Broken Loop

Chapter Five: Loop #2- Pills

The late afternoon rain had just eased when Aiden Hartman slipped into the apartment. His shoulders sagged with every grocery bag he carried—stale bread, fresh lemons, chamomile tea. He set them on the kitchen island and peeled off his coat, listening for the familiar warmth of Jade's laughter or the thunk of her journal closing. But only silence filled the rooms.

He found her in the living room, tucked into a cocoon of blankets on the sofa. Tablet balanced on her knees, she scrolled through the same page of rejections he'd glimpsed at the café: professors' marked-up manuscripts, emails offering "constructive feedback" before a polite "best of luck." She paused at each scrawl of "try again," eyes rimmed red. He knelt beside her.

"Hey," he said. Voice low, not wanting to startle her. "I brought dinner."

She didn't look up. "Thanks."

He lifted a container of soup from the counter. Steam curled upward, fragrant with ginger and turmeric. "Hot," he promised.

She took the bowl, barely meeting his gaze. He watched her stir the soup, steam fogging her glasses. He remembered how she used to laugh at the shapes the steam made—dragons, phoenixes, tiny boats. Now she let the vapor rise untasted, as though she had lost both appetite and wonder.

He set a plate of toast before her, butter shimmering in the lamp light. He settled into the armchair opposite, legs folded at the edge. The room smelled of pages and damp wool; outside, the sky pressed in behind rain-soaked windows.

He sipped his own soup. "I checked the breaker box," he said, voice gentle. "No surges. Want me to call an electrician?"

She shrugged. "I'll buy a floor lamp."

He nodded, though her deflection stung. She finished half of her soup in silence, then pushed the bowl away. He collected the dishes, clearing the surface like a gardener pruning dead blooms.

He folded the blankets at her feet. "Heading out to the bookstore," he said. "Pick up a new journal?"

Her head snapped up, eyes wary. "Why?"

He held her gaze. "You might want fresh pages."

A flicker of irritation crossed her face. She drew her knees higher. "I don't need more blank pages."

He stood, pain tightening his chest. "Okay."

He left without another word. Rain dripped from his collar onto the doormat. He walked the empty street to the bookstore, ankle-deep puddles reflecting flickering neon signs. Inside, he thumbed leather-bound journals—crimson, navy, forest green—until he found one with cotton pages that whispered as he flipped them. He slid it into his bag along with two steaming cups of coffee from the store café.

Back in the apartment, his ringing key in the door startled Jade into scrambling upright. She stared at the journal, hands curled around the coffee.

"I thought you—" she began.

He set the coffee on the island. "It's still warm."

She blinked. The steam pooled in her mug like a small galaxy. She closed her tablet with a snap. "I don't want coffee."

He swallowed. "Okay."

She crossed the room, retreating toward her bedroom door. "I need space."

He nodded, voice tight. "Sure."

The bedroom door clicked shut. He exhaled, the apartment echoing its emptiness around him.

• • •

At ten o'clock, he checked on her again. He found her door ajar and the hallway light dimmed to a single bulb's glow. A cream-colored carpet lay underfoot, patterned with pale geometric lines faded by time. He stepped in, met her gaze in the bathroom mirror: dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion, cheekbones hollowed.