Aylia's POV
The crash didn't happen at the café.
That was the strange part.
I finished my shift. Clocked out. Folded my apron the way Mira liked—corners neat, strings tucked in. I even smiled when she told me to get some rest, like the word meant something tangible.
I walked home alone.
The city looked the same. Lights. Cars. People laughing on sidewalks like the world hadn't tilted earlier that evening. Like nothing had pressed its thumb into my chest and held.
It wasn't until I closed the door behind me that my body remembered.
The apartment was quiet in that late-hour way—not asleep, just waiting. The kind of silence that made everything louder once you stepped into it.
I set my bag down carefully. Too carefully.
My hands were shaking.
I leaned my forehead against the door for a moment longer than necessary, breathing slow, counting like the doctor once taught me. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Don't let it spiral. Don't let it show.
When I finally moved, my legs felt wrong. Heavy. Delayed. Like they belonged to someone else who'd walked too far on borrowed strength.
The kitchen light was on.
Casey sat at the table, homework spread out but untouched, chin resting in her palm. She looked up the second I entered.
"Hey," she said softly.
I opened my mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
Her chair scraped back as she stood. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
She didn't believe me. She never does. She just nodded once, like she was filing it away for later.
Mom wasn't home yet. Late shift. Double, probably.
Casey poured me a glass of water and slid it across the counter without asking. I drank it standing up, fingers tight around the glass like it might anchor me.
"You worked late," she said.
"It was busy."
She hesitated. "Hard busy or normal busy?"
I didn't answer right away.
Casey sighed and leaned back against the counter. "Denver texted."
That cut through the fog.
"What did he say?"
She picked at the corner of a napkin. "That he misses us. That he hates being so far away. That Aunt Lauren's making him eat actual meals."
I huffed out something that might've been a laugh.
"He asked about you," she added.
Of course he did.
I stared at the sink. "What did you tell him?"
"That you're being… you." She glanced at me. "Strong. Tired. Pretending you're not both at the same time."
I closed my eyes.
"Case," I warned gently.
She crossed her arms. "I know you don't like it when I say things. But it's getting harder, Aylia."
That word again.
Harder.
"I know," I whispered.
"No, you don't," she said quietly. "You don't let yourself know."
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, she said, "I wish Dad was here."
The sentence landed without drama. No tears. Just truth.
So clean it hurt.
I sat down slowly at the table, my knees weak. "Me too."
"He'd know what to do," she continued. "He always did. Or at least he made it feel like he did."
I stared at the scratch on the tabletop where Dad once dropped his keys too hard. We never fixed it.
"He'd hate this," she added. "You working so much. Me worrying all the time. Denver pretending he's fine from the other side of the world."
I swallowed. "Denver's doing what he has to."
"So are you," she said. "That doesn't mean it's fair."
My phone buzzed on the table before I could respond.
Denver.
I froze.
Casey nudged it toward me. "Answer."
I did.
"Aylia," his voice came through warm and strained all at once, stretched thin by distance and guilt. "Hey."
"Hey."
There was a pause. The kind where he was listening for something I wasn't saying.
"You sound tired," he said.
"I worked late."
Another pause. Longer.
"Did something happen?"
I almost lied.
Almost.
"Nothing big," I said instead.
Casey rolled her eyes but stayed quiet.
Denver exhaled slowly. "That's not nothing."
"I'm okay," I insisted. "Really."
"You don't have to be," he said. "Not all the time."
I leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. "I don't have a choice."
He didn't argue.
That scared me more than if he had.
"I'm coming home soon," he said. "I promise. Just… not yet."
"I know."
"I hate that I'm not there," he continued. "I hate that you're carrying so much."
"I'm not alone," I said, glancing at Casey.
She gave me a small, sad smile.
Denver went quiet. Then softer, "If someone's making things hard for you—"
"They're not," I cut in too fast.
He noticed.
"I didn't say anyone was," he said gently.
I closed my eyes.
"Just… be careful," he finished. "You don't owe anyone your silence."
After we hung up, the room felt heavier.
Casey gathered her things without speaking. At the doorway, she paused. "You don't have to protect me from everything."
"I know."
"You don't," she repeated.
Then she went to bed.
I stayed at the table long after.
When I finally stood, the world tilted. Sharp and sudden. I grabbed the counter, breathing through the wave until it passed.
There it was.
The crash.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just my body reminding me it keeps score.
In my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the dark window. At my reflection layered over the city lights.
"I'm still here," I whispered—to myself, to Dad, to the empty space where certainty used to live.
But the words felt thinner than they used to.
And somewhere, uninvited, a thought surfaced that scared me more than exhaustion ever could.
This wasn't the worst of it.
It was only the beginning.