33. Mariana
Mariana
T he Rolling Pin felt wrong. It was too bright, too warm, too alive. The overhead lights glowed softly against the terracotta tiles, reflecting off the hand-painted designs that framed the front counter. It was beautiful, it was full, and I wanted everyone to leave.
People filled the bakery, their voices hushed but constant, layering over each other in a low, steady hum, a noise I could feel more than hear, vibrating beneath my skin like static.
They whispered condolences over cups of coffee and picked at small plates of food they weren’t hungry for. They stole glances at me, their expressions shifting between pity and something softer, something unbearable.
"Your mother was an incredible woman."
"She was so proud of you, Mariana."
"She’s watching over you now."
I wanted to scream. I so badly wanted to tell them to stop talking, stop pretending, stop trying to fill the silence with empty words that didn’t bring her back.
Because she wasn’t watching over me. She was fucking gone.
She was buried under six feet of cold, damp earth, wearing the delicate gold necklace she never took off—the one with my initials and my father’s, M this was one of my favorites. My mother used to make them every Sunday night. The memory landed like a weight in my chest. I shook my head, too fast, too sharp. "I’m not hungry."
Sebastian didn’t move. His jaw tightened slightly. "Mariana…"
His voice was too soft and too careful. He already knew I was unraveling and was trying not to spook me. I didn’t want that; I didn’t want him treating me like I was delicate, like I was something breakable.
I squared my shoulders, exhaling hard through my nose. "Sebastian, I said I’m not hungry."
A long silence stretched between us. For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, carefully, he set the plate down beside me, and walked away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t try again. He just… left.
Something about that felt worse.