



Fractured Reflections
Isabella stood frozen behind the counter, Jason’s notebook open on the polished wood. Marco’s silhouette framed in the back‑room doorway, the evening light splayed sharp lines across his suit. His breathing was controlled, but tense—he’d stepped in mid-scene, and the air between them tasted of betrayal.
She tried to swallow, voice caught mid‑waver. Her fingers trembled. Say something. Anything. But all that rose was the sting of silence.
Marco’s jaw clenched. Behind his steel-blue eyes, hurt glimmered like broken glass. “Jason,” he said, each syllable deliberate. “Why are you here?”
Jason closed the notebook and squared his shoulders. “I came for her,” he said, stepping into the open. He was calm, but Isabella smelled adrenaline in the air—the tang of freshly ground espresso, and her own fear.
Marco’s gaze flashed to her. “Isabella?”
She forced her feet to move forward. The café lights hummed above, echoing her heartbeat. “Marco,” she whispered, voice brittle. “He… he brought back the notebook. He—”
“Why?” Marco interrupted, his voice low. He stepped closer, the floor creaking where he pressed his weight. The tension smeared the comfort of their shop with something raw and unfamiliar.
“Because he… because I needed to remember.” Isabella leaned against the counter, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. Her skin felt exposed—every veneer stripped, every secret splashed raw.
Jason stepped forward, too: “Marco, I—”
Marco held up a hand. “No. Isabella, you tell me.” He looked at her—really looked—as if seeing her for the first time.
Isabella’s throat constricted. Her body shook with shame and defiance. She shut her eyes, tasted the metallic tang of tears. She thought of Luca’s laughter, the softness of Sofia’s cheek. She thought of restaurant dates with Marco years ago, of dreaming big as a young girl opening the shop. And she thought of Jason’s touch, buried in her blood.
Her gaze snapped up. “I have been… slipping,” she whispered. “After hours. Random men. I chase… something.” She swallowed, each word blistering through raw throat. “But none of it fills what’s missing.”
Streaks of memory: her heart pounding against Jason’s chest in college, laughter drifting around them late at night, painted hopes unwritten. Then the sharp ache: her father’s absence after a drunken collapse, Marco’s promise to never leave her broken, her own fragile longing unspoken.
Marco leaned in. He smelled like old suit fabric, aftershave and the low-code guilt of missed moments. “Random men?” he echoed. He nodded toward the closed café. “Meaning… tonight?”
She swallowed sweat. Her palms were slick. She’d backed herself into confession’s edge. She nodded, every breath a confession of guilt. “Tonight.”
Marco’s shoulders sagged like the weight of a drowning man. He closed his eyes, arms dropping slowly to his side. Silence rippled, breaking like waves in a far‑off storm.
“I… I didn’t know,” he finally said, voice uneven. “I thought we were… okay.”
She shook her head. “We’re not. We haven’t been for years.” She looked down, clutching the counter edge. “I thought the shop, the kids, your love—it would be enough. But… it wasn’t.”
Marco shook his head slowly, as if clearing cobwebs. “Why didn’t you say anything? I would’ve—”
“I was ashamed,” she cut in. Tears finally broke free, trailing warmth into her collarbone. “I didn’t want to ruin everything.”
Jason stepped closer but remained quiet—respecting the break in the storm, not wanting to drown the fragile moment.
Marco’s chest tightened. He took a slow breath. “You want to tell me about… these men?” His eyes flicked to Jason. “Are they… just nights?”
Isabella’s heartbeat reverberated in her ears. She locked eyes with Jason, wanting his steadiness, even as her heart split. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s more than that. It’s emptiness. It’s the part of me I lost—because I lost myself.”
Marco absorbed that confession like a physical blow. He stepped back and pinched the bridge of his nose. The lights flickered low overhead. For a moment, the café seemed hollow and cold.
He looked at Jason. “You… you were waiting outside? You watched her life go on while you waited?”
Jason went still. “Because I never knew if she’d invite me back in,” he said softly. “Until tonight.”
Marco turned to Isabella. His voice cracked, a fragile brittle echo. “Were you… inviting him back in? Inviting this… chaos?”
Her voice shook. “I don’t know,” she said, tears streaking mascara down her cheeks. “I think I was, in some way.”
He closed his eyes. Her revelation hung like a blade. Silence grew thick, pressing their breaths ragged.
Suddenly, Rosa’s footsteps echoed from the café entrance. She stepped in, eyes wide. “Marco? Jason? I—”
She froze, sensing betrayal’s echo. Marco looked at Rosa. “We need space.”
Rosa nodded slowly, stepping back. But before Marco moved, he bent to pick up Jason’s notebook. His grip tightened around it.
Isabella reached, voice a whisper. “Marco—please.”
He held the notebook like evidence. “I… need time.”
He turned and left, each step pulling hope and joy out of the room like a graveclothes being stripped.
Jason remained, standing in silence.
Isabella looked at him, chest heaving. The scent of mocha and old paper filled her head. “Jason, I—”
He shook his head. “You need to figure out your marriage,” he said quietly. “I can’t be… a substitute.”
She sank to a nearby stool, burying her face in her hands. Jason stepped to the door and placed a hand on the handle. He lingered, torn between staying and letting her have her space.
He gave a final nod and left, closing the café door with a soft click. The evening silence returned oversized and heavy.
Rosa approached quietly and touched Isabella’s shoulder: small, grounding.
Isabella looked up at her, drained. “I’m… lost.”
Rosa sat beside her. “You told the truth,” she said softly. “It’s the hardest thing you’ve done.”
Isabella covered her face, nodding as tears spilled again. “I don’t know who I am without the masks.”
Rosa reached into her apron and pulled out a folded note. Isabella’s name written in Jason’s handwriting. She handed it over gently.
Isabella opened it:
“Take your time. I’ll be here, when you're ready.”
Her breath caught. She stared at the words, a fragile tether dangling in front of her.
The café lights dim further as the back door clicks open. Marco reappears—noculars in hand, holding two small boxes. He stands in the doorway, them–Vital choice silhouetted behind him. Isabella's head snaps up.