A week has passed since all the events that happened at Nonna's house, and honestly, it feels like a lifetime. I had no interactions with Nate after that incident, mostly because he refuses to acknowledge my existence—which, let's be honest, works just fine with me. It's like I've suddenly developed the superpower of invisibility, but only around him. Every time we cross paths in the hallway, he looks right through me as if I'm made of air.
Mom's state has been getting better though, which is probably the only silver lining in this whole mess. Her depression has been lifting like morning fog, slowly but surely. This morning when I came down to make breakfast—expecting the usual routine of tiptoeing around the house like I'm walking through a minefield—I saw her making coffee for herself. Not just any coffee, mind you, but actual coffee, with the fancy French press that's been collecting dust for months. She even offered to make some for me, which I would say is massive progress considering she refused to even open her bedroom door for anything other than washroom breaks and the occasional food delivery for the whole week.
"Morning, honey," she said, her voice still carrying that raspy quality that comes from too much crying and not enough talking. "Coffee?"
I nearly dropped my phone on the floor. "Um, sure. That would be great, Mom."
She moved around the kitchen with the careful precision of someone who's forgotten how to be normal and is trying to remember the steps. I could feel the smell coming off her body as she stood there—a mixture of unwashed hair, stale pajamas, and that particular scent that clings to people who've been hiding from the world. But I intentionally ignored that and tried to indulge in small talk, which obviously was a spectacular failure.
"So, how did you sleep?" I asked, immediately regretting it because what was she supposed to say? 'Great, thanks for asking about my depression-induced insomnia'?
"Fine," she replied.
"Diner has been going good lately," I tried again, because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment.
"Mmm," she hummed, focusing intently on the coffee like it held the secrets of the universe.
And that was the extent of our mother-daughter bonding session. At least she's trying, which is more than I can say for most days recently.
Though I am genuinely happy today, because my only friend Emma was coming back to school after her long sick leave. Emma meant a little color in my otherwise pleasurably grey life, like adding a rainbow to a black and white photograph.
As I walked toward school, mentally preparing myself for another day of academic torture, my eyes fell on Nate standing at the gate with the volleyball group. They were all clustered around a faded brown Bentley that looked like it had seen better days but was trying to maintain its dignity—kind of like a washed-up actor still wearing designer clothes. If I had to guess, and I'm pretty good at guessing these things, it was Logan's car. Logan was the volleyball team captain and pretty-much a very well known celebrity for his athletic prowess.
Logan loomed tall around 6 feet 1 next to the car, with his long-time one-night-stand Natasia practically draped over him like a designer accessory. Natasia and Logan have been hooking up since freshman year. Logan refuses to take it any further but it is very obvious to everyone's eyes that Natasia will do about anything to have that position, since it meant more than just being the girlfriend.
It was exhausting just watching them.
Nate's eyes were engrossed in his phone, probably scrolling through whatever app douchebags with fighting issues would like. Meanwhile, the others were chatting about things I would have absolutely no interest in knowing—probably something about protein shakes, weekend parties, or whose parents were going out of town next.
"Dude, did you see what happened at Jake's party last weekend?" one of them was saying.
"Yeah, man, that was insane. Sarah totally—"
I tuned out because, honestly, high school gossip has the entertainment value of watching paint dry in slow motion.
That's when Natasia's eyes met mine across the parking lot. She smirked at me. I ignored her and kept walking because engaging with Natasia was like playing chess with a pigeon—even if you won, the pigeon would just knock over all the pieces and strut around like it owned the board.
Yeah, no thanks.
I could hear Emma even before I could see her as soon as I entered the corridor leading to the locker rooms. Her voice has this unique quality that cuts through the general chaos of high school hallways like a hot knife through butter.
"Lia!" She squealed as she bounced towards me with the energy of a golden retriever who just found out about walks. Her perky boobs were going up and down as she practically skipped, grabbing attention from everyone in the hallway. Not just guys, but also girls.
Emma had the same auburn hair as my mother, but unlike my mother, her hair had the kind of natural curls that girls would literally sell their souls for. She had kept her hair in some kind of fancy half up-do that she'd probably learned from a YouTube tutorial at 2 AM, which made her heart-shaped face look even more stunning than usual. My face lit up with a smile that only she could bring out of me as I walked towards her, feeling like the world had suddenly gotten a little brighter.
"I heard you found a guy!" she announced loudly enough for half the hallway to hear, because Emma had two volume settings: loud and louder.
I snickered, shaking my head. "Who is spreading these ridiculous rumors?"
