallowed by the shifting tide of pedestrians.

For weeks, she existed in glimpses. A silhouette framed against the glow of a bookstore window, fingers drifting over the spines of novels she never bought. Once, he watched her pull a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages with an absentminded curiosity, only to slide it back into place and leave without looking back. Another time, he caught sight of her slipping into a jazz lounge, her figure vanishing behind a closing door just as a slow trumpet began to play. He lingered outside longer than he meant to, listening to the music she was lost in.

She was an echo, a flicker in the corner of his eye, always half a step ahead. A name he almost asked about but never did.

Then, suddenly, she was real.

They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at—he, dragged by a coworker who insisted he “needed to get out more”; she, indulging a cousin who had already abandoned her in favor of someone new. The air inside was thick with bass-heavy music, perfume, and the mingling scents of expensive cologne and spilled cocktails.

Michael had been nursing a drink he didn’t want, scanning the room for an excuse to leave, when he spotted her. Naomi, leaning against the balcony railing, the city stretching behind her in glittering indifference. The amber liquid in her glass caught the glow of a nearby lantern, casting warm reflections against her skin. She didn’t look bored, exactly—more like she existed just outside of everything happening around her, untouched.

For a long moment, he only watched. Not out of hesitation, but because she looked like she belonged there, in that space between presence and absence, as if the world shifted just slightly to accommodate her. And then, without turning, she spoke.

“You’re always looking.”

Her voice was low, threaded with quiet amusement, as if she had been waiting for him to say something first and, when he hadn’t, decided to break the silence herself.

His throat tightened. “At what?”

She tilted her head slightly, finally meeting his gaze, and smirked. “At me.”

A slow heat crept up his neck, but he held her gaze. He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her stay in this moment a little longer, but all he could think about was every time he had seen her before—half-formed memories of a woman who had always been just out of reach.

Michael hadn’t realized he’d been chasing her until he finally caught her.

Naomi was not a woman who could be held.

Some nights, she pressed against him, her body fitting against his as if she had always belonged there. Her fingers traced the curve of his collarbone, delicate and unhurried, like she was memorizing the shape of him. She whispered about constellations, their Greek names rolling off her tongue like poetry, her breath warm against his skin. Orion, cursed by the gods. Cassiopeia, punished for her vanity. She spoke of myths like they were memories, as if she had lived them herself, and Michael listened, entranced, as though holding onto every word might keep her from fading.

Other nights, she disappeared. Days would pass without a word. His messages sat unread, his calls rang unanswered. Then, just as suddenly, she’d return—slipping through his door with the scent of rain in her hair, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek as if she had never been gone. If he asked where she had been, she would only smile, shifting the conversation elsewhere. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had last night. Do you ever think about leaving the city? She existed in the spaces between presence and absence, and Michael, despite everything, let her.

He told himself it was enough. That he understood her silences as well as her laughter. That he could accept the way she vanished, the way she never truly belonged to any moment for long.

But understanding something doesn’t mean you can live with it.

One night, she stirred beside him, her breath soft against his shoulder. He had been half-asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing, when her voice, quiet but certain, cut through the darkness.

“Michael,” she whispered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

His eyes opened. He turned his head, but she was already staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

“What do you mean?”

She exhaled, the sound barely more than a sigh. “I think some people are ghosts before they die. Drifting, unable to stay anywhere for too long. Always belonging to something else.”

Michael reached for her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She let him, but her grip was loose, barely there, like the ghost she claimed to be.

“Is that what you are?” he asked.

Naomi didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to.

It unraveled slowly, like the fraying edges of a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

The first time she left without answering his calls, he told himself she just needed space. He remembered thinking that everyone had their own battles, their own moments of retreat. It wasn’t the first time she had withdrawn, and he could almost convince himself that it was normal. They’d been together long enough for him to know that Naomi had a way of disappearing into herself when the world became too loud. He could give her that, he told himself. Time.

The second time, the silence stretched longer. His messages went unread, his calls unanswered, but he convinced himself it was just a phase. Maybe she had gotten busy, maybe she was dealing with something she didn’t want to burden him with. He tried to fill the empty space with rational thoughts, telling himself it was temporary. But doubt began to gnaw at him, that small flicker of unease that had once been a whisper now turning into a murmur of worry.

By the third time, he stopped calling. The quiet in the apartment where they used to share small moments felt heavier now. Each unanswered call made it harder to convince himself that this was just another bump in the road. He felt like he was losing her in pieces, and the weight of it pressed down on him, settling in his chest like a stone. He let the silence stretch further, hoping she would break it, but she never did. And in the stillness, he realized he had already given up trying to reach her.

One night, standing outside her apartment, he knocked twice. Then a third time. His knuckles rapped against the door, but it was as if he was knocking on the very thing that separated them—time, space, the shifting currents of something he couldn’t grasp. The hallway smelled of rain and dust, the air thick with the hush of something already lost. His breath came in shallow, measured intervals as he waited for the sound of footsteps, the turning of the lock.

