Quin stopped walking suddenly. “But it’s not like you to forget something,” they said. “Juggling too much?”
“If I am,” Riya muttered, “it’s partially your fault.”
Quin shrugged. “True. But youdoknow you can always tell me when you’re at capacity, right?”
“Idid, but—” Riya began, before trailing off.Hadshe ever actually said no? Had she ever even hinted that she was tired? To Quin? To anyone?
“Anyway,” Quin continued, “don’t beat yourself up over the flyer thing.Everyoneknows how you’ve always put in a ton of work into everything you do.” They patted Riya’s shoulder. “But even you have limits. You shouldn’t have to hold the world up by yourself.”
Riya’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”
Quin smiled faintly. “Life moves fast. If you don’t stop to breathe, you’ll miss it—or worse, break under it.”
Riya stared back, unmoored.
Was Quin... worried about her? She couldn’t imaginewhy. They ran in different circles: Quin, always surrounded by friends, a tangle of glitter and gaff tape and too-loud laughter; Riya alone, or with Mel tethered to her side.
“You have too much free time,” she said.
“And you clearly don’t have enough.”
Before Riya could fire back, Quin was already turning away, their usual carefree grin sliding back into place.
“Later, Riya. Don’t forget to breathe,” they called over their shoulder as they wandered off.
Riya stood rooted to the spot.
Chapter 19
“You’re here!”
Kian had thrown open the front door to his town house, his dark eyes wide, like he hadn’t fully believed she’d show.
Riya shifted on her feet, surprised by his relief—and, if she was honest, by her own decision to come. She wasn’t sure when logic had stopped feeling logical, only that after another round of dead-end research and a creeping sense of failure, she’d found herself saying yes when he’d invited her after she finished her Student Council meeting.
Plus this was a good opportunity to adjust the variables. Switch environments, change tactics, try a new input. Just like any stalled experiment.
That’s all this was. Not any morbid curiosity about him. Not... anything else.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes! Of course.”
Kian ushered her inside like a nervous host. “Do you need anything? Water, juice, tea, coffee? Are you cold? It’s getting chillier—do you want a blanket?”
Soft-yellow walls, old curtains, the scent of something garlicky and fried curling through the air. A warm space crammed with color and memory: a glass cabinet crowded with trinkets and catering awards. A caramel-brown uprightpiano in the corner, layered with dust. On a tiny entry table beside a bamboo plant, a framed photo of a Filipino man with kind eyes, standing in a creek, holding a little boy in a sun hat, the child’s toothy grin missing a front tooth.
She read the handwritten caption beneath:CK & KK.
Crisanto Kho. His dad.
And notably, no mother in sight. Just as nothing had come up when Riya first googled Kian.
The absence rang louder than anything else.
“My dad just got home,” Kian said. “But we can work in the living room. He won’t bother us.”
Riya’s brow furrowed. “Where is he? I should at least say hi—”
