There’s this weird warmth sitting low in my chest. Not panic. Not dread.
Something else.
Feels a hell of a lot like wanting something that actually matters.
As I head back to the job, I murmur under my breath, running through the signs I can’t quite see but still trying to commit to my memory, anyway.
“A, B, C, D…”
I screw up the next one and laugh to myself.
I’ll get it. Even if it takes all damn year.
By the time I get home, my hands ache from a full day on the job. Same shit, different house. I shower until the water runs lukewarm, then stand there another minute, just breathing. My body’s tired, but my head’s wired.
I towel off, pull on sweats, and end up in front of the bathroom mirror with my phone balanced on the counter, ASL tutorial paused halfway through. The letters stare back at me—those simple shapes I couldn’t get right a few hours ago.
I lift my hand.
A.
B.
C.
My movements are slower now, smoother. Theyfeelright. I don’t even need to glance at the screen anymore. My fingers remember before my brain catches up.
By the time I hit “Z,” I’m grinning at my reflection like an idiot. I can actually spell now. Not fast, not graceful—but I can do it.
I lean on the sink, flexing my knuckles. “Guess you’re not completely hopeless,” I mutter.
The next video starts automatically—numbers.
Easy, I think.
Except it’s not.
Apparently, “three” in ASL isn’t the same as holding up three fingers like a kindergartner. It’s thumb, index, middle. Not pointer, middle, ring. I try it, fingers refusing to cooperate atfirst. I stare at my hand, laughing under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Still, I try again.
One. Two. Three.
It feels ridiculous, but there’s something grounding about it. Somethingreal.
Four. Five. Six.
When I hit ten, I stop the video. My hands are shaking a little—not from strain, just energy and maybe a little pride.
I meet my own eyes in the mirror and smirk. “She’s gonna love this,” I say quietly, even though she’s not here to see it.
The thought of Bayleigh reading my lips, the way her whole face softens when she smiles—it hits me right in the chest. I want to be able to talk to her without her being the one to put in all the effort. To tell her she makes the world fade from my head for a while. To tell her I can signher name.
I run through the alphabet one more time before bed, tracing invisible letters in the air. Then I do the numbers again. Thumb, index, middle—three.
Yeah. Got it.
By the time I crawl into bed, my hands still ache, but my chest feels light.
