I push myself up from the chair and walk into the kitchen. I open the fridge and stand there staring at the shelves filled with food that suddenly seem pointless. Leftovers in containers. Vegetables in the crisper. Milk. Eggs. Bread. Everything exactly where it should be.
Dad always cooks. He complains the whole time, muttering about how I would burn the house down if left unsupervised. Hestill stands at the stove, stirring sauces and pretending he’s not checking over his shoulder to make sure I am not about to set something on fire.
The kitchen feels wrong without him.
No sarcastic comments about my inability to chop onions evenly. No garlic smell filling the air.
I close the fridge and lean back against the counter for a moment, staring into space, swallowing against the lump in my throat. I guess I’m hungry. I have to be. But the thought of cooking in this house without him feels wrong.
I step back from the counter and head into the living room.
His chair waits there. I sink into it again, the cushion dipping under my weight, and grab my phone from the cushion beside me. The screen lights up immediately.
I open Instagram instead because staring at Sam’s message is beginning to feel self-destructive.
Aubrey’s story appears at the top of the screen, with her profile ring glowing.
I tap it.
The image takes up my screen.
It is taken inside a diner booth. The lighting is warm. Sam is smiling directly at the camera, showing all teeth and confidence. Reece is leaning back beside her with that lazy smirk he wears when he thinks he owns the room. Aubrey is mid-laugh, her head tilted back. Noah is partly turned toward her, watching her instead of the camera.
They look bright. Alive. Together.
The caption says, “Late night chaos with my fav.”
Fav.
The word lodges somewhere in my throat.
They look easy. Effortless. Lost in their own little world. There is no awkward gap in the booth. No space where I should be. No sign that anything is missing.
I hold my thumb to the screen and stare at the photo longer than I intend to.
I was at the hospital when this happened, sitting beside my father’s bed in a squeaky chair every time I shifted. Holding his hand as it lay limp in mine.
And they were all out together. Laughing. Living in a world where the worst thing happening is probably just some stupid drama at school.
Jealousy strikes quickly and harshly. It’s ugly. Instant. Sharp enough to make me flinch.
I don’t want to resent them for being okay. It’s not their fault. They don’t know about the coma or how scared I am. They don’t realize that I am sitting in an empty house that feels too big for one person.
But the distance still feels real.
I swipe out of the story before I can dissect it any further and exit Instagram.
I go to my saved audio messages.
My dad’s last one is at the top. It is from the night before everything changed.
My finger trembles slightly as I hit play. Then his voice echoes through the room. “Button, I’m running late. Traffic is a nightmare and some idiot nearly took out my bumper.”
He sounds solid. Annoyed at traffic.
“Do not cook anything,” he continues. “I repeat, do not cook anything. I do not want to come home to smoke alarms and you pretending you know what you’re doing.”
I can picture his face clearly. The fake stern expression. The raised eyebrow. The way he tries to sound serious but fails because the corners of his mouth always twitch when he talks to me.