Her honest pout made an appearance—the same one she'd been perfecting since we were fourteen years old. "You didn't? And here I was planning to book my maid of honor seat at your wedding. I even had your perfect 'something borrowed' picked out in my mind. I was going to lend you my lucky earrings, you know, the ones that got me that date with Tyler Morrison in sophomore year."
"The ones that ended with him throwing up on your shoes?" I reminded her.
"Details," she waved dismissively. "The point is, they're lucky for getting dates, not necessarily keeping them."
I laughed as we made our way to the lockers, weaving through the usual obstacle course of backpacks, teenage drama, and people who apparently forgot that hallways are for walking, not standing around looking confused.
"Seriously though, who told you that?" I asked, genuinely curious about how information traveled through our school's gossip network faster than the internet.
"Sam was telling me," she said, referring to Sam Rodriguez, who was in the same cheerleading team as Emma and had the supernatural ability to know everyone's business before they knew it themselves. "She said the other day, you walked into class with a specimen so fine that even the Greek Gods themselves would take a second look at him just to appreciate the piece of art. Her exact words, I swear."
That was part exaggeration and part true, which was pretty much Sam's specialty.
"He is not my boyfriend," I said firmly, stopping around the corner of the locker room. "He is not even my friend. I just met him that day and it was his first day in school, so I offered to show him the way to class. That's literally all there is to it. End of story. Roll credits."
I conveniently skipped the whole Natasia situation, because seriously, if Nate is involved with the same girl as his volleyball captain, that's between them. I even skipped the part where he came for my saving on his first day in the city because if I was being serious, I did not want to talk about him at all.
Emma was shorter than me and she was looking at the floor, but I could practically feel the disappointment radiating off her like heat from a bonfire. She knows everything about my life—well, almost everything—and she just wants me to be happy. I get it, I really do. But I don't need a guy to be happy. I've seen her get hurt enough times by those particular specimens while she was putting all of her efforts out there, wearing her heart on her sleeve like a badge of honor.
"You know what your problem is?" Emma said, looking back at me with her usual brightness returning. "You're too practical. Sometimes you need to let yourself be a little stupid for love."
"And sometimes you need to let yourself be a little smart for self-preservation," I countered.
She shook her head with exaggerated disappointment. "Okay, forget it then. But I'm not giving up on finding you someone. It's like my personal mission now."
"Please don't make me your personal mission. I'm not a charity case."
"Too late," she grinned. "But speaking of missions, I was talking to some guys this morning—"
"Oh no."
"—and they invited me to this place tonight. They said it's kind of an underground fighting arena, and with the way they made it sound, I think it might actually be fun. Like, real-life Fight Club but with worse lighting and probably more broken noses."
I stared at her. "Emma, that sounds incredibly dangerous and probably illegal."
"Which is exactly why it'll be exciting!" she said, clapping her hands together. "I want to try it, and I want you to come with me. So, be ready at 10, I'll come to pick you up at the Diner."
"Ems, I really don't think—"
"La la la la la lloooo," she started singing at the top of her lungs, covering her ears with her hands and running off like a five-year-old who didn't want to hear about bedtime.
Typical Emma.
I chuckled to myself, shaking my head at her retreating form. Some things never change, and Emma's ability to drag me into questionable situations was definitely one of them.
I turned the corner to go to my locker, but my heart sank as I looked at it. The smile that Emma had put on my face disappeared like someone had flipped a switch.
There it was.
Again.
Hanging from my locker like a persistent ghost that refused to be exorcised.
My heart pounded as I walked towards it, each step feeling heavier than the last. The hallway noise seemed to fade into background static as my focus narrowed to that single piece of paper hanging from my locker like a death sentence.
I picked it up, praying to every god that's present for something even I could not decipher. My thoughts were a mess. I want all of this to not happen, but even I could not deny now what this means and who it is from. There was not a single doubt about it in my head anymore.
Only he would try to play with me like this, because he was a narcissist and a masochist who would pluck the wings of a butterfly to entertain himself. He had done before and now he was trying again.
I opened the letter to read whatever nuisance he wanted to spit this time.
But this time there was no text inside.
This time it was just empty.
This time he didn't want to say anything. This time this was just a subtle reminder that he was still there, still watching, still playing whatever sick game he'd started.
An empty letter was somehow worse than a threatening one. It was like being told that your tormentor didn't even need words anymore—that their mere presence in your life was message enough. It was psychological warfare at its finest, and I had to admit, it was working.
I stood there in the hallway, holding an empty piece of paper, feeling like the world had suddenly gotten a little darker again. Even Emma's sunshine couldn't chase away this particular shadow.
The bell rang, signaling the start of first period, and I crumpled the empty letter in my fist. Whatever game this was, I was apparently still playing it, whether I wanted to or not.