His backpack was on. His jacket zipped. His new glasses sitting perfectly on his face.
But something about the way he moved made my stomach tighten.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” I said, reaching for a plate.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yu, you need to eat something before?—”
“I said I’m not hungry.” His voice was flat. Distant. Like he was somewhere else entirely.
He headed for the door.
“Wait.” I wiped my hands on my apron and followed him. “Why are you leaving so early? School doesn’t start for another hour.”
He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. Didn’t turn around.
“I just need to go.”
“Yusef, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He opened the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Then he was gone.
I stood there staring at the closed door, that tightness in my stomach spreading to my chest.
Something was wrong. Had been wrong for weeks now. But every time I pushed, he pulled away. Every time I asked questions, he shut down.
I told myself it was just the bullying. Just the stress of middle school. Just a phase he’d grow out of.
But standing there in my empty apartment, listening to the silence he’d left behind, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something more.
Something I should’ve seen.
Something I should’ve stopped.
I shook off the thoughts and went back to the kitchen. Scraped the untouched breakfast into a container for later. Washed the dishes. Tried to focus on the day ahead.
I wasn’t scheduled to work at Grits today. Which meant I had the whole day to work on Sweet Zin.
After the gala, things had exploded. My phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with inquiries. Catering requests. Wholesale questions. People asking when I was opening a storefront.
A storefront.
The idea had seemed impossible a month ago. Now it felt within reach.
I sat down at my small kitchen table with my laptop and a notebook, ready to work on a business plan. If I was going to approach investors or apply for a small business loan, I needed to have everything organized. Projections. Costs. Location options. A real plan.
But first, I let myself do something I’d been avoiding.
I opened Instagram and searched for Mehar’s profile.
Her face appeared on the screen. She had the same chocolate skin as me and the same pretty brown eyes. Despite us having different mothers, she looked like me and my twin.
