AGAROS : The Love Betrayal

« We all play roles, but some of us wear masks that can never be removed. »

Chapter III

It had been hours since he left the house. Since then, I hadn't stopped crying, as much as my strength allowed. The conversation had left me with a persistent bitterness, like poison slowly rising in my throat. Yet, when I woke up, an astonishing lightness washed over me. I wasn't exhausted, far from it. On the contrary, I felt almost revitalized, as though something inside me had awakened. Even more surprising: no pain. None of the endless discomforts that gnawed at me every day. It was like a strange emptiness, almost unsettling. When suffering is part of your daily life, its absence plunges you into an unfathomable confusion.

I had started reading. That wasn't usual for me. Normally, illness would make me give up after two chapters, at most. My strength was never enough to keep going for longer. A book that should have been a pleasure turned into a trial stretching over days, even weeks. But today, after the pill from Doctor Marius, I had dived into a saga. Maybe he was right. Maybe this medicine really offered a breath of fresh air. But I wasn't going to let myself be fooled by false hopes. The future would tell me.

The last volume had just found its place on the bedside table, its edge almost brushing against the lamp. I rose quietly, my body surprisingly light. I opened the drawer of the dresser, took out my journal—a worn notebook that had become my outlet—and headed for the bay window. There, one of the armchairs waited for me, its cushion stretched out like a little box. I sat down and let the pen dance across the paper.

Dear Journal,

My life is a gilded cage, bound by invisible chains. An absent mother, a father who manages my last moments, and an uncertain future that I must accept. My only certainty? The unrelenting advance of death. Yet, all I want is to be free. To enjoy a little of my seventeen years. To feel the adrenaline of life, to taste what everyone else takes for granted. A little happiness, even fleeting, that's all I ask.

Richet, 2019.

Hardly had I put down the pen when the door opened with a sharp crack. No surprise, it was Lauriane. She didn't even have the decency to knock. A restless breath told me she was here for another scene. A scene where, once again, I had to play the innocent, the loyal friend. All of it, to make her fall into her own trap. It had to be done. I had no choice if I wanted to defeat her.

She entered with a slow, dragging step, flopping down onto the bed with an exaggerated noise, as if she were at home. The performance was about to begin, and I knew my lines by heart. I quickly ran through what I needed: a smile, an air of innocence, a subtle coldness. She couldn't suspect a thing.

— "So, how's the prettiest of the sick girls doing?" she asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her hands absently playing with the edge of the bedframe.

— "I'm fine. And you? How are you doing?" I replied, my voice calm, almost neutral.

— "Eh, not great," she replied, barely brushing the bedframe with her fingertips, as if the whole situation bored her to death.

She was as annoying as ever, with her platinum blonde hair pulled back and her satin red dress. A satin too shiny to be natural, a color too bold to hide what really lay beneath. She knew exactly what impression she was leaving.

— "Lauriane."

— "Hmm..." she murmured absently, barely turning toward me.

— "Did you bring more books?"

— "Looks like you're getting hooked," she laughed, mockery in her voice. "And to think I had to force you at first. Look at you now, you can't stop."

I let out a barely visible smile. She was right, but not for the reasons she thought. After all the pretending, I had ended up losing myself in it. The pleasure of reading had become secondary, just a way to escape the monotony of my days. And Lauriane didn't even understand what she triggered in me. She only saw what she wanted to see.

She pulled a stack of books from her bag and dropped them onto the bed, proudly announcing the title of her latest favorite: 34 Shades of Service. The cover, all about provocations, caught my attention. But I was used to it. Lauriane always knew what to give me to provoke a reaction.

She then sat on the vanity bench and started applying gloss to her lips, taking her time, as if the world belonged to her.

— "So, what did that fat, bloated Marius say?" she asked, wiping excess gloss lazily.

— "Nothing special. Just that I look better," I replied, my voice edged with coldness. "But you know, I'm going to..."

— "I know," she interrupted, a touch of disdain in her voice. "You're going to die in a few months. But you won't be the first or the last. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, you poor thing."

It felt like a slap, but I didn't flinch. I had learned to take it. Lauriane was the queen of cruel jabs, and her coldness, deep down, both repelled and fascinated me.

— "If you say so," I murmured, letting out a smile empty of meaning.

She stood up, confidently walking toward my wardrobe, and without ceremony, she began rummaging through my clothes. Once again, she evaluated my belongings like an object she was about to steal. It wasn't friendship; it was pure opportunism.

— "I've got a scoop for you, darling," she announced triumphantly. "Tonight, I'm going out with a guy. The one from that fancy restaurant, you know, the one whose dad is filthy rich. I was thinking of borrowing some jewelry. Not your clothes, though, they're... how do I put it... hideous."

I felt a twinge of annoyance. But I wasn't going to lose my temper. Not with her.

— "Help yourself. My clothes wouldn't fit you anyway. I think your thighs are about to explode," I replied, my voice calm, almost too calm.

She stiffened, then burst out laughing, forced.

— "Not everyone is close to anorexia like you," she sneered, rolling her eyes as though she found me pathetically ridiculous.

I just smiled, a smile that didn't reach my eyes. A smile that hid an ocean of indifference.

— "At least my mouth isn't a flea market," I added, my tone sharp as a knife.

She seemed to freeze for a moment, her false confidence wavering slightly. But she managed to keep up her mask, despite the provocation.

She finally picked out the jewelry she wanted. Without even a word of thanks, she got up, kissed me quickly on the forehead—just a well-rehearsed performance—and then, with soft footsteps, she made her way to the door.

— "Don't worry, soon you'll find your Prince Charming," she said sarcastically, before disappearing into the hallway.

— "I have no doubt," I answered, emotionless.

But as she disappeared, I whispered, just loud enough for only myself to hear:

— "You made sure of that, didn't you?"