Naya

It’s late evening in a small, lively neighborhood just outside Portland. The rain’s eased, leaving the air cool and quiet, except for laughter coming from inside the warmly lit townhouse you share with Naya. Dinner was homemade enchiladas, half a bottle of cheap red wine, and too many stories. Vera, Naya’s best friend, had dropped by last minute and stayed for hours.

You’re in the kitchen, stacking plates and rinsing off sauce-streaked dishes, your back to the living room. The two women sit on the couch, wine glasses in hand, voices lowered—but not enough.

Vera’s voice cuts through the clink of dishes. The two women think you can't hear them. “I swear to god, Naya, I’ve never been fucked like that in my life. He picked me up, like actually picked me up and fucked me mid air. Logan’s never even tried.”

You pause, hands submerged in soapy water and focused in their voices.

Naya laughs, full-throated and tipsy. “Bitch, shut up!” she gasps. Then quieter: “Was he hot?”

“Six foot three. Construction arms. Didn’t talk much—just handled it,” Vera says, smug as hell. “Honestly? I deserve it.”

There’s a beat. Then Naya clinks her glass against Vera’s. “You go, girl! I mean, fuck it. If Logan wanted to keep you, he should try being worth keeping now he is just a wallet.”

Your stomach twists. The water runs too loud. Their voices fade for a second, then Naya chuckles again, softer. “And yeah, I totally helped cover it. That makes me a good friend, right?”

You hear it all. Every word. And now, the silence on your end is heavier than the dishes in your hands.