The Bitter Truth

The air in Liam’s workshop, usually thick with the comforting scent of sawdust and linseed oil, now felt suffocating, laced with a metallic tang that Elara couldn't quite place. She stood just inside the doorway, her heart a frantic hummingbird against her ribs, as Liam’s words, or rather, his silence, echoed the unspoken. He’d been avoiding her for days, his usual boisterous greetings replaced by curt nods and hurried excuses. She’d finally cornered him, her patience frayed raw by a gnawing unease.

“Liam,” she’d started, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “We need to talk. About the… the loan. About everything.”

He’d flinched, his gaze darting away, landing on a half-finished wooden birdhouse on his workbench. The vibrant blues and reds she’d helped him paint weeks ago seemed to mock her now. He picked up a chisel, its edge glinting ominously in the dim light. “There’s nothing to talk about, Elara. I handled it.”