I pulled out the Mille-Feuille layers from the fridge and stacked them with careful precision. Pastry, cream, jam, repeat. My chest felt tight with each layer, like it wasn’t just dessert. It felt like a countdown to some kind of emotional implosion.
She’d helped me make this the first time. She said it was ambitious for a beginner, but I told her I didn’t care. I wanted to learn. I wanted to impress my sister, my parents, everyone with what Alana taught me.
God, I was such an idiot.
Back then, I didn’t realize I was falling for her until it was already too late. Until her laugh became the best part of my day. Until I started making excuses to see her outside our “deal.”
Until I ruined it.
I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve explained better. I should’ve stayed longer at her apartment and made her listen instead of walking away like a coward. But what was I supposed to say when she looked at me like I was just another disappointment?
“Well, what am I supposed to think about someone with a reputation like yours?”
That sentence haunted me more than any insult ever could. Not because it was cruel. But because it meant she never really saw me. Not the way I saw her.
And still… here I was. Making pastries like she taught me. Putting my heart into something I wished she could see. Still loving her in the quiet moments when no one was looking.
By the end of the day, I slid the finished Mille-Feuille into a box and started placing the tarts beside it. The cupcakes were perfectly frosted and decorated with tiny edible flowers I’d spent way too long arranging. The fruit tarts looked like a work of art, which was really surprising considering my baking skills.
All of it was ready.
Except it didn’t feel like a win.
It just felt like… a reminder of everything I’d lost.
I leaned against the counter, wiping my hands on a towel and staring at the lineup of desserts like they could give me some kind of answer.
They didn’t.
I knew tomorrow would be filled with laughter and love. Brooke would cry happy tears. Mom would take way too many pictures. Dad would sneak extra cupcakes when he thought no one was looking. It would be beautiful. A good day.
But it wouldn’t be whole.
Because the person who made me want to care about things like this in the first place wasn’t going to be there.
And maybe she never would be again.
55
ALANA
Ididn’t expect to see Asiya again. Not ever, honestly.
But she was standing outside my apartment door like a ghost I hadn’t thought about in weeks. Her hair was pulled back like it always used to be when she was trying to look “put together,” but her eyes gave her away. She looked nervous. Like she didn’t know if I was going to slam the door in her face or let her in.
I should’ve slammed the door, but I didn’t.
Instead, I stepped aside and let her walk in, even though my gut was already screaming that this wasn’t going to change anything.
“Hey,” she said, fiddling with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Thanks for… letting me come up.”
I didn’t answer.
She sat on the edge of the couch like she didn’t know if she was staying long or would leave again in a second.
“It’s been a minute, huh?” she said with a nervous laugh.
“Yeah.”
