The mornings felt heavier now.
It wasn't just that Maria moved slower—it was the way the house itself seemed quieter, like it was holding its breath. The TV stayed off, the kettle stayed cold, and the air had the kind of stillness that made every small sound loud.
I woke early, hoping to beat that silence, but the moment I stepped into the kitchen, I felt it anyway.
Maria was there, sitting at the table, a blanket draped over her shoulders even though it wasn't cold.
"You should still be asleep," I said.
She smiled faintly, lifting a cup of tea with hands that trembled just enough for me to notice.
"I didn't want you to leave without saying good morning," she murmured.
I made her toast even though she said she wasn't hungry. I left it on the table anyway.
School felt like another planet.
The halls were full of noise—slamming lockers, shoes squeaking on tile, someone laughing too loud—but none of it reached me.
I walked through it, hearing everything and nothing.
Reya caught me at lunch.
"You didn't even bring a sketchbook today," she said, nudging my arm like it was supposed to be a joke.
I hadn't noticed until she said it.
I shrugged. "Didn't feel like drawing."
Reya frowned. "You? Not feel like drawing? That's new."
She didn't press. Not then.
When I got home, the sink was full of dishes.
Maria used to hum while she washed them, sleeves rolled up, soap suds on her arms. Now, the plates sat untouched.
She was on the couch, asleep with the TV still on, an old drama murmuring quietly to no one.
I cleaned the dishes, trying not to think about how wrong it felt.
That night, I cooked dinner for the first time in months.
It was supposed to be adobo, the way she made it, but the soy sauce splashed too much and the garlic burned.
Maria came into the kitchen halfway through, leaning on the counter, and smiled like it didn't matter.
"It smells good," she said.
I knew it didn't.
But she ate every bite anyway.
Later, I sat at my desk staring at a blank page.
I picked up the pencil, put it down, picked it up again.
I thought of Aurelia, her sword drawn, standing against monsters that never ended.
I thought of Seren, healing wounds that weren't hers.
But I couldn't draw them tonight.
I couldn't even draw Maria.
I just sat there until my chest hurt from holding everything in.
And then—quietly, suddenly—it broke.
It wasn't loud.
No shouting, no fists against the wall.
Just my face pressed into my arms, the sketchbook shoved aside, and the kind of crying that hurt because I didn't even know where it started.
I cried for the sink full of dishes.
For the burned garlic.
For the way Maria smiled through trembling hands.
I cried because I was scared—and because I didn't know how to say it out loud to anyone.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it at first, wiping my face on my sleeve, but it buzzed again.
Reya.
Reya: You didn't answer my texts.
Reya: Are you okay?
I stared at the words until they blurred, then typed back:
Aki: I don't know.
Almost immediately, she called.
"You don't say 'I don't know,'" she said when I answered. Her voice wasn't sharp—it was soft, almost careful.
"What do you want me to say?"
"That you're okay, even if you're not," she said. "That's what you usually do."
"I'm tired of saying that," I whispered.
The silence on the line stretched.
Then Reya said, "What happened?"
I didn't tell her about the burned garlic, or the dishes, or the way my hands wouldn't stop shaking when I washed them.
I just said, "Everything feels heavy."
Reya didn't try to fix it. She didn't fill the space with jokes this time.
"I can come over tomorrow," she said softly. "Help with… whatever. Anything."
I almost said no. But the word didn't come.
After the call ended, I sat there in the dark.
The sketchbook was still open, but the page stayed blank.
And for once, that felt okay.
Because tonight, maybe I didn't need to draw monsters or Ecaria.
Tonight, I just needed to breathe.
Chapter 7 End