But there was nothing.

He knew she was inside. He knew she wouldn’t open the door. He could almost hear her breathing on the other side, could feel the weight of her presence, the distance between them. He waited, hoping for some kind of sign, some gesture that would tell him she hadn’t completely disappeared. But the moments stretched, and still, there was no answer.

Eventually, he turned away, the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the hallway. It was a hollow kind of walk, one that felt as if he had already said goodbye. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t had the chance.

The last time he saw her, it wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t anything. Naomi had stood in his doorway, half-turned toward the night, her expression unreadable, a shadow clinging to her face that he couldn’t place. He wanted to ask her where she was going, what had happened, what had changed, but the words caught in his throat. He had never been good at asking the right questions when it mattered most.

She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe, fingers almost gripping it, as if she was weighing something heavier than the night between them. Then, without a word, she left.

Days later, when he finally went looking for her, she was gone. Her number disconnected, her apartment emptied, the space she once filled now vacant and silent. The emptiness gnawed at him, each step he took through the city streets feeling more like a search for a ghost than a person.

The only thing left was a note slipped beneath his door. It was simple, almost too simple for the weight it carried.

"You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay."

Michael read it twice. Then once more. The words blurred together as his eyes stung. There was nothing more to it—no explanation, no apology, no closure.

The ink at the end was smudged, as if she had almost changed her mind, as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted to be held. She had been right there, just on the edge of turning back, of letting herself be caught. But she never did.

As if, for one brief moment, she remembered what it felt like to be wanted, to be loved. But that wasn’t enough to hold her. Naomi was the wind—felt, but never kept. Her presence was like the air itself—always around him, but impossible to hold, to contain. And love, however deep, however honest, had never been enough to keep her from drifting away.

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© 2026 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,129

The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.

Then came the scream.

Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.

Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.

Herself.

The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.

She was sprinting straight for her.

Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.

Then—

A car horn blared.

Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.

The woman was gone.

Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.

But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.

Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.

Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”

Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”

Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.

She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.

The woman was back.

And this time, she was screaming her name.

The next warning came through her email.

Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals stacked on top of campaign updates, meeting requests squeezed between last-minute client edits.

Then one subject line stopped her cold.

DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.

Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.

With a shaky hand, she clicked.

The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.

She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—

The email vanished.

Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.

Nothing.

Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.

The video call came that night.

Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.

Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.

Unknown Caller.

A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.

The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.

Herself.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Her.

But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.

The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.

"Please listen to me."

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”

The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."

A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”

Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.

"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."

Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”

A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.

"Because I didn’t believe myself either."

The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.

Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.

She should tell him. Should tell someone.

But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.

She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.

The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.

She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.

But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.

One new voicemail.

A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.

She pressed play.

At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.

Then—her own voice.

Shaking. Desperate.

"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”

Static. A choked sob. Then silence.

Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.

She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.

It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.

But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.

This wasn’t stress.

It was a warning.

The wedding was in two days.

Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.

The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.

She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.

She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.

But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.

It was about what she already knew.

The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.

This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She had to leave.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.

His voice.

“Where are you going?”

The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.

Jasmine spun around.

Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.

She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”

Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”

No.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.

It was him.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”

A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.

“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.

A silent warning.

Jasmine’s skin went cold.

Because suddenly, she knew.

This was the beginning.

The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.

The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.

She should have ripped her arm away.

She should have run.

But just like before, just like always—

She didn’t.

Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.

The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.

But inside, she was frozen.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But the echoes had faded.

The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.

And the cycle began again.

Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.

The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.

Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed. “Again?”

There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.

And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.

She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.

The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.

This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.

And yet, she stayed.

Just like before.

The warnings never stopped.

Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.

At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.

One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.

Another email.

IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.

Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.

Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.

His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.

The weight of ownership.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.

Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.

And tried to sleep.

The first slap came a year later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.

Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.

Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.

“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.

Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.

In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.

She closed her eyes.

And let the silence swallow her whole.

The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.

She looked down.

Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.

Then—a whisper.

“You know what you have to do.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.

Her.

Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”

Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.

Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”

Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.

And then—she vanished.

Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.

That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.

She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition.

As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.

Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.

A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.

Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.

But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.

For the first time, the past was truly behind her.

Jasmine inhaled deeply.

And finally, slept without ghosts.

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© 2026 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

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The Marriage That Wasn't by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance / Literary Fiction

 

The Marriage That Wasn't

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,208

It was 2:07 AM when Tamara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her breath coming slow and measured. The bedroom clock ticked—a sharp, rhythmic sound that drilled into the silence. Beside her, Greg’s back was turned, his breathing steady. Asleep. Or pretending.

She used to reach for him in the night, nestling into the warmth of his body. Now, the space between them stretched wide, a silent, invisible trench neither dared to cross.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. Outside, the wind rattled the window, but Greg didn't stir. Tamara swallowed. Had it been this way for months? A year? She tried to remember the last time they had spoken about something real—something beyond schedules, bills, the weather. She turned her head slightly, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Greg?" Her voice barely broke the stillness.

No answer.

