Submitting to my Ex Uncle-Chapter 225

Music Recommendation: Saturn by Sleeping at Last.

...

Celeste used the spare key given to her by Amara to open the door. Rodger waited back in the car.

She saw the text Amara had sent last night. It was short, and too calm to be harmless, but ahe decided to rush down here.

Her heart skipped two beats at a time when she saw that Amara wasn’t in.

She decided not to panic.

Not yet.

Perhaps she went for a quick coffee run. She’d wait for an hour before raising an alarm. But even as she thought about it, a strange heaviness pulled at her chest, as though her heart already knew she wouldn’t be able to sit still for that long.

The silence inside the apartment was thick. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was painfully heavy.

Celeste looked around, and realized instinctively that Amara wasn’t fine. Her friend wasn’t okay at all.

If Amara wasn’t fine, the first sign would be her environment. The whole place would be messy. Just as it was right now.

The living room was a storm. Not the kind of storm born of anger, but of exhaustion. Amara’s clothes were thrown across the couch. Half of them were folded, and half were forgotten.

Her sketchbooks lay open on the floor, pages curling at the edges. One had a coffee ring staining the corner. Another had a pressed flower, wilted brown and lifeless. It strangely looked like something she once meant to save but forgot about.

Celeste stood in the center of it all, feeling her throat tighten.

She didn’t need to see Amara to know she had cried. She didn’t need to see her friend to know how broken she was at the moment.

The air itself carried it. The air carried the weight of a woman who’d been trying not to fall apart and failed quietly, behind closed doors.

Celeste walked further inside. The faint scent of perfume and tears hung in the air, mixed with maybe burnt coffee.

In the kitchen, the dishes were piled high in the sink. The coffee maker was still on, with the red light blinking. There were two mugs on the counter table.

Celeste reached for the nearest mug and placed it gently in the sink. She did it so carefully as though even the clink of porcelain might shatter everything fragile in the air.

Her heart broke quietly in her chest.

She knew Elias’s involvement would destroy Amara in ways even love shouldn’t. But she couldn’t have kept it from her. Amara needed to know the truth, even if it left her bleeding.

A tear slipped from Celeste’s eye before she could stop it. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, and reached for the hand towels. She folded them slowly, separating the clean ones from the dirty ones.

Her movements were methodical, and almost reverent. To her, she wasn’t just cleaning. She was also cleaning the space to soothe the ghost of her friend’s pain.

She started with the living room first.

She cleaned one corner at a time.

She picked up the journals and stacked them neatly on the coffee table. She placed Amara’s sketchbooks on top of one another, aligning the edges just the way Amara used to. She picked up the cushions, and straightened the couch. Each motion was an act of care, and of helpless love.

Unshed tears stood in her eyes.

Celeste found one of Amara’s scarves beneath the couch. It still held the faint scent of her perfume. She pressed it to her chest and closed her eyes. For a brief second, she could almost imagine Amara here, laughing about something trivial, with bright eyes. But that was a memory now. That was before Elias.

By the time Celeste moved to the kitchen, the sun was already beginning to tilt lower. She rolled up her sleeves, turned on the tap, and began washing the dishes.

The sound of running water filled the quiet space.

Her mind wandered. She thought of Amara’s laugh. Celeste gritted her teeth. A dirty environment meant drowning for Amara.

She scrubbed harder. Her throat burned.

She cleaned everything — the counter, the cabinets, and the floors. It was muscle memory now. Whenever she didn’t know how to help someone she loved, she cleaned. It was her way of saying, ’I’m here. You can come back to a place that feels safe.’

When she reached the last dish, her hands were trembling from fatigue and quiet emotion. The apartment now smelled faintly of lemon and soap instead of despair.

Celeste wiped her damp hands on a towel, sighed, and pressed her palms flat against the countertop. The silence returned, softer now, and almost waiting.

The door clicked softly.

Celeste froze.

"Amara?" she called out when she heard footsteps, her voice low, and careful.

There was no answer.

Then, she heard a faint sigh. She heard the sound of a bag dropping to the floor.

Celeste turned.

Amara stood by the doorway. She looked small. Smaller than Celeste had ever seen her. Her hair was tousled, her eyes swollen, and her lips were trembling. Her dress was crumpled now, and stained faintly at the hem.

Celeste’s breath caught. That was a surprise. Not Amara.

"God, Amara..."

Amara blinked at her, as though trying to decide whether to smile or cry. Her voice, when it came, was soft.

"You cleaned," she whispered.

Celeste nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah. I... couldn’t sit still."

Amara nodded faintly, her eyes lowering to the sink. "You always clean when you’re worried."

"And you always disappear when you’re hurting," Celeste replied quietly.

Celeste walked up to her slowly, reached out, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You don’t have to explain," she said softly. "Just... tell me you came back."

Amara’s lips trembled. "I came back."

Celeste swallowed, her eyes glistening. "That’s enough for now."

Amara’s knees gave out. Celeste caught her before she fell, wrapping her arms around her tightly. Amara didn’t fight it. She melted into her. She was too tired to pretend anymore.

Her voice cracked. "He told me his name."

Celeste froze. She skipped that detail on purpose. When she told Amara about him, she didn’t mention his real name on purpose.

Amara’s next words came out like confession. "His real name is Michelle."

Celeste’s arms tightened around her, and a tears rolled down her cheek. "Oh, sweetheart..."

Amara pressed her face into her friend’s shoulder. "I thought it would make things better, knowing. But it just made everything worse."

Celeste didn’t answer. She just stroked her hair, whispering the only thing that felt right. "You’re safe now. You’re home."

Amara nodded, tears spilling freely now. "I don’t know if home exists anymore," she whispered.