My reflection stared back from the metal doors—drawn, tired, walking toward someone else’s crisis on legs that felt strangely light.
The doors opened to my floor.
I stepped into the hush of my apartment as the lights flicked on, shadows retreating on cue. My hands moved on instinct—couch straightened, pillows aligned, surfaces cleared.
In the kitchen, the oven clicked to life. The scent of last night’s parmesan-crusted tilapia lingered faintly in the air. I lined the tray with chocolate-chip cookie dough—our ritual—each rounded mound placed with care.
A quiet promise of comfort.
When the elevator opened again, the air shifted.
Candace stood in the doorway—overnight bag slipping from her shoulder, hoodie twisted, mascara streaked. Her expression had gone flat, the way it always did when the shock finally settled.
I opened my arms.
She collapsed into me, sobbing hard enough to knock the breath from both of us. Grief tore out of her in uneven pieces, sharp and uncontained. I held on, letting the force of it move through us instead of fighting it.
Her tears soaked through silk, darkening my blouse. The scent of her shampoo curled through the air, threading itself into the fading smell of the city still clinging to my clothes.
How many times had we stood here like this?
I didn’t need to count. The memories pressed in anyway—Miami. The crypto disaster. The dress. Each moment blurring into the next, each promise she’d made herself dissolving under the weight of her breaking.
Every time, she’d sworn it would be the last.
Every time, she’d been wrong.
You can’t protect her. You never could.
You just tape the cracks and call it a fix.
The words lodged between my ribs, finding every bruise I pretended had healed.
Outside, the city kept grinding forward—distant traffic, a siren, the steady murmur of a world that didn’t pause for anyone’s breaking. Inside, everything narrowed to the circle of my arms around her, to the uneven pull of her breath against my shoulder.
Eventually, she said, “I want cookies.”
Her voice barely lifted above the quiet.
I eased back enough to see her face—blotchy, streaked, eyes rimmed red. “The oven’s already preheating.”
“Thanks.” The corner of her mouth twitched, fragile but real, before she pulled free and sank into the couch.
The oven timer chimed—too loud, too cheerful in the stillness. I slid the tray inside, heat blooming against my face. Sugar and butter filled the air, sweet and rich.
When I returned, Candace lay cocooned in the throw blanket, only the top half of her face visible above it. She reached for the remote without a word, scrolling until she landed on the only movie she ever chose on nights like this.
Twilight.
Of course.
Something tugged at my lips as the opening credits rolled, blue glow spilling across the walls.
“God, this movie is bad,” Candace said into the blanket, burrowing deeper. “Or amazing. I can’t tell which.”
“Come on,” I said. “Peak teenage angst. You can’t hate that.”
A sound slipped out of her—half laugh, half groan, as she burrowed deeper.
