I dragged myself out of bed, the hardwood floor cool beneath my feet, and made my way to the kitchen like a sleep-deprived zombie. The quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound that greeted me. The house felt too still, too big without Nikolai’s heavy footsteps or sarcastic commentary. I stared at the empty coffee pot like it had personally offended me.
Nope. I was not going to mope.
I tied my hair up in a messy bun with the elastic I always kept on my wrist and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt—it nearly swallowed me whole, and somehow that made me feel even more ridiculous for missing him this much already. We weren’t married. He was gone for, like, five days. Chill, Mina.
But the ache didn’t go away. Not completely.
Still, I shook it off and busied myself with the most dramatic act of defiance I could muster: domestic productivity. I brewed coffee. I tidied up the pillows on the couch like I was auditioning for HGTV. I even folded his laundry—well, one hoodie, but that totally counted.
I turned the music up—loud enough to shake the windows, but not enough to get a noise complaint (probably). A girl had to do something with the silence that crept in the second Nikolai left. The bass thrummed in my chest like a heartbeat, sweeping away the sleep and that mopey, lonely feeling that had been creeping in around the edges.
I cracked open a few windows and let the crisp morning air rush in, dancing with the curtains and making everything feel a little fresher. Okay. I could do this. I wasn’t going to be that girl—curled in a corner waiting for a text. Nope. Not today.
So I cleaned. Kind of. I wandered from room to room, picking up random clutter, wiping down counters, and yes, I even organized the fridge. By color. Don’t ask why—it just felt right. The chaos bowed before me. Queen of the Leftovers, thank you very much.
Eventually, I made my way back to the bedroom and spotted one of Nikolai’s hoodies slung over a chair, looking like it missed him too. Without even thinking, I tugged it over my head. It was huge and soft and smelled exactly like him—like clean laundry and something warm and masculine and unfairly comforting.
In the mirror, I looked ridiculous. Bare legs, wild bun, sleeves swallowing my hands. Ridiculous… and kind of adorable. I spun slowly, watching the fabric swing around me, like I was twirling in armor that just so happened to smell like a six-foot hockey player.
This house didn’t feel so big and empty now. It felt like his. Like ours. And maybe that was a dangerous thought, but I wasn’t going to overthink it right now.
I was warm. I was cozy. I was loved.
And okay, maybe I was going to fold all his laundry and leave little smiley faces on the dryer sheets. Sue me.
Just as I was about to plop on the couch and cue up something mind-numbing on TV, my phone lit up on the counter. A message from an unknown number popped up:
WAG night tonight! A few of us are watching the game together if you wanna come Snacks are involved.
Also, this is Paige, by the way
Ryker's girl
I blinked. WAG night? I barely considered myself part of the girlfriend club, let alone worthy of an acronym.
But… maybe this was a good thing. A healthy thing.
Wouldn’t miss it
I tossed the phone onto the counter and smiled for the first time all morning. I might’ve missed Nikolai like crazy, but I wasn’t going to spend the week wrapped in his hoodie and sadness. I was going to put on mascara, eat chips with the girlfriends of professional athletes, and scream at a television screen like a woman with emotional range.
Let’s go, chaos tornado. Your girl’s got this.
I jingled my keys like they were magical charms and marched out the door, only to be ambushed by the crisp bite of morning air. Yikes. Jacket? Optional. Regret? Immediate. Still, I grinned to myself as I locked up behind me. Grocery shopping wasn’t exactly glamorous, but today it felt… symbolic. Like I was taking back something. My routine. My choices. My life.
By the time I stepped into the store, I was already humming along with the overhead music—some cheesy pop hit from high school that made me feel like I was in a coming-of-age montage. The produce section sparkled like a rainbow exploded. I tossed apples and oranges into my cart like I knew what I was doing (I absolutely did not), then added a bunch of kale just to feel morally superior for five minutes.
Halfway through the cereal aisle, my phone buzzed. Mikel. My whole body tensed. That one stupid name could still mess with my heartbeat like a fire alarm. But I didn’t even open the message. Nope. Swipe. Gone. Not today, Satan.
I continued my domestic rebellion by holding up two different jars of pasta sauce and dramatically whispering, “Do I look like someone who makes my own marinara?” before tossing both into the cart. I was absurd, and honestly, I loved that for me.
Chocolate chips? Yes. A tiny bottle of vanilla extract even though I wasn’t sure if Nikolai already had one? Double yes, because he definitely didn't. This wasn’t just shopping—it was self-care with a grocery budget and a sprinkle of spite.
As I checked out, the cashier gave me a knowing smile. “Looks like someone’s baking today.”
“Or trying to,” I said, with a laugh that felt like it belonged to someone freer than I’d been in a long time.
Outside, the breeze ruffled my hair, and I hugged the bag of groceries like it was a trophy. Mikel could text all he wanted. He didn’t get to take up space in this part of my life. I had ingredients. I had chocolate. I had quiet.
