Strangely, that was my first thought when I spotted Kira across the street. Her hair was way longer than when we were teenagers, hanging near her waist, silken and black. Even pulled back in a ponytail, it was pretty. The rest of her was pretty, too, of course.
It didn’t do me any good to think about her beauty, but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about her every day over the last seven years.
At first, the urge to call her just to hear her voice was almost unbearable. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, panicked, wondering if she was cursing my name out to all her friends. She’d have the right to.
Eventually, the pang faded to a small dullness. It reminded me of the pain in my wrist—one wrong step in a kickball game years ago caused me to fall and break it. It healed, but when I thought about it too much, the ache returned.
In the moment, I knew leaving was the right decision for both of us. But after seeing Kira today, I wasn’t so sure.
I had only been home in Chicago for less than a week andnever expected to run into Kira like that. Then again, I didn’t expect to run into her best friend and roommate, Macey, at a gas station last week.
After Kira ran—literally ran—away from me, the softness of her arm lingered on my fingertips for minutes. I wanted to press the feeling deep beneath my skin, store it somewhere permanent. But by the time I reached my new apartment, it was already gone. Just another thing I couldn’t hold on to.
I never understood the concept of addiction until now. I only had the smallest piece of Kira, and already I craved more.
Where was she going so early on a Sunday?Whywas she going? She had never been much of a morning person before. God, I sounded like a stalker.
Get a grip, Landon.
If it weren’t for the fact I had urgent matters to attend to today, I’d probably spiral out while eating an entire bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and rewatchingBreaking Badfor the tenth time. Fortunately for me and my gut health, there were plenty of distractions to be had.
The first one being this new apartment.
My mom had insisted I move back in with her. And while I saw nothing wrong with living with your parents at twenty-five, the idea made my chest tighten. The house had been too quiet ever since Dad passed away. Liam, my younger and much louder brother, was off at his first year of college, and without his constant chatter echoing through the halls, the silence felt deafening.
Mom and I had always been close, but we were both the quiet type—drawn together by love but never quite sure how to express it aloud. While I hunted for an apartment these last few days, we sat side by side on the couch most nights, sipping tea, watching old black-and-white movies neither of us had the energy to follow. We spoke in glances and half-smiles,careful not to disturb the easy silence that lingered between us.
I wasn’t trying to avoid her, but I needed something different this time if I was going to last in Chicago. Something that didn’t smell like Dad’s cologne or echo with footsteps that would never come back.
So I moved into a tiny apartment over an old bookstore downtown. The walls were thin, and the hot water took its time, but I got the keys yesterday, so it was mine now.
The second, and by far largest, distraction was the diner.
It had always been ours. My family’s pride and purpose. My parents opened it before I was born, back when the town was smaller and Michigan Street still felt like the center of the world. It wasn’t fancy, but it was full of warmth, a place where everyone knew your name and no one left hungry.
I grew up in that diner—bussing tables after school, learning to flip pancakes before I could reach the griddle without a stool, sneaking pie crust scraps when Mom wasn’t looking.
Then, seven years ago, it burned down.
A kitchen fire sparked after closing one night, and by the time anyone saw the smoke, the place was already gone. No one was hurt, but we lost everything. Insurance barely covered the basics, and with the mounting medical bills from Dad’s cancer treatments, there was no way to rebuild.
So I left. Moved to Atlanta to work in my uncle’s restaurant to help send money back home. I told myself it was temporary. That I’d come back the minute the diner reopened. But it never did. Time passed. Life moved on. A few years ago, Dad died. And for a long time, the idea of trying again hurt too much.
Now, after all this time, Mom decided to reopen the diner.
She got approved for a small business loan, something she never thought would happen, and decided to bring it back inDad’s name. Same name on the sign, same lemon meringue pie, but a new location.
She called me the day the paperwork cleared and asked if I’d come home to help. I agreed. Not to chase some forgotten dream, but to rebuild the one we almost lost. For Dad.
As I pulled into the cracked parking lot, I noticed Mom had hung the old neon sign over the doorway.Mason’s Diner. The letters were chipped, the colors muted, but seeing it again stirred happy memories.
Mom was already there, of course. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, arms crossed, a to-go coffee cup in one hand. Her dark hair was pinned up in its usual neat twist, though a few strands had come loose and fluttered in the breeze. She looked smaller somehow, standing in front of the empty building. When she spotted me, her face softened with a quiet smile.
I got out of the car and shut the door gently behind me.
“You’re early,” she said.
I shrugged. “So are you.”
