Emmie didn't wait to hear his excuses. Her body moved before her mind could even catch up.
She dropped the cake.
The box hit the floor with a dull thud, the frosting smearing against the inside of the lid like something wounded. One candle rolled free, spinning slowly before stopping at James's socked foot.
And then she ran.
Down the stairs. Past the apartment numbers that suddenly blurred. Through the front door, lungs burning, vision stinging with something hotter than rain.
She didn't care where she was going—she just needed to go. To escape the image seared into her mind: James, bare-chested, caught between sheets with someone they both trusted. Someone they called friend.
Behind her, Alison still stood in the doorway, paralyzed. She hadn't followed.
She couldn't.
Micha's name slipped from her lips like a bad taste. "You...?"
Micha had pulled the blanket tighter, eyes wide, but not regretful. Not enough. James was saying something, fast, stumbling over his own guilt, but Alison wasn't listening anymore.
Because this wasn't just about Emmie. This was all of them—cracked open and bleeding at the seams.
Back on the street, Emmie ducked into the nearest alley, her breath catching like it had nowhere to go. The cold slapped at her face, but she didn't feel it.
She was supposed to be lighting candles right now. She was supposed to be watching him smile. She was supposed to be enough.
But he chose her.
She—Micha, of all people—knew. She knew how Emmie felt.
Emmie doubled over, hands on her knees, the sobs coming in silent waves. Not loud or dramatic. Just broken. Quiet. Like something caving in from the inside out.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Nothing.
***
Alison still hadn't moved.
The sound of the door slamming below echoed up the stairwell like thunder, but she stood rooted in place, staring at the wreckage in front of her.
James had pulled on his shirt. Micha hadn't said a word. The silence between them pressed against Alison's chest like a weight.
She couldn't even look at Micha—Micha, who'd sat with her just last weekend, laughing at how pathetic Emmie was around James, arms slung around each other like sisters.
Alison had always been the observant one. The one on the sidelines, the one who noticed everything without being asked to. She'd seen how James looked at Emmie. The way his voice softened when he said her name. The way he leaned in a little closer when she talked, even if it wasn't about anything important.
And yet...
Alison had still dared to hope.
Even as James pursued Emmie—openly, fully—Alison had clung to this quiet, delusional dream that maybe someday he'd look at her differently. That maybe Emmie was just a phase. That maybe she had time. That maybe, if she stayed close, if she was patient, she'd matter to him the way she wanted to.
But now, standing in this room, staring at the bed where Micha still sat tangled in sheets that didn't belong to her—
She felt it all at once.
Stupid.
Used.
Betrayed.
Irrelevant.
They were all pieces on the board, weren't they? Emmie was the one James chased. Micha was the one he slept with. And Alison… Alison was the background noise. The filler. The quiet friend who was never chosen.
"You didn't even have the decency to pretend it would mean nothing," she muttered, her voice shaking. "You just... did this. To her. To us."
James looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. "Ali, I didn't—"
"Don't," she cut in, sharper than she'd meant. "Don't talk to me like I'm another mistake you forgot to clean up."
Micha finally spoke. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
Alison turned her gaze on her, cold and unreadable. "But it did. And that says enough."
And then, for the first time in years, she felt it—the slow death of something she hadn't realized she'd been holding onto for too long.
Hope.
She left the apartment without another word, walking into the rain Emmie had fled into just moments earlier.
She didn't follow her.
She didn't know how to face her.
Because now they were both fools.
Just in different parts of the same cruel story.
**************************************************
Alison didn't go home right away. Her feet carried her without direction, through the gray drizzle that had soaked the city into silence. Her phone buzzed twice. Once from Micha. Once from Zade.
She ignored both.
But by the time she reached her apartment door, the anger in her chest had replaced the hollow ache with something hotter—sharper.
She tossed her keys down with more force than necessary, then stared at her phone like it might explode.
Zade.
She hadn't seen him in a few days, but they'd spoken last night. He'd asked what Emmie plan was for James' birthday, and just an hour ago about how she's taking the news—everything but this.
He knew.
He knew.
She pressed call.
It rang once. Twice.
"Alison?" Zade's voice came through the line, cautious, uncertain. That only made her grip the phone harder.
"You knew," she said. Her voice was quiet. Deadly quiet. "You knew about James and Micha."
Silence.
"I—" Zade exhaled heavily. "Ali, it wasn't my place. It got… complicated. I didn't want to get involved."
"No," she snapped. "You were involved the moment you kept your mouth shut. I trusted you. Emmie trusted you. And you stood there like nothing was wrong—while we planned a birthday surprise for a guy who was already screwing our friend behind her back."
Zade didn't respond immediately. She heard his breath catch like he wanted to say something, to defend himself.
"I didn't want to hurt you."
"Then why do I feel like this?" she shouted, the words cracking. "Like I'm the last person in the world to find out I was never part of it. Just some extra piece everyone forgot to remove."
"Ali—"
"Don't," she said, voice raw. "Don't Ali me. I thought you were on my side."
He didn't say he was.
That silence said more than a thousand apologies ever could.
Alison ended the call without another word.
She stood in her kitchen, trembling. Her phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft, pathetic clatter.
Everyone knew but her.
James. Micha. Zade.
They'd all chosen silence.
And in that silence, she'd built her own private fantasy—something warm and hopeful and utterly false.
And now, it was all ash.