She runs straight to me. “Auntie Kasia, this one’s for you!” I crouch down, unwrap it carefully, and find a mug inside, painted in clumsy streaks of glitter and blue.Best Doktorka Ever.The letters are uneven, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, Zosia…” I hug her tight. “It’s perfect.”
Dominik leans against the doorway, wearing that quiet smile he’s had since the hospital, like every moment since is one he might never have seen. He’s moving easier now, though every so often I catch the stiffness in his shoulders when he thinks no one’s looking. Mama makes him a plate of everything, twice and Tata insists he takes some wine. “Doctor’s orders.”
We laugh over old stories, Piotr’s disastrous first date, Natalia’s cooking attempt that ended with the fire alarm, how Dominik once pretended to be a visiting priest just to get out of a ticket on a road trip. Zosia falls asleep halfway through dessert, head in her father’s lap, a smear of chocolate still on her cheek. As the evening winds down and the others drift to the living room, Dominik stays behind, collecting Zosia’s things. He glances up.
“Hey… after New Year’s,” he says, a little sheepishly. “Would you maybe come by? Just spend some time? Zosia would like that. I would too.”
My first instinct is to say no, to make up something about work, the clinic, anything. But then I see his face, the softness in it, the careful way he asks, like he’s afraid to push too far. I remember the blood on my hands, the way he stepped between me and the knife without hesitation.
I nod. “Okay,” I say softly. “After New Year’s.”
And even though guilt pools low in my chest, it feels like the first practical thing I’ve agreed to in months. Something that doesn’t risk anyone’s life. Something sensible. Later, when the house quiets and I’m in my old room, I sit on the edge of the bed scrolling through my phone. No message from Rafe. NoMerry Christmasor late-night text. I check twice, even though I shouldn’t.
Silence. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Maybe this is what normal is supposed to feel like now, empty, manageable, survivable. I set the phone face-down and turn off the light, listening to the wind against the window, the muffled laughter from the living room. It’s still Christmas. The world keeps turning.
But it feels so strange to live in it without him.
Rafe
Christmas at my parents’ house always carries a unique set of smells. One comprised of roast potatoes, honeyed ham, kimchi fried rice, and the faint trace of clove from my mum’s candles. The table is chaos in miniature: Brussels sprouts besidejapchae, Yorkshire pudding sharing a platter withmandu. A perfect, mismatched peace treaty of two worlds that somehow work.
Dad carves the ham with ceremonial precision while mum fusses over the banchan, waving me away every time I try to help.
“You’re so skinny,” she scolds, piling my plate. “Why do you always forget to eat? Aish.”
I smile, because that’s what you do when you love someone enough to pretend you’re fine. Gongju sits tucked neatly beside mum’s chair, a perfect white loaf with her paws crossed, chin lifted like she’s supervising the entire operation. She watches me with dark, appraising eyes, unimpressed.
“We start the Asia leg in January,” I tell Dad when he asks, sliding the conversation into safer ground. “Twelve stops. Seoul, Tokyo, Manila, Singapore…”
He nods approvingly, pride and calculation mixing behind his glasses. “And the album? Close to done?”
“Yeah. Nearly there. Just final mixes.”
“And the others?”
“They’re good. Loud. Still alive.”
That earns a laugh, short, warm, almost normal until he adds, “Pity about the doctor. Shame that. But hardly a surprise, eh? Sensible woman, from what we gather. Not an easy life to keep up with, yours.”
It’s not meant to wound, but it does.
I swallow it down and shrug. “Guess not.”
Mum shoots him a look, but it’s too late; the silence has already stretched thin. Gongju’s ears flick, her gaze turning from Dad back to me. He clears his throat, trying for levity. “Maybe next time we’ll actually get to meet the girl before it’s over. Would be a nice change.”
I laugh, even manage to make it sound real. “Yeah. Maybe.”
After dinner we exchange gifts, a few small, thoughtful things. A new watch from Dad. Hand-knit gloves from Mum. I give Dad a handmade scarf, Mum her favorite fresh honey and both a framed photo from the band’s last tour, one where we actually look happy. They hold it like it’s gold. Gongju sniffs the wrapping paper, loses interest, and hops back onto mum’s foot like she’s her personal blanket.
I blame my retreat on jet lag, exhaustion, anything but what it really is: the need to be alone before I break. My childhood room hasn’t changed. Same bookshelf, same faded posters, same view of the neighbor’s porch light flickering through the snow. I sit on the bed, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen until it wakes, casting pale light across the room. Nothing. No message.
I’ve been telling myself all day that she might, just might, reach out again. Like Thanksgiving. Just a few words. Something small to mean she’s still there. Still thinking of me. Still tethered to whatever’s left between us. But the hours crawl by. Midnight comes and goes.
I scroll through our old messages anyway. Thanksgiving.Have a nice day?The stupid, ordinary beauty of it.
“Come on, Kasia,” I whisper to the dark. “Just…something.”
