And, unfortunately, hot.
Not that I noticed.
Okay, I noticed.
But only in the anthropological sense—like observing a wolf in business casual. A deadly predator with feral patience. Probably smells expensive too.
I top off my drink, grab my dad’s gold compass from where I keep it on the counter, and slip it into my pocket on instinct.
The balcony door groans as I push it open. The city greets me with humid air tinged with exhaust, and remnants of whatever someone grilled earlier in the day.
Leaning against the iron railing, glass in hand, I listen as Astoria hums below—footsteps on pavement, a burst of laughter, the low roar of the N train sliding through shadows.
Above, the sky offers nothing. No stars, just haze. Still, I search for constellations I know I won’t find. A habit leftover from nights spent on the hood of my dad’s Jeep, listening to him trace the stars with quiet certainty.
“If you ever get lost, Rorie,” he once said, pressing a compass into my palm, “look for the North Star. You need a North and an Anchor.”
I remember the needle trembling, then settling. Him smiling like he was handing me a secret map to the universe.
A guide. And a tether. Something to follow. Something to hold onto.
Only, I don’t know which I’m missing.
Maybe both.
My mom was my North. Big dreams, bigger beliefs. She saw me completely, even when I didn’t.
My dad was my anchor. Steady. A soft voice in the darkness.
Now, they’re both gone–taken months apart. It’s poetic in its own way, knowing they’re up there together. That they couldn’t bear to be apart in this world.
But losing my mom was like losing gravity. Then my dad followed way too soon after, and the ground beneath me vanished.
I’ve been chasing stability ever since.
I press the compass into my palm. It’s solid. Familiar. Still pointing.
But I’m adrift.
Ever since I lost them, my career has collapsed. The grief has swallowed my focus, shattered my confidence, and left me in a world that keeps moving without them.
If they could see me now, Would they be disappointed?
I feel like they would. Only because they raised me to press on through the storms of life. And I’m not. I’m stuck.
My eyes scan over the stars one last time but the couch beckons. I head back inside and sink into it, digging out the remote from between the cushions. I scroll until I land on my brainless, trashy reality TV theBachelor Barn.
Somewhere between an on-screen tantrum and an overcooked proposal, I grow bored and reach for my phone. No messages. Just me.
Instagram tempts me. And of course, there he is.
Quinn. Grinning with a drink, surrounded by guys who wear matching polos and call it culture. Caption: Work hard, tequila harder. #BossLife #VibesOnly.
“Vibes only?” I mutter. “You wear loafers without socks.”
He looks happy.Unburdened.My grief was a detour he didn’t have time for.
Meanwhile, I’m here, half-drunk, smeared lipstick, mascara smudged, grief curled around my ankles like a slithering snake.
