The morning light crept into Adaora's apartment like a cautious guest, gentle and unassuming. Unlike the mornings before, she didn't turn away from it. Her body still felt heavy, her heart still sore, but there was a subtle shift in the air, almost imperceptible.
The night before had broken her wide open, and yet—this morning, she was still here. Her chest hurt from all the sobbing, her eyes were swollen, her voice scratchy, but she was here. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.
Adriella was already bustling in the kitchen, humming quietly as she clattered pans. The smell of frying eggs drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of brewed tea.
Adaora pulled herself off the couch and shuffled toward her.
"You didn't have to," she murmured, her voice hoarse.
Adriella looked up with a small smile. "I wanted to. Besides, I can't let you starve yourself into a ghost. Not on my watch."
Adaora tried to return the smile, but it faltered halfway. Still, it was more than she'd managed in weeks. She sank into a chair at the small dining table, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the surface.
Adriella set down a plate in front of her. Scrambled eggs. Toast. A small slice of pawpaw. Simple, but it felt like love on a plate.
"Eat," Adriella urged softly.
For the first time in weeks, Adaora lifted a fork without hesitation. The food tasted like nothing and everything all at once. Bland in her mouth, but grounding, anchoring her to this moment. Each bite was a small defiance against the void inside her.
Adriella watched her with quiet satisfaction. "See? You're stronger than you think."
Adaora didn't answer, but she ate until her plate was nearly empty. That in itself felt like a victory.
After breakfast, Adriella pulled out the journal she'd given her. "Write," she suggested. "Doesn't matter what. Just let the thoughts spill."
Adaora hesitated, staring at the blank page. The whiteness mocked her, daring her to fill it. For weeks she had avoided it, afraid of confronting the chaos in her mind. But today, she uncapped the pen.
Her handwriting wavered as she scrawled:
I'm still hurting. But today I ate breakfast. Today, I am alive. Maybe that's enough for now.
She closed the journal quickly, before she could regret the words. But something loosened in her chest. It wasn't joy. It wasn't peace. But it was movement, however slight.
Adriella, seeing the flicker of effort, grinned. "That's my girl."
For a while, the day unfolded gently. They washed dishes together, bickering lightly about whose turn it was. Adriella told her a ridiculous story about a neighbor's cat stealing fish from the market. Adaora even laughed—quietly, briefly, but real enough to startle her.
For a moment, it almost felt like the sun had remembered her name.
But heartbreak is a sly thief. It waits for moments of softness to strike.
Later, when Adriella stepped out to answer a phone call, Adaora found herself wandering to the bedroom she hadn't touched in weeks. The air was stale, heavy with memories she had tried to bury.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing against the blanket. That's when she saw it—Tobi's jacket, crumpled in the corner where he had tossed it the last time he'd been here. She hadn't had the strength to pick it up before.
Her chest clenched.
The fabric still carried his scent, faint but undeniable—warm cologne mixed with something uniquely him. She pressed it to her face without thinking, and the ache came rushing back like a tidal wave.
Images assaulted her:
Tobi laughing in that very room, teasing her about always stealing the blanket.
Tobi kissing her forehead goodnight, whispering promises that now lay shattered.
Tobi holding her as though she were his world.
A sound tore out of her throat—half sob, half scream. She clutched the jacket to her chest, rocking back and forth as the fresh wound split open inside her.
When Adriella returned, she found Adaora on the floor, her face buried in the fabric, her body shaking.
"Oh, Ada…"
She rushed to her side, kneeling beside her, gently prying the jacket from her grip. Adaora resisted at first, her voice hoarse. "Don't take him from me. Don't—please—he's all I have left."
Adriella's eyes filled with tears, but her voice remained steady. "He's not here, Ada. That's just cloth. Just cloth. You don't need to carry him this way."
Adaora collapsed against her, sobbing harder than she had that morning. The world had played a cruel trick on her—giving her a taste of fragile hope, only to rip it away again.
They sat like that for a long time, the jacket forgotten on the floor, Adaora clinging to Adriella as though she were the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.
When her sobs finally quieted, Adriella spoke softly. "You stumbled today, Ada. But stumbling doesn't mean you're back at the start. You ate. You laughed. You wrote. That still matters."
Adaora's lips trembled. "But it feels like I'll never escape him. Like no matter how far I walk, he'll always be there, waiting to drag me back."
Adriella lifted her chin gently, forcing her to meet her gaze. "He's not dragging you back. It's your heart, holding on because it doesn't know how to let go yet. But one day, it will. One day, you'll breathe without this weight. Until then, I'll breathe with you."
Something in Adaora cracked again—not with despair this time, but with a fragile gratitude. She buried her face against Adriella's shoulder, whispering a thank you she couldn't fully voice.
That night, as she lay in bed, her chest still raw but her body exhausted, Adaora thought of her journal entry. Today I ate breakfast. Today, I am alive.
Tomorrow, maybe she would write: Today, I laughed.
And maybe, one day, she would write: Today, I healed.
For now, she drifted into sleep with tears drying on her cheeks and Adriella's words echoing in her heart.