Every quiet moment screamed his absence.
I press my fingertips to the edge of the vanity, grounding myself. The glass is cool. Solid. Real.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
It comes out uneven.
I can’t do today.
Not like this. Not hollowed out. Not pretending I’m fine when something inside me has splintered clean through the middle.
There’s a version of me that could power through. Smile. Perform. Deliver exactly what’s expected.
That version is exhausted.
So I pick up my phone.
My thumb hovers for a second—long enough for guilt to try to talk me out of it.
Then I start canceling.
One meeting. Then another. Then the entire day.
My inbox fills with concern. Confusion. Panic.
I don’t care.
For the first time in my career, I choose not to show up.
I set the phone down and stare at my reflection. Bare face. Red-rimmed eyes. A woman who looks nothing like a pop star and everything like someone who’s finally hit her limit.
My chest aches.
But underneath it, something else stirs.
Relief.
I don’t hear Manny come in.
Not until he’s leaning against the doorway.
He takes me in.
The pajamas. The bare face. The braid that’s halfway given up.
“You’re not even dressed,” he says gently.
I don’t bother lying. I don’t have the energy. “I called off the day.”
His eyebrows lift, just a fraction. Surprise. Not disapproval.
He steps into the room and sits on the edge of the couch like he knows better than to crowd me. Manny has always known how to give space without disappearing.
He looks at my eyes.
And then he exhales.
The sound carries years of knowing me. Of watching me build myself out of sound and grit and stubborn survival.
