5. Kaia
Chapter Five
Kaia
The motel room smelled like beach with undertones of something older, something I didn’t want to think about.
Not dirty, exactly, but just…used. I stood hovering at the threshold for a long moment, my hand still wrapped around the handle like I could change my mind and leave.
But I couldn’t. It's a small coastal town and I’m broke. This is the best I’m going to get.
The room was small: one bed, a narrow dresser, a chair in the corner beneath a lamp struggling to stay lit.
I’d never related to a lamp more in my life than in this moment.
I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the dresser—a twenty-five-year-old woman with sharp features and pale gray eyes that miss nothing, my blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun so tight it pulls at my temples.
But there's something else in that mirror too: exhaustion etched into the hollows of my cheeks, tension locked into my jaw, the faint shadows under my eyes that come from three days of driving and a lifetime of never letting myself rest. The carpet has worn thin in places, its pattern faded from years of people walking the same few steps.
The bathroom door creaked when I peered inside to take in the cracked mirror and rusted toilet.
It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t home. But it was mine. For now. Until I ran out of money. I slid the lock into place with a quiet click that echoed louder than it should have.
I slid the duffel down my arm and let it land on the bed with a soft thud.
I didn't bother unpacking. I had barely enough to fill a single dresser drawer, and nothing about this place feels permanent enough to justify going to the trouble. Instead, I moved straight to the small table by the window and emptied my purse. Cash first. I smoothed the bills flat, stacking them neatly by denomination. I looked at the small slip of paper with the motel rate written in thick pen, then back at the cash. Well, one night was manageable. Two nights would be tight. Three…I took a deep breath and pushed the thought away. In my old life, I had everything planned out for weeks, months, and years in advance—some things by the minute. But now, I couldn’t even plan three days ahead.
I picked up the cash again and counted carefully.
Once. Twice. A third time, slower. The total didn't change.
My jaw tightened as I restacked the bills and slid them back into my purse.
"Control what you can. Everything else comes later.
" I remembered that saying from another stupid leadership book I'd been forced to read.
Then my stomach growled, and the sound seemed to echo in the quiet room.
I hadn't eaten since...yesterday afternoon?
Something greasy and unsustainable from one of the last gas stations I stopped at.
Maybe longer. Time had blurred into movement and exhaustion and the constant adrenaline that still swam in my system.
I glanced toward the door, then back at my purse.
Food meant spending. Spending meant fewer nights at the motel.
My fingers pressed against the edge of the table.
"I'm fine," I murmured under my breath. It wasn't a total lie.
I'd gone longer without food before, trying to fit into the ridiculous outfits my mother used to buy me three sizes too small.
I turned away from the table before my stomach could overpower my brain and moved toward the bathroom.
The overhead light buzzed faintly when I flipped the switch, casting everything in a harsh, yellow tone that made the space feel even smaller. The shower curtain was thin plastic. The towels were folded neatly but looked stiff, like they've been washed too many times.
I reached for the shower faucet and turned it on. The water sputtered, then ran.
While waiting for it to warm, I stripped quickly, setting my clothes in a careful pile on the edge of the sink.
When the mirror began to steam, I stepped into the shower.
The water hit my skin in uneven bursts at first, then steadied.
It was warm. Not luxurious, not really comfortable, but…
it was enough. I kept my shower short. I always had, even before this.
Efficiency is a habit I can't unlearn. I washed quickly, methodically, turning to scrub each part of myself with efficient, practiced movements. My fingers caught briefly in my long hair, and I paused as the reality of everything pressed in again. This wasn’t temporary.
This wasn’t a break. This was my life now.
I rinsed the soap from my hair and shut the water off before the thought could settle too deeply.
The silence that followed felt even heavier.
I stepped out, grabbed one of the stiff towels, and wrapped it around myself tightly, like I could hold everything together if I didn't let go.
I glanced at the mirror and realized my reflection looked…
different. Not physically. The same face stared back at me—yes, sharp and assessing, the kind of eyes that had been trained to calculate and control.
My cheekbones were high and angular, carved by genetics and years of discipline.
My hair clung to my shoulders in wet ropes, dripping water down my back.
Without the careful styling my mother had always insisted on, it looked wilder somehow.
More honest. But something in my expression had shifted.
I looked less certain. More exposed. I held my own gaze for a moment, then looked away.
I dressed in clean clothes, then returned to the main room to sit on the edge of the bed.
The springs creaked under my weight, and my eyes drifted back to my purse and the front door.
A long moment passed where I did nothing but stare and listen to the growling of my stomach.
When sitting still became too much, I leaned forward, grabbed the purse, and stood up.
I needed something to eat—just enough to keep me moving.
I slipped my shoes back on and unlocked the door.
When I stepped outside, the air felt different than it had on the road.
Closer. Heavier with that same salt scent that seemed to cling to everything.
The ocean wasn't visible from the motel, but I could still hear the crashing waves faintly in the distance.
I inhaled slowly and let the door close behind me.
I would eat, then figure out the rest later. A small plan—but a plan nonetheless.