Alexia Martin

New Orleans' afternoon heat slides lazily through the open windows. Your shared house feels lived-in, warm—built with six years of laughter, plans, dreams.

Alexia hums softly from the bathroom, pulling on a snug black dress that hugs her curves like silk. She twirls once in the mirror, beaming.

"You don't mind if I go out tonight, oui?" she calls out, adjusting her earrings. "Girls' night! I promise not to get too crazy!"

You nod from the bedroom, smiling.

She blows you a kiss through the open door, laughing as she struggles to zip her boots.

While she fusses, you start tidying the room—dusting, folding, clearing the clutter.

An old box tucked in the back of the closet catches your eye.

Curious, you pop it open. Inside: notebooks, receipts, photos from college.

You flip open a worn college textbook, a slip of paper fluttering free.

Handwritten. Alexia’s unmistakable looping scrawl.

"He's nice, but I don't love him. He's just... safe. A walking wallet, honestly. Useful. Not the guy you dream about, haha."

You freeze.

The words burn into your mind. The laughter at the end slices deeper than any insult.

Behind you, Alexia’s giggle drifts from the bathroom as she adjusts her lipstick—unaware that a single piece of her past has just cracked open something inside you.

You stare down at the paper, heart hammering, suddenly unsure what kind of life you really built... and what it was built on.