The smell of fried onions drifted from the kitchen, curling under my door like a question. It was mid-afternoon and for the first time in months I wasn't at the newsroom, chasing stories about zoning meetings and charity bake sales. I'd told my editor I needed a personal day; he'd barely looked up from his screen when he granted it.
Lena arrived just after three, breezing in like she always did, her laugh filling the quiet corners of our small house. She kicked off her sandals and collapsed onto my bed without asking. Her perfume smelled like vanilla and saltwater.
"You would not believe what happened last night," she said, eyes glittering.
I smiled faintly. "With Eli again?"
"With Eli again." She covered her face for a second, then peeked at me between her fingers. "Arya, he actually said it. Not just a casual 'love ya' like people toss around. He said 'I love you.' Out loud. In front of people."
She rolled onto her stomach, kicking her heels in the air like a teenager. "He took me to this tiny rooftop place near the pier — string lights, cheap wine, the whole cliché. We watched the ferries and he started talking about the future, about moving in together after the summer. Me. Him. Our own little apartment. He said he's been saving. And Arya, he's not just in love with me in bed. He stays after. He listens. He asks about my mom, my classes. It's different."
Lena's voice was a soft rush, a secret she couldn't keep in. "For once it doesn't feel like a line. I think he actually means it."
I tugged at a loose thread on my blanket. "That's…amazing, Lena. Really."
She propped her chin on her hands. "I've never felt this sure before, Arya. It's like everything's finally falling into place. You'll see, you're going to be maid of honor at my wedding someday."
She laughed, but it was a happy, nervous laugh. She reached over and squeezed my knee. "And you? When are you going to let someone make you this ridiculous?"
I smiled for her because that's what you do when your best friend's heart is overflowing. Inside, my stomach knotted. Her future stretched out like an open road; mine felt like a countdown clock.
From the kitchen Mom called, "Lunch in an hour! Arya, you didn't go to work today?"
"I've got a headache," I called back. "Needed a break."
"You never take breaks. You can't afford to lose that job," she said, her voice pitched high with worry.
"I'll be fine, Mom."
The front door banged shut. Bryan. He smelled faintly of cheap alcohol when he walked past, eyes sliding away from mine. Mom asked where he'd been; he muttered something about "trying to make some cash." Later, when the truth slipped — that he'd gambled with Mom's grocery money and gotten scammed — her face went pale, then flushed. She scolded him but gently, like she always did.
"Arya," she snapped suddenly, "this is why you can't take days off. We need at least one person to be responsible."
The words landed like stones. My throat burned. "I took one day off, Mom. One. Because I'm human." My voice shook. Bryan stared at the floor, silent. Lena sat very still on the edge of the couch.
I felt tears slide down before I could stop them. "Do you even know how hard I'm trying?" The words tumbled out of me, low and sharp. "Every day I get up and I go to work and I keep this house afloat and no one knows what I'm going through. Not you. Not Bryan. No one."
Mom's mouth opened, then closed. Pride tightened her shoulders. She turned back to the stove.
I fled to my room, shut the door, and pressed my back against it. The old photo of Dad smiled at me from the dresser, his arms around a much younger me and Bryan at some beach. My hands trembled as I picked it up.
"I'm trying, Dad," I whispered, voice breaking. "I'm trying so hard."
From down the hall I heard Lena murmur something to Mom, pots clinking, a chair scraping. Then Mom's voice, louder now, slicing through the small house:
"Arya! Come and eat!"
I stared at the floor. My throat closed. The smell of food drifted in — onions, thyme, warm bread. My stomach twisted, but I couldn't move. Couldn't pretend. I held the photo tighter until the glass dug into my palms.
Lena knocked softly on the door. "Arya?"
"I'm fine. Just…go home. Please."
Her footsteps retreated. The house went quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and Mom calling my name once more, softer this time. I stayed where I was, clutching the photo, the lunch smells fading into the dark.
That day no one apologized. That day no one ate together. And that day, for the first time in a long time, I cried myself to sleep.