POV: Malia
If someone had told me that Tuesday morning would be the last time I'd live my life like a normal human girl—coffee-stained hoodie, sarcasm at full throttle, and exactly three minutes late to everything—I probably would've laughed in their face. Or given them my signature "Are-you-high?" look. Depends on how many hours of sleep I didn't get.
But no one warned me. No one ever does.
Instead, the universe just gives you a moment. One last, quiet moment before it rips the ground out from under you.
My name's Malia, and at this point in the story, I'm just your average, charmingly chaotic twenty-something with zero life plan, an obsession with mint chocolate, and a mouth that gets me into more trouble than I care to admit. I've been called sharp, stubborn, "too much," and, once, a "feral little gremlin" by my best friend. I'm okay with that.
I work part-time at a dusty old bookstore-slash-café that smells like cinnamon, burnt coffee, and faded dreams. It barely pays, but it gives me free croissants and access to old romance novels, so really—who's winning? Me. I am.
This morning, like always, I dropped by Mrs. Ade's house on the way to work. She's the sweet old lady who lives two doors down and treats me like I'm one of her grandkids. She's the only person in this neighborhood who doesn't make me feel like a broken thing.
"You're limping again, baby," she says as I hand her the warm bag of croissants.
"I told you, Mrs. Ade. I walk with character." I flash her a grin, tossing my braid over my shoulder like a diva.
She chuckles but doesn't miss a beat. "That 'character' is gonna need rest, not sass."
I wink and wave her off, pretending I don't feel the burn in my leg. The ache that creeps up my bones like cold fingers. Not today. Not in front of her.
Because what am I gonna say? "Hey, I might be dying, but check out this cinnamon roll"? Nah.
I get to the bookstore, slide behind the counter, and try to act like I'm not already counting down the minutes until I can crawl into bed and pretend this body isn't at war with me.
There's this moment, around noon, when I catch myself in the mirror behind the espresso machine. My reflection stares back—dark eyes, messy bun, a stubborn tilt to my chin.
"You don't look sick," I murmur.
And for a second, I almost believe it.
Until I turn and nearly stumble from the dull throb in my leg. I curse under my breath and reach for the counter, steadying myself like it's no big deal.
"Bitch, are you limping again?" Muna's voice snaps from the storage room like a whip.
I groan. "It's called walking with attitude."
"It's called being stubborn," she says, appearing with a box of coffee beans and a raised brow. "You need to stop acting like you're indestructible, babe. Even superheroes need naps."
"You calling me a superhero?"
"I'm saying you're a mess with a cape."
I chuckle, leaning on the counter while she organizes with the grace of a tornado. Muna is a vibe. All loud energy, sarcasm, and ride-or-die loyalty packed into one chaotic little body. She's the type to throw punches and insults in equal measure.
"You okay though?" she asks, suddenly serious.
I pause. "I'm tired. But like... soul tired. That makes sense?"
"Girl, it's me. Everything you say makes sense, even when it doesn't. Wanna burn the world or cry about it?"
"Little of both."
Before she can say more, cue the sound of heels born from hell itself—Nella enters. Tight ponytail. Tight face. Loose morals.
"Well, if it isn't Malia and her emotional support hyena," she mutters while grabbing a cup.
Muna scoffs. "If I'm a hyena, you must be the lioness with rabies."
I shoot Nella a tired smile. "You know, jealousy ages you. And you're already working overtime."
Her jaw ticks. "Whatever. Some of us are actually here to work."
"And some of us are actually liked by customers," I reply sweetly.
Muna fake-coughs, "Boom."
Nella glares, then wisely slinks away. We don't hear from her again that shift, which is what I call peace on Earth.
---
Later that night, I walk home with Muna, the city humming softly around us.
"You sure you don't want me to sleep over?" she asks, worry in her voice.
"Nah, I'm okay. You need rest too, troublemaker."
She side-eyes me. "You better call if you feel like dying dramatically. I'll bring snacks."
I laugh. "Deal."
When I finally get inside, I toss my shoes aside and sink into the bed. I exhale... and let the truth crash over me.
My body hurts. My chest is tight. My head spins.
I clutch the edge of my bed, bury my face in my pillow—and cry. Quietly. Fists clenched. Silent tears soaking the fabric. I let it out only here, only now.
I reach for my drawer, hands trembling a little, and pull out a crumpled piece of paper. My bucket list. I forgot it existed. Forgot I even cared.
The ink is faded. My old handwriting is hopeful and messy and full of life. The kind of girl who believed she had time.
But I still have time... right?
I grab a pen, circle every single item like I'm drawing battle lines.
Malia's Bucket List
1. Travel outside the country with Muna
2. Fall in love—real love
3. Kiss under the stars
4. Learn to dance
5. Attend my first ball party
6. Bake with my boyfriend
7. Be remembered for something good
"No more waiting," I whisper, throat raw. "If I'm going out, I'm going out loud."
I drag myself to my feet, slap on the tiniest smile, and head to the mirror.
"You don't look sick," I whisper again.
This time... I don't believe it.
But maybe—just maybe—if I do everything on that list, it won't matter.
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