25.0
The room was still dark when I woke.
The kind of quiet that feels borrowed—thin rain on glass, the hum of the fridge down the hall, Brooks's arm heavy around my waist.
For a while, I didn't move. I just listened to him breathe. His chest rose steady against my back, the rhythm slow, certain.
If I turned, I knew I'd see him half-asleep, hair messy, that faint crease between his brows he always got when he was thinking even in dreams.
Instead, I stared at the window. The city lights had faded to a soft gray, and it hit me—how long it had been since I woke up feeling... safe.
His thumb brushed my side, slow, like his body moved before his mind woke.
"You're awake," he mumbled, voice rough.
"Mhm."
He shifted behind me, closer but careful, not a move meant to start anything. Just warmth. Presence.
For a minute, neither of us spoke. The quiet stretched, easy and heavy at once.
"You okay?" he asked finally.
"Yeah," I said, though I didn't know what I meant by it.
He exhaled against my shoulder. "Good."
We stayed like that until the gray light turned gold at the edge of the curtains. It should've felt strange—him here, the air between us still carrying last night—but it didn't. It felt inevitable.
When the knocking started, it was small at first. Then louder.
"Mommy!" Alina's voice cut through the stillness. "Mommy, I'm hungry!"
Brooks's groan was half laugh, half defeat. "Guess the morning starts now."
I rolled over to look at him. His hair was a mess, he looked younger like that. Softer.
"I can go," he said, already swinging his legs off the bed.
"You sure?"
"Yeah," he murmured, reaching for his shirt and pants. "I've got it."
He left the room, and seconds later I heard Alina's giggle echo down the hall. I let my head fall back against the pillow, the corner of my mouth curving despite everything.
It was quiet again for a few beats—just the sound of food sizzling faintly from the kitchen—before I got up, brushed my hair, and went to the bathroom.
The phone was still on the counter, buzzing. Aunt Lena.
She'd called twice yesterday. I'd meant to call her back.
I hesitated, then answered. "Hey, Auntie."
There was a pause. "Baby, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you."
"Sorry," I said, voice still soft from sleep. "Things have been... busy. Is everything okay?"
Her inhale was sharp, trembling. "Amira... your mom's gone."
The mirror blurred. "What?"
"She passed two weeks ago. The funeral's today."
I didn't say anything for a long time. I just stared at myself—hair wild, lips dry, heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
"Oh," I said finally. "Okay."
"Okay?" she repeated gently.
"Yeah." My throat felt tight, but nothing came up. No tears. Just the dull, flat kind of ache you can't name. "I'll... I'll figure something out."
"I'll text you the address. Meet me at her house," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to the church together."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Alright. Thanks."
When I hung up, I stood there a while longer, trying to feel something besides confusion.
I didn't even know what to call it—grief didn't feel right. It was more like pressure.
A reminder that time was still moving even when I wasn't ready for it.
"Everything okay?"
Brooks was at the door, watching me. His face shifted the second he saw mine. "What happened?"
"My mom," I said. "She died."
His jaw tightened. "When?"
"Two weeks ago. I just found out."
He stepped closer, his voice soft. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." The word came out quick, almost too sharp. "I just need to go. Where's Alina?"
"In the kitchen."
"I'll take care of her. Go get ready."
I nodded and moved around the room on autopilot. The duffel bag felt heavier than it should've. Everything did.
When I came out, Brooks was helping Alina put syrup on her pancakes. She waved her fork at me. "Mommy, Brooks made a heart!"
I smiled like my body remembered how, though I barely felt it. "That's nice, baby."
Brooks stood, meeting my eyes. "You sure you want to go alone?"
"I'll be fine," I said. "It's just for the day."
He didn't push, but the worry didn't leave his face. "Text me when you get there."
"I will."
Outside, the air smelled like rain and exhaust. I tossed the bag in the trunk and started driving before I could think about why my chest felt so heavy for someone I hadn't loved in years.
The drive to New York didn't feel long. Just colorless.
The highway stretched on in streaks of gray and wet asphalt, my reflection fading in and out of the window. I thought maybe I'd feel something crossing into the city again — nostalgia, regret, even dread — but mostly it just felt far away, like watching someone else's memory on mute.
By the time I reached my old block, the clouds had thickened, low and heavy enough to make the air feel close.
Nothing had changed.
