I stretch beneath the covers, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from actually living instead of just surviving. Last night plays through my mind in fragments. The acrid smell of smoke. The flash of cameras. Kai's arm steadying me through the chaos. The way he carried me up three flights of stairs as if protecting me was something he wanted, not something I had to earn.
The way he kissed my forehead and left.
I press my fingers to the spot where his lips lingered. He could have stayed. He could have pushed. Instead, he held me like I was something precious and walked away.
I roll out of bed and catch my reflection in the mirror. Hair is a disaster, pillow-creased on one side and wild on the other. Yesterday's makeup smudged beneath my eyes like a raccoon.
The apartment is still cramped. The water stain is still expanding. The kitchen is still barely big enough to turn around in. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed.
A twinge of guilt surfaces as I step into the shower. Last night, a school caught fire. Kids could have been hurt. Kai'scompany is in crisis. People are scared and angry, and here I am floating through my morning like I've won the lottery.
I let the hot water run over my shoulders and remind myself what I learned in therapy. Feelings can coexist. Joy doesn't cancel out grief. It just means you're still alive enough to feel both.
I pull on my robe and start the coffee maker. My phone shows a text from Kai, sent after he got home.
Home safe. Thank you for keeping me company on a difficult night. Sweet dreams, Emma.
I smile at the screen, imagining him arriving at his apartment, still thinking about me. When I snap out of it, my coffee is lukewarm and I'm nowhere close to ready for work.
I drink it anyway. Reread the message. Twice.
I'm pouring my second cup when the intercom buzzes.
My hand freezes on the pot. Nobody buzzes me. Nobody knows I live here except Zoe and?—
“Delivery for Emma Sinclair.”
I exhale. Delivery. Just a delivery.
“I'll come down,” I say into the speaker.
“No worries, ma'am. We're coming up to you.”
Ma'am?Andwe?
I wait by the door. When I hear footsteps on the stairs, multiple sets, I crack it open and peer into the hallway.
Three delivery people. Arms full of boxes.
“Ms. Emma Sinclair?” The lead guy checks his tablet.
“That's me.” My voice comes out faint.
“Sign here, please.”
I scrawl something that vaguely resembles my name while the other two file past me. They set the boxes down carefully, arranging them in neat rows across my living room floor.
Twelve boxes. Twelve shoe boxes from brands I've only ever window-shopped.
“Have a great day, ma'am.” The delivery guy smiles and disappears down the stairs.
I close the door and turn to face the aftermath.
My living room looks like a high-end boutique exploded. Boxes in cream and red and black, tissue paper peeking from half-opened lids. I sink to the floor in the middle of them, robe pooling around me, and stare.
A small envelope rests atop the nearest box. Cream cardstock, heavy and expensive. I open it with trembling fingers.
Roses are lovely, but your feet deserve good shoes. — K
