1
KIRA
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do something that scares you every day.”
I’ve always disagreed with this advice. In my opinion, we should do something that scares us once a year. Maybe twice, if you really like the thrill. But every day?
Absolutely not.
Some people didn’t understand the value of routine. For example, I didn’t have to tell Britney, the barista at The Burrow Café and one of my best friends, what I wanted in the morning. She always had my chai latte prepared, which gave me extra time to chat with her before I had to go upstairs to work.
My 6:00 a.m. spin instructor saw me in class every day. She knew my favorite steps, and when I was low on energy, she knew to play an amped-up remix of a K-pop hit.
Sunday mornings found me at the Community Connections Center—a bright, bustling haven for underprivileged kids. During the week, it offered tutoring and mentorship. By the weekend, the space transformed into a creative playground. I led the art class, where paint-splattered smocks and messy fingers were the norm. One week, we tackled watercolors. The next, wedove into sketching or experimented with bold acrylics. With fifteen kids in my class, there was a rhythm to it all, and each week they knew exactly what to expect.
Today was watercolor day, and even though I encouraged the kids to paint whatever they felt, I knew a handful of them would follow the theme I chose for myself. I looked up at the bright sun for inspiration, admiring how it cast a glow across the calmer-than-usual Chicago streets. Maybe I’d paint the sky.
See? Routine provided inspiration.
Average days like these relaxed me. I liked knowing what was coming next and having the time to prepare for it. My roommate once planned a surprise party for my birthday, and I screamed so loud our elderly neighbor came to the door, cane swinging over her head. She stole the first slice of chocolate cake and casually asked us when the next party was every week since.
Walking down the street, I cradled the steaming hot chai latte in my hands, savoring the warmth against my palms. The rich aroma of spices and tea wafted up with each sip, mingling with the scent of blooming flowers from a nearby stand. Other early risers bustled around me, along with the occasional honk of a horn.
I nodded a hello to a jogger who passed by and contemplated how long I could run without dying—I landed on three minutes max—when I heard it.
It was on a perfectly normal, ordinary day that I heard Landon’s voice.
Even across the busy intersection, filled with young fathers pushing babies in strollers and locals walking their dogs, his voice cut through straight to me. It had a musical quality, a deep pitch that tickled my ears. Back in school, it would soften to a hush whenever he whispered secrets to me, unaware that his voice carried just enough to make his dreams public knowledge. And his laugh—bold and uncontainable—always burst out likea crescendo, bouncing off the walls and dragging everyone into its orbit.
Once, when we were sixteen, he read me a book of love poems. HisOs dragged longer across his tongue than they were supposed to and he never took a breath where there was a comma, but it was the most romantic thing I had heard. Later, it was me who dreamed about those poems, and how hisOs didn’t drag when he saidI love you.
All that’s to say I knew Landon’s voice as well, if not better, than I knew my own. Even though I hadn’t heard it in seven years, it was powerful enough to freeze me in my steps. It did more than that, honestly. My knees shook, sweat dripped down my spine, and my heart performed acrobatics I didn’t think it was capable of, dropping to my stomach, then launching into my throat.
This isn’t happening.
It couldn’t be. Something so life-altering was not happening on a day like today. I was tempted to ignore the voice entirely.
But…
I had to know. Like how I always had to check that the apartment cockroach underneath the shoe I threw was dead, I had to see Landon with my own eyes.
Through the strollers and the steady current of people, I spotted a familiar tousle of dark, curled hair. He looked more sun-kissed than I remembered, like he’d been living outdoors and only remembered sunscreen when it was too late. Walnut-colored eyes ignited as he rolled his eyes at whatever the person on the other side of the phone said.
He always had broad shoulders, but holy shit, he was buff now. No longer the scrawny kid I once played kickball with after school. His jeans rode low on his hips, and his white sneakers reminded me of the same fashion style he always had: comfort first.
What were the chances it wasn’t him?
Slim, but not zero. He could be a handsome stranger on the way to pick up breakfast for his girlfriend, which they’d eat in bed while watching reruns ofNew Girl. Lucky bitch.
A second later, his eyes connected with mine and the resulting zip down my body confirmed that it was, without a doubt, Landon Cole.
For anyone else, this would be like a scene in a romance movie, when the protagonist sees her lover and everything else fades away. But the sounds of the crosswalk and footsteps didn’t disappear because it waslovethat overcame me.
Face-to-face, I instinctively noticed other changes in his appearance. His face was narrower, jaw sharper, with stubble coating it. He grew into the nose that was once too big, but his lashes were still too long, blinking gently onto the peaks of his cheeks. His mouth somehow looked softer and smoother.
Landon seemed flustered for a second, his lips moving without making a sound as he rushed through a goodbye with the person on the phone. He tucked his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and held up one finger.Wait for me.
I’d seen Landon say goodbye to a lot of people throughout our lives: his grandma, who passed away too soon, the fourth-grade teacher, who finally helped him understand multiplication, the friend he cursed out after they made fun of the shape of my eyes.