She exhaled, pressing her lips together, then turned onto her side, mirroring his position. They were two bodies lying inches apart, yet the distance between them was immeasurable.

Once, they had talked about everything—how he liked his coffee black but sometimes added cream when he wanted to feel indulgent, how she hated the way the city sounded at night but loved the smell of rain on pavement. Now, silence was their only routine.

A lump formed in her throat. She closed her eyes and listened to the tick of the clock.

2:08 AM.

The night stretched ahead, long and empty.

By morning, Greg was already in the kitchen, standing by the counter, pouring his coffee into the travel mug Tamara had given him two Christmases ago. The navy-blue ceramic had dulled with time, scratches along the handle, a faint chip near the rim. It used to be his favorite—he once said it felt "just right" in his hand. Now, he never acknowledged it. Just like her.

The coffee machine hissed as it dispensed the last drops, filling the silence. Tamara lingered in the doorway, watching him move with mechanical efficiency. No pause, no glance in her direction. He didn’t say good morning. Didn’t ask if she wanted any.

She rubbed her arms. "Don’t forget—the light bill's due tomorrow."

Greg zipped up his coat, eyes on his phone. "I won’t."

That was it. Their daily exchange. Factual. Transactional. Cold.

Tamara clenched her jaw, swallowing back the words that burned at her throat. Ask me how I slept. Tell me you love me. Say anything real. But she already knew how this would go. Every time she reached for more, Greg would stiffen, his face turning to stone, eyes flickering with impatience—like she was an obligation instead of a wife.

She had tried once. Sat across from him at the dinner table, hands curled around her untouched plate, voice shaking as she said, I miss you. Told him how the silence felt heavier than any fight, how she wanted to be more than two people coexisting under the same roof.

He nodded, distracted. Took a bite of his food. "I’ll try harder."

That was six months ago. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.

Tamara handled the groceries, the bills, the doctor’s appointments, the house repairs. Greg handled his job, his phone, and occasionally, when the overflowing trash became unbearable, he’d take out a bag—always with a heavy sigh, as if it were some grand sacrifice.

When her mother got sick, Tamara spent sleepless nights coordinating with doctors, filling out paperwork, and making sure her mother had everything she needed. Greg never asked how she was holding up. He never even offered to drive her to the hospital. But when his car broke down, his call came in the middle of her work meeting, urgent and impatient.

“I need you to pick me up.” No hello. No Are you busy?

She whispered an apology to her boss and grabbed her keys.

By the time she got there, he was pacing outside the auto shop, phone in hand, barely acknowledging her as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Gonna be expensive,” he grumbled. “They say the alternator’s shot.”

She waited for him to say something else. How was your day? Are you okay? Anything. But the silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Tamara used to believe love was about shared burdens—two people walking side by side, lifting together, making life easier for one another. But this? This wasn’t sharing.

This was her carrying everything while he walked ahead, hands free.

Tamara leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Greg scroll through his phone. His face was bathed in the cold glow of the screen, eyes skimming whatever was more interesting than her.

“Greg,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Do you even like me anymore?”

His thumb paused mid-scroll. He looked up, blinking as if she had spoken in a language he no longer understood.

“Why would you ask that?”

She let out a breath, pressing her nails into her palm. “Because I feel invisible. Like I could disappear, and you wouldn’t notice.”

He sighed—deep and exasperated—rubbing his temples like she had handed him a chore. “Tam, I’m tired. Work is exhausting. Can we not do this tonight?”

She had heard that before. She would hear it again.

The silence settled, thick and unmoving.

That night, as Greg lay beside her, his back to her as always, Tamara stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The bed beneath her felt like stone. The space between them, an ever-expanding abyss.

Once, marriage had felt like an unspoken promise—of warmth, of partnership, of carrying the weight of life together. Now, it was a contract, binding her to a role that had lost all meaning. 

She turned on her side, staring at his unmoving silhouette. The man who had once memorized the way she took her tea now barely registered her presence.

As the clock struck 2:07 AM again, the truth settled in her bones.

She wasn’t in a marriage. She was in servitude.

And as she whispered, “I can’t do this anymore,” the only response was the sound of Greg’s steady, oblivious breathing.

Maybe that was answer enough.

The morning after Tamara whispered her truth into the dark, something in her shifted. Not all at once, but like the first crack in a dam.

Greg went through his usual motions—shower, coffee, keys jingling in his palm—without noticing the packed suitcase by the door. Without seeing her sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug she didn’t bother to sip from.

"I paid the light bill," he muttered, glancing at his phone.

She exhaled, more tired than angry now. "That’s not enough, Greg. It never was."

He looked up then, his brow creasing. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Tamara pushed the mug away, stood, and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "It means I’m done carrying this marriage alone."

For the first time in years, his mask of indifference faltered. But it was too late. Tamara had already walked to the door, already felt the relief blooming in her chest.

She stepped outside into the crisp morning air. And for the first time in a long time, she felt weightless.

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© 2026 Olivia Salter - All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.