Ezra turns to me. “And you?”
“Sunshine swirl,” I reply immediately.
They both snort, Talia shaking her head at me before stealing another fry. “Is that a real thing?” She asks.
“No. But it should be.” I respond, shrugging my shoulders.
“You’d be like… lemon and hope,” Ezra muses.
“Exactly.”
The sun’sdipped below the horizon by the time I walk home. I don’t drive, but it’s fine because the three blocks from campus to my apartment aren’t too bad to walk. Just dim… and a little eerie. The kind of walk that makes you clutch your phone a little tighter and makes you keep your keys between your fingers. Just in case. But it’s not too bad.
By the time I climb my stairs to my apartment, my whole body’s humming. Not from fear, but from fatigue. My building smells like burnt toast with a lovely undertone of regret. The carpets are always a little damp, and it’s a place where no one smiles in the hallway, but someone is definitely always watching from their little peephole.
I lock the door behind me and let out a breath. Home. If you can call it that. Mails piled on the counter, mostly for ‘Jim Sandoval.’ Bright red FINAL NOTICE stamps scream at me from every envelope, but I don’t throw them away. I don’t know why…Maybe some part of me still hopes he’ll come back. But I won’t admit that out loud.
I toss my bag on the couch and head for the bathroom, tugging my shirt over my head on the way. I pause in the mirror, glancing at my weird little birthmark. A faint swirl of lines sits just below my shoulder, like a curling flame. It’s almost invisible, but it’s never gone away. My fingers brush at it out of habit. It means nothing; it’s just skin. Just me. My mom used to say I looked like a bottle of sunlight—freckles, blonde waves, that kind of skin that never truly tans in the summer but has a nice glow to it anyway. Sometimes I see her in my own reflection: the curve of my nose, the way my smile tugs crooked when I’m nervous. But my eyes—those are all my dad. Ocean blue, a little too honest and a little too tired.
I drop my hand, strip the rest of the way, and step into the shower. The water is slow to heat, but I stand under it anyway, letting the chill wash away the sticky scent of sweat from practice, running my hands through my tangles in my hair. Gods, I ache everywhere. By the time I shut the shower off, the water’s back to being barely warm. I wrap myself in a towel and wipe the steam from the mirror with my hand so I can see better. My reflection’s a little clearer now, but the circles under my eyes look darker in this light. I press my palm flat against the glass, then pull away, leaving a foggy print behind. The bathroom light flickers once, making me grit my teeth as I stare at it.Not now. Please. Not now.
I don’t botherwith a real dinner, just spoon straight from a tub of mint choc chip ice cream while scrolling through my phone. My hair’s still damp when I flip onto the sofa in leggings and my favourite oversized tee—an ancient cheer shirt that has morethan a few little holes that smells like lavender detergent. My phone buzzes, a text popping up on the screen.
Dad
Hey sweetheart, can you send me $100? I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. Just until Friday. Promise.
The air leaves my lungs on an exasperated sigh. I stare at the message, my heart sinking into a familiar cold place. I check my bank app: Fifty-two dollars and eighty cents. Not enough for him, gods, it’s barely enough for me. I type back out a reply, chewing on my lower lip:
I can’t right now, Dad. I have to pay the electricity bill and buy food.
The typing bubbles appear, disappear, reappear. Then nothing, just utter silence. Every month without fail, there’s a new crisis with my dad. Rent he can’t pay, a bill that’s overdue, money he swears he’ll get back to me. It’s always my problem, even though he doesn’t live here anymore, and hasn’t for a while. But his mess still lives in my mailbox, my texts, my voicemails, and deep inside my chest.
I lay back on the couch and toss the phone on the sofa, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars burst behind them. For over half of my life, I have been the responsible one, the one who finds money, or makes money. The one who handles bills, debts, food, life, whilst he spent those thirteen years with his head buried in the sand, piled high in debt, with a drinking problem and a gambling addiction. We both lost the sun in our lives, but where losing the sun turned me into a stronger version of myself, it turned him into a mess.
People say I’m resilient, bright, that I make things look so easy. Good. Let them say that, let them believe it. Because someone has to be the sun. And if not me—who?
Book made for [email protected]
Chapter 2
Daisy
Iloved Tuesdays.
Maybe it’s the promise of the weekend looming closer, or the fact that I managed to get through Monday with nothing more than a smile and a pep in my step. But even with four hours of sleep and a coffee cup that should’ve been retired yesterday, I am unstoppable.
My alarm blared at six thirty a.m., and I rolled out of bed with all the grace of a newborn deer. My hair looked like a crime scene, and my favourite hoodie had migrated somewhere under the bed (RIP). But still—up I got, because sunshine doesn’t sleep in.
Now, standing outside of campus with the cold morning air kissing my cheeks, I balance my thermal filled with cheap store-bought coffee in one hand, and my psych notes in the other. I am a vision. Sort of.
“Daisy Sandoval, is that you radiating divine energy this early in the morning?” A voice calls from behind me.
I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. “Only if divine energy comes with chronic exhaustion and a side of coffee.”
Ezra sidles up beside me, fully decked in glitter eyeshadow and a scarf that was so thick it could double as a freaking quilt. “You say exhaustion, I say edgy glow.”
We walk onto campus together as Ezra scrolls through TikTok whilst I read a paragraph on my phone on Freud for the third time. I still can’t decide if he was a genius, or really just needed therapy and a good sandwich. The entire campus is buzzing with energy as students crowd the quad, expensive cups of coffee in hand, looking far too alive for people running on deadline panic and vending machine diets.
