His absence left an ache so deep, I don’t think it’ll ever fade. And in the aftermath, Mum became, well… a shadow. That’s the simplest way to put it. Surviving, but not really living, so disconnected from the world that her “living” didn’t really count.
So, I took on the role of anchor. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. For my sisters, for my mother, for myself.
I try not to mind.
I try to shake off the fatigue and force myself to keep moving. But like always, my thoughts spiral back to money. I need more hours, more work. The ice cream shop shifts I had managed to secure were simply not enough to keep up with the bills. And the café wouldn’t be enough now that Sam was back.
Last night, I scoured job listings until my eyes burned… and truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have stopped if it weren’t for the computer dying.
I even considered working at a bar, a thought I never would have entertained before. Desperation is a cruel motivator, but it’s also necessary. For survival.
And yet, guilt gnaws at me, claws at my conscience. Why did I accept the food Bea and Lilia had brought me? How could I enjoy a good meal while my sisters went without? The question echoed in the depths of my being.
I should’ve left them the cake. They would’ve loved it.
Maybe I’ll consider it when they bother speaking to me. That was justcompletelyunnecessary. They won’t even look at me.
The bus stop comes into view, I take a moment to catch my breath, leaning against the cool metal frame. For once, I’m actually on time. A small victory amidst the mess that is my life. The bus pulls up, and as I step aboard, my gaze locks onto a familiar figure.
It’s him.
Different hoodie, same cap and sunglasses combo.
He sits there, seemingly lost in his own thoughts as he stares out the window, his gaze distant and unreadable. My heart quickens despite myself, but I quickly shove the feeling down.
Our last interaction made it painfully clear he has no interest in me. Why waste energy on someone like him?
Besides, I’m way too exhausted to summon the energy for a conversation, let alone the nerve to reach out to him.
With a sigh, I make my way down the aisle. My weary body sinks into the worn cushion, and I lean my head against the cool glass, finally getting to close my eyes.
But then, I freeze, feeling the air shift as the cushion next to me dips.
Before I can process what’s happening, he sits down. Right next to me.
No. Way.
My eyebrows shoot up so high I’m fairly certain they’re halfway to my hairline. My mouth opens slightly in disbelief.
I probably look ridiculous, but I can’t help it.What is he doing?
“You always seem half asleep,” he says after a beat, voice low, almost bored.
I blink, startled. Does he really think I look that bad all the time? So much for becoming a better liar. That should be my New Year’s resolution. Nevertheless, there he is, calmly sitting beside me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The nerve.
I turn to him slowly, smiling despite myself. “Is that your version of ‘good morning’?”
“Wasn’t trying to be polite,” he replies, leaning his head against the back of the seat and stretching his legs.
Of course not.
I lean away slightly, uncertain if I should even respond. But my mouth moves anyway.
I stare out the window. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
He hums. “Or at all.”
