I don't know when sleep found me.
All I remember is watching the sky change color outside my window—blue melting into orange, then back into grey. The ceiling blurred. The phone beside me stayed quiet. And somewhere between the stillness and the silence, I must have drifted off.
When I wake up, it's 11:02 AM. My head is heavy, and my heart even heavier.
Still no message from Nigel.
Not even a dot. Not a half-typed apology or an awkward joke. Just nothing.
The air in my room feels thick. The kind of thick that presses against your skin like invisible hands. I lie there a while, phone in hand, debating whether to text him again. But my fingers don't move. I just stare at his last message—two words, vague and raw.
"Something triggered me."
That's all he said. And then, nothing.
I keep telling myself he didn't mean to leave me hanging. That maybe he needed space. That maybe this wasn't about me. But that doesn't stop the ache from blooming in my chest anyway.
I'm not even crying.
Just still.
Like someone hit pause on the inside of me.
Eventually, I get up. Walk to the bathroom. Turn the shower on without thinking.
There's something about the water—it doesn't fix anything, but it makes things feel cleaner. I stand under it, arms wrapped around myself, and let it pour down over my skin. My hair clings to my neck. My eyes stay open. I don't move for a long time.
It's not just about Nigel. It's never just about one thing.
It's the way I keep folding myself smaller to fit inside someone else's love. The way I wait. The way I hope. The way I keep pretending that "I'm fine" isn't code for "I'm breaking."
The water turns cold before I get out.
Still, I feel a little lighter. Not good. Not okay. But at least like I'm breathing again.
I towel off, throw on a soft t-shirt that smells like laundry detergent, and collapse on my bed again.
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to talk, either.
I just want to be with someone. Someone who doesn't need explanations or disclaimers. Someone who won't make me earn softness.
And that's when her name slips into my thoughts—
Aurora.
My little cousin. My mirror. My light.
She's fifteen, but sometimes I swear she was born older than me. Kinder, too.
When I was sixteen, spiraling through identity and heartbreak and the kind of hate I could barely name, Aurora my little twelve year old princess once looked at me and said, "I want to be like you when I grow up."
And something in me shifted.
Because if someone that bright believed I was worth becoming, maybe I was.
Since then, whenever the world becomes too loud, I find my way back to her.
I send a message.
"You home?"
"Rue," she replies in seconds. "Yes. Come. I missed you."
No hesitation. No questions.
Just her.
.....
She opens the door before I can knock.
Her curly hair's in a messy bun, cheeks flushed, and she practically jumps into my arms.
"Roo, you're here!" she says, hugging me tight. "I missed you."
God, I needed this. I didn't even know how much until now.
I squeeze her back, harder than I mean to. "I missed you too."
She pulls me inside, dragging me into the living room like we're young and it's summer and we're hiding from responsibilities.
She doesn't mention Nigel.
She never liked him much anyway. Said something about how his energy felt too heavy, how he made me different, how she could sense when I don't carry myself like the real Me with him.
We settle on the couch. She throws a blanket over both of us and shoves a giant bowl of popcorn between us.
"So," she says, "you want to talk about the sad stuff or pretend none of it exists?"
I smile, grateful. "Pretend."
"Good," she says. "Because I have the weirdest YouTube videos lined up for us and I need your judgment."
We laugh. Genuinely laugh. Over something stupid—probably a talking parrot or a kid failing a cartwheel—and it feels like oxygen.
She doesn't try to fix me. Doesn't tell me to cheer up. She just sits beside me, warmth pressed against my side, and reminds me I'm not as alone as my brain says I am.
And maybe that's what healing looks like today.
Not getting over it.
Just having someone who holds the silence with you until it hurts less.
She leans her head on my shoulder, mid-video.
"I still want to be like you, you know."
I blink fast.
"Why?"
"Because you're the one who fights, who stands up for herself. The one who never lets anyone tell her what she can't be," she says. "You were always the it-girl. The one who owns the room without even trying."
I almost laugh.
"I'm not that girl anymore."
She smirks.
"Yeah, well, being 'lovable' doesn't have to mean being less. You've just been hiding your claws."
"I don't think you get it," Iwhisper. "I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting and pretending."
She doesn't push. She knows boundaries.
"I'm not here to tell you to break up or fix anything. Just... to remind you that you're still that girl when you want to be. And when you don't, I'm still here."
I nod, the weight easing a little.
The sun is still up outside, slanting golden light across the floor. It's not night yet. The world hasn't closed its eyes. And maybe neither have I.
Aurora stretches and stands up, heading toward the kitchen.
"You've barely eaten, Roo. I'm making something for both of us. You're not allowed to starve in this house."
I smile faintly. "I'm fine."
"You say that every time," she calls out, grabbing a bowl.
I don't argue. I don't stop her.
A few minutes later, she brings out a tray. Two plates — one stacked with fries and toast, the other with cut fruit and peanut butter on the side. Aurora's version of a comfort meal.
She plops beside me and pushes the plate gently in front of me.
"I got options, see? So no excuses," she grins.
My stomach twists.
It's not her. It's not the food.
It's the voice in my head that's louder than both.
I look at the plate and feel that familiar ache — the shame, the fear, the silence. The calculations running wild behind my face. The invisible measuring tape wrapping around my ribs.
I don't want her to see it.
I don't want her to know.
Aurora thinks I'm strong, powerful, untouchable. She thinks I'm the it-girl — the version of me who wears confidence like perfume and walks like mirrors are always watching.
She doesn't know I still count grapes like calories. She doesn't know how I stare at my reflection like it's lying to me.
She doesn't know because I'll never let her.
I pick up a piece of toast, hold it, smile like I'm about to eat — and then place it back down gently.
"Not hungry yet," I say.
She shrugs, unfazed. "Fine. But you will eat before you leave, or I'm locking you in."
"Deal," I lie.
She turns the volume back up and scrolls to another video. Her laughter fills the room. I nod along, say things when she expects me to say them. Pretend my silence is peace, not war.
And just when I start to forget the weight on my chest —
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen.
MOM.
And just like that, everything stills again.