Chapter four: The Voice Behind the Silence
It's been a year.
Twelve months of Nina. Of waking up to her soft breathing beside me, of brushing shoulders in the kitchen, of sharing space, laughter, arguments, and silence. We moved in together six months ago, and living with her feels like living in a poem—chaotic, beautiful, sometimes confusing, always intense. Her presence fills a room even when she's not in it. Her perfume lingers in the hallway long after she's left. Her voice—sharp, soft, teasing, tired—is woven into the walls of our apartment.
But this past week, something's been… off.
She's been distant. Like her body's here but her mind is somewhere far away, someplace I can't reach. She's quiet at dinner, her phone buzzing more than usual. She leaves early and comes back later. No kisses on the forehead, no humming in the shower. She still curls into me at night, but it feels like she's doing it out of habit rather than comfort.
I tried to tell myself it was just work.
The firm had a major management shake-up—Nina was promoted. She's now a senior associate handling million-dollar litigation cases. The kind of role she used to whisper about when we lay in bed with dreams in our eyes and red wine on our breath. But I can tell the weight of it's hitting her. The long hours. The pressure. The sudden spotlight.
So I decided to do something about it.
Her birthday was coming up. And if there was ever a time to remind her that she's not alone, that she's loved deeply and without condition—it was now.
I started planning in secret.
First, the venue. A rooftop overlooking the city, surrounded by glass walls and fairy lights. The place she once pointed at and said, "I used to imagine I'd get married up there." Her voice had cracked when she said it, like the memory hurt. I wanted to give her that view back—under the stars, with music and laughter and the people she loved most.
Next, the music. Jazz. The good kind. A three-piece band that played warm, smoky instrumentals—her favorite. I remembered once, early in our relationship, she'd told me, "Jazz is the only genre that understands me." I didn't know what she meant at the time. Now I do.
Then the people.
I reached out to everyone she'd ever mentioned. Colleagues. Old schoolmates. Friends she'd only talked about once over Thai food. I tracked down her former roommate in Florence, the girl who taught her how to make handmade pasta and cry over Italian poetry. I even messaged her ex-therapist on LinkedIn—just in case they were still on speaking terms.
I was putting together a mosaic of Nina's life. Each person was a piece. But one piece remained missing.
Vivienne.
Her sister.
I didn't know much about her. Nina never talked about her in detail. Just hints. A slip of the tongue. A strained expression. The way her eyes would cloud when someone mentioned "family." All I knew was that Vivienne was her twin, and that somehow, somewhere along the line, they had stopped speaking.
I didn't even know what she looked like.
But I knew she mattered.
So on Sunday morning, I got up early, made myself a cup of coffee, and drove to Nina's parents' house.
I stopped at the farmer's market first. Bought fresh tomatoes, lemons, basil, and a loaf of crusty sourdough bread that smelled like heaven. I picked up a bottle of her dad's favorite scotch too—Glenfiddich, aged 18 years. Thoughtful, but not flashy.
The drive was quiet. I rehearsed what I was going to say about a dozen times. Every version sounded either too careful or too desperate. I didn't want to push. I just wanted to invite her—to bring back a piece of Nina's story she'd long buried.
Her mom answered the door. She looked surprised to see me but smiled wide.
"Ethan! What a lovely surprise."
"Morning, ma'am," I said, handing over the bags. "Thought I'd drop off some groceries and say hello."
She stepped aside, ushering me in. "You didn't have to, but I won't pretend I'm not thrilled. Come in, come in."
The house was warm and familiar. It smelled like lemon polish, cinnamon, and something baking—maybe banana bread. The walls were filled with pictures of Nina as a child. Smiling, dancing, graduating. But never with her sister. Always alone.
We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea from the same floral mugs we used the first time I came over.
I made small talk. Asked about the dog. Listened to her complain about the new neighbors.
Then I leaned forward.
"I'm planning something for Nina's birthday," I said, trying to keep my tone light. "A surprise. I want to gather everyone she loves in one place. Everyone who's shaped her in some way."
She smiled. "That's very sweet of you, Ethan. She'll love that."
I nodded. "I was hoping her sister could come."
There was a pause. A long, drawn-out pause where even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to quiet.
"Oh… Vivienne," she said finally, almost like she had to remind herself of the name. "Yes, I suppose I can tell her to come."
I shook my head gently. "I'd like to call her myself. If that's okay."
Her smile faltered slightly. Not in a cruel way—just… uncertain.
Then she turned to her husband, who had been silently listening from the living room, pretending to read the newspaper.
"Do you have Vivienne's number, dear?"
He looked up slowly, thoughtful.
"Sure," he said after a beat. He stood, walked over to the writing desk near the window, pulled out a small notepad, and jotted something down with a silver pen. His handwriting was neat and precise.
He tore the note carefully and handed it to me.
"Good luck, son," he said, his eyes kind. "She's… different."
I thanked them, folded the note like it was something sacred, and walked back to my car.
The moment I sat down in the driver's seat, my hands started to shake.
I held the paper in my palm, just staring at it.
Vivienne. The sister no one talked about. The name that lingered in the spaces between Nina's stories. I finally had a way to reach her.
It felt like I'd unlocked a door no one wanted me to open.
I put on my seatbelt. Started the engine. The car hummed to life.
Then I turned it off.
I couldn't wait.
I pulled out my phone, entered the number, and hit call.
My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear the dial tone.
It rang once. Twice.
Then the line disconnected.
She hung up.
I sat there, stunned, staring at my phone like it had betrayed me.
But something in me—something stubborn—refused to quit.
I called again.
This time, the line picked up.
"Hello?" a voice said. "Nora speaking… who is this?"
I froze.
Nora?
I had to have dialed wrong.
"I… I'm sorry," I said, trying to find my voice. "I'm trying to reach Vivienne."
There was a pause. An audible inhale. The kind of breath people take before stepping into a storm.
"Hello?" I asked again. "Are you there? I'd really like to speak to Vivienne."
Another breath.
Then, finally, the voice returned—quieter, but steady.
"Yes… this is Nora Vivienne Moreau. Who is this?"
My entire body went still.
It was like the world stopped spinning. Her voice—it was calm, almost too calm. Not emotionless, just… controlled. Like she had trained herself to never give anything away.
But it was familiar.
Not because I had heard it before—at least, not knowingly. But because it felt like I had. It had a tone, a texture that clung to something inside me I didn't know existed.
I didn't understand the feeling. It scared me. Moved me. Confused me.
But one thing was certain:
Something just shifted.
And I couldn't go back.