“Twice. Straight to voicemail.”
She shrugs. “He’ll show up. He always does when he needs your help.”
That’s what I keep telling myself. Lucas always reappears eventually—hungover, broke, full of promises that last about three days. I’ve learned not to panic until the calls start coming from numbers I don’t recognize.
Still, something feels different this time. The air carries the same weight I feel before a bad shift, like the exact moment before a code is called, when everyone justknows.
Lilly notices my silence. “Hey,” she says gently, “he’s fine. He probably just found some new gig.”
“Or some new trouble.”
“You worry too much.”
“I have reason to.”
She looks at me with that mix of sympathy and frustration she’s perfected. “You can’t keep doing this, Kira. You can’t live your life cleaning up after him. He’s not your patient.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And you’re not his mother. He’s not your responsibility.”
The words sting more than I want to admit. I hate that she’s right. I hate that I still flinch every time someone reminds me that I’m not enough to fix him.
We walk in silence for a while. Streetlights flash gold across the pavement. The city hums with its usual chaos of horns and the faint echo of music from somewhere above us. It’s the kind of noise that makes you feel less alone, even when you are.
When we reach my building, Lilly stops at the corner. “Are you sure you’re good?”
“Yeah.” I try to smile. “Just tired.”
“Text me if you get bored and want me to come over with ice cream and wine.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She studies me a second longer, as if she wants to say more but knows I won’t listen. Then she waves and walks off, her hair catching the streetlight like copper. I watch her go until she disappears into the crowd.
The air feels colder once she’s gone.
Inside my building, the stairwell smells like paint and old cigarettes. The landlord swore he’d fix the lighting months ago, but the bulbs still flicker like a dying heartbeat. I climb the steps, my legs protesting with every move. The building is quiet except for the hum of someone’s TV through a thin wall and the faint drip of water from a leaky pipe.
By the time I reach my door, I’m half-asleep on my feet. I fish out my keys, push the door open, and step inside.
The apartment greets me with its usual silence. A finished cup of coffee sits on the counter, a pile of medical forms on the table. I drop my bag and kick off my shoes.
It’s a small apartment, a one-bedroom carved out of an old brownstone, patched together with secondhand furniture andprayers. The walls are thin enough to hear the neighbors argue, but it’s the first place that’s ever felt like home.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the chair. The air inside is warm and stale. I peel off my blouse next, the cheap polyester clinging to my skin. My bra strap digs into my shoulder, the elastic itching where the fabric’s frayed. I make a mental note to buy a new one, then immediately remind myself that rent comes first.
I undo the top button of my jeans while crossing the room, the dim light from the street slipping through the blinds. It’s enough to find my way through the dark.
The floor creaks as I move toward the kitchen, each step whispering back at me. The sound makes me pause for no reason I can explain. I’ve always hated coming home to silence; it makes every small noise feel amplified, like the apartment is listening.
I flip through the mail on the counter—bills, advertisements, a letter for Lucas. My name scratched next to his in someone else’s handwriting. I stare at it longer than I should before setting it aside. The truth is, I haven’t told the landlord he doesn’t live here anymore. I’m not ready to admit that most nights, it’s just me and the echo of someone who should’ve come back by now.
The fridge hums. I open it, find a half-empty carton of milk and a leftover sandwich that’s turned the color of regret. I close the door. My reflection catches in the window—faint, blurred, almost unfamiliar. God, I look tired. Not the kind of tired thatsleep fixes though, and I wonder if I should text Lilly and agree to the glass of wine after all.
