Ania

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The house was quiet without him. Every footstep, every tick of the clock, echoed too loudly in the oppressive silence. She wasn't even sure when she'd gotten so used to having him around. When she'd stopped seeing him as the source of all her woes and instead as someone by her side. That didn't mean she liked him. That didn't mean she trusted him more than she could throw. There was too much bad blood between them for anything else. Too many late night arguments and phone calls left ringing, of him constantly egging her, and her insistently placing the blame at his feet. Even so... the house was quiet. Ania walked through the doorway to the living room, past the chipped molding where she'd shoved him against the wall after he ruined their third anniversary in a row, the faded stain on the carpet when he'd thrown a wine glass at her, all the nicks and scrapes they'd accumulated over the years. Over time, the incidents had lessened. Not from lack of want—Ania didn't think they'd ever stop loathing each other—but from the lackluster response. There were only so many times when they could follow the same song and dance before it grew too dull. They both knew that no matter what happened, whatever they did to each other, they wouldn't be going anywhere. Not anymore, at least. Ania trailed her hand along their pristine wooden dining table, his chair still scraped back in his haste when he'd left dinner the other night,

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S t a t u s Level 25 P l a c e h o l d e r Placeholder L o r e January 29, 2022

P e r s o n a l i t y H i s t o r y M i s c e l l a n e o u s

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The house was quiet without him. Every footstep, every tick of the clock, echoed too loudly in the oppressive silence. She wasn't even sure when she'd gotten so used to having him around. When she'd stopped seeing him as the source of all her woes and instead as someone by her side.

That didn't mean she liked him. That didn't mean she trusted him more than she could throw. There was too much bad blood between them for anything else. Too many late night arguments and phone calls left ringing, of him constantly egging her, and her insistently placing the blame at his feet.

Even so... the house was quiet. Ania walked through the doorway to the living room, past the chipped molding where she'd shoved him against the wall after he ruined their third anniversary in a row, the faded stain on the carpet when he'd thrown a wine glass at her, all the nicks and scrapes they'd accumulated over the years.

Over time, the incidents had lessened. Not from lack of want—Ania didn't think they'd ever stop loathing each other—but from the lackluster response. There were only so many times when they could follow the same song and dance before it grew too dull. They both knew that no matter what happened, whatever they did to each other, they wouldn't be going anywhere. Not anymore, at least.

Ania trailed her hand along their pristine wooden dining table, his chair still scraped back in his haste when he'd left dinner the other night,