The same cracked sidewalk that used to trip me on my way to school. The same corner store with the faded sign. The same house with its flaking blue paint and mailbox leaning sideways like it gave up years ago.
Aunt Lena was already on the porch when I pulled up.
She waved small, hesitant, like she wasn't sure if she should.
"Hey, baby," she said when I got out. Her voice was softer than I remembered. "You made it."
"Yeah."
She hugged me — a quick, almost uncertain squeeze that smelled like cocoa butter and cigarettes. "You look good."
I didn't answer.
She stepped back to look at me. "You look just like your mama."
The words caught somewhere between us. She meant it kindly. But it landed heavy, like a weight I didn't want.
The front door stuck the way it always did, the wood swelling from humidity and neglect. When it finally gave, the familiar smell hit — weed, Pine-Sol, and something old underneath.
Like the house had been cleaned but never forgiven.
It was the same smell from the day I left.
My eyes drifted automatically to the couch — the one where Chris used to sit, the dip in the cushion still there.
The TV was new, maybe. Bigger, flatter. But it still cast the same blue light over the same nicotine-stained walls.
I stepped in, one foot after the other.
The floor creaked the same way it did that night — the boards near the hallway always giving away your steps.
Even the dust motes floating in the air seemed familiar, like they'd just been waiting for me to show back up.
"I didn't touch nothin'," Aunt Lena said behind me, her voice low. "Didn't have the heart to."
I nodded, eyes on the kitchen.
The same white fridge, the same dent on the corner from when my mom threw a pan once, yelling that the world wouldn't give her a break.
The ashtray was still there too. Half-full. Like she'd been planning to come back for one last drag.
"She kept saying you'd call," Aunt Lena murmured, standing in the doorway. "Said you'd show up one day."
I ran my thumb along the counter. The laminate peeled at the edges, just like it did when I used to do my homework here and she'd yell at me to move my books for dinner that never happened.
"She said a lot of things," I said quietly.
The hallway looked small and the staircase leading up to my old room looked smaller. I didn't bother going up there. I ran my fingers along the wall where the paint bubbled under old layers.
"Im gonna go change," I said while walking towards what I remember to be a bathroom.
The bathroom light flickered before it settled.
It was smaller than I remembered — the kind of small that made you aware of your breathing. The mirror had a long, diagonal crack through it, splitting my reflection into two uneven halves.
Cigarettes crowded the sink in an old chipped ashtray.
Three, maybe four, burned halfway down — the ends stained with lipstick.
The counter was cluttered with things that didn't match — hair grease, body spray, mascara wands stuck together in clumps. The air smelled like cheap perfume and mint toothpaste, heavy and sweet, the kind of smell that clings to your clothes long after you leave.
On the shelf above the sink sat a glass cabinet she used to keep "fancy" things in — small bottles of drugstore perfume, a few tubes of lipstick, an unopened pack of Newports she probably meant to quit and never did.
The glass door stuck, but I opened it anyway. The hinge groaned.
For a second, I just stood there, staring at her reflection ghosted beside mine in the cracked mirror.
It was muscle memory — reaching for space that wasn't mine anymore.
I pulled my bag onto the toilet lid and took out my clothes.
Black dress. Black flats. The kind of outfit you buy because it's practical, not because you plan to wear it.
When I changed, my hands shook, not from sadness but from how wrong everything felt. The smell, the silence, the thought that she'd stood here, in this same spot, every day, painting herself into someone stronger than she was.
The perfume bottles glimmered faintly in the light — little ghosts pretending to be beautiful.
I reached for one out of instinct, sprayed once into the air.
It smelled exactly like her.
For a second, I hated that it still made my chest tighten.
When I looked back in the mirror, I didn't look like the kid who used to live here anymore.
I just looked like someone who outlived her.
Aunt Lena's voice floated from down the hall. "You ready?"
I smoothed my dress, capped the perfume bottle, and said quietly to no one, "Yeah. I'm ready."
The church was only five blocks away, but it felt like miles.
The closer we got, the louder the sound of the choir drifted out through the cracked doors. The same church where my mom dragged me every Easter whenever she felt holy. She always put me in patent leather shoes and itchy tights. The same pews that made my legs stick.
The carpet was still that deep red that never looked clean, and the air smelled like powder and perfume.
People turned when I walked in. Whispered.
"She looks just like her mama."