The picture pulls my attention. A woman — her mother, clearly — looks back at me with Ria’s exact features. Same face. Same smile. Same mischief tucked in the corners of her lips. Her eyes are a warm, rich brown, not Ria’s blue ones, but the resemblance is uncanny. I don’t even know her, and still, my chest tightens. That kind of love… I wonder how it feels to have it.
Then it hits me — this is a ritual. That photo is there because her mom is gone.
She turns to me with a bright smile like she didn’t just gut me with a simple gesture of affection. “Let me show you your room. And then we’re having muffins and hot chocolate while we gossip.”
She walks me through her place like she’s unveiling a castle. Truth is, the place is small — really small. One bedroom, a half room with a bed squished into it, a bathroom, and a compact open-concept kitchen-living combo where a bubblegum-pink couch dominates the space. But it’s warm. Lived in. Loud in color and soft in atmosphere. Plants everywhere. Wall art that looks like someone either had a vision or an accident. Mismatched furniture painted in unapologetic yellows and blues and wild pinks. It screams, but somehow it feels like a hug.
Just like her.
“Okay!” she claps, startling me. “Hot chocolate time. Oh, and we have to set your first mandatory therapy reminder! It’s hospital law now, for you. Emotional breakdowns are only allowed under Dr. Monroe’s supervision.”
She skips over to the wall calendar and circles a date — red on top of another red circle. I blink. And then I blink again.
“I’m pretty good at remembering stuff,” I say, still watching her. “But... how do you know which circle is for what? There’s, like, a massacre of circles going on. You literally just circled over an existing one.”
She taps the marker against her chin thoughtfully. “It’s not about the color. It’s the size. They’re all different. That’s my system.”
That’s not a system. That’s a personality disorder.
I can’t stop a smile forming on my lips.
She tosses the marker onto a nearby tray like she’s just solved every secret quantum physics has, and spins toward the kitchenette. Humming a little off-tune song under her breath.
“I feel like milk chocolate today,” she calls out. “But I’ve got dark, white, and marshmallow fluff if you’re fancy. What’s your poison?”
“Milk’s good,” I answer, sinking into the pink couch that swallows me whole. It smells like sugar.
For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe, even if just a little. My heart is still bleeding, and it won’t stop anytime soon, but for now, I can rest.
“I’ve been experimenting with some mango and blueberry muffins,” Ria calls out, her back to me as she moves around the kitchen like she’s dancing with her tools. “You’re the first to try them, so I expect brutal honesty. If they don’t pass the test, they’re not making it to the shop.”
“Sure,” I reply, watching the way she flows between the cabinets. “But full disclosure — I’m not the best judge when it comes to sweets. I’m a bacon and steak kind of girl. Sugar is just... sugar. It all tastes good. Now bacon? I can give you a full analysis down to the cut and smoke level.”
She spins around, eyes lit up like I just handed her a new toy. “Oh my God. Bacon muffins! I’ve never had a proper tester for savory stuff. Kitten just eats anything I make and gives me that googly-eyed approval. And Tempe? She’s sugar-high ninety-nine percent of the time. She can’t be trusted.” Ria’s practically vibrating now. “You, however, are a gift.”
I laugh softly. “Happy to be your bacon consultant.”
A few minutes later, we’re curled up on opposite ends of the oversized pink couch, legs tucked under us, a plate of muffins between us and mugs of hot chocolate warming our hands.
I dip a muffin in my drink, bite into it, and let out a sound that’s just short of sinful. Buttery, soft, warm. She’s not human. She can’t be. She’s an undercover kitchen deity.
And just like that, I remember someone else who worked magic in the kitchen. Someone who cooked me the most delicious breakfast while glaring at the stove. Who kissed me like I was made to be worshiped — until he used that same mouth to destroy me.
Pain laces through me so suddenly, I can’t hide it.
“Hey,” Ria says gently, her voice softer now. “None of that.”
“None of what?” My voice barely breaks the surface.
“That look in your eyes,” she answers. “You time-traveled back to him, didn’t you? I saw it. You winced like a memory just stabbed you right in the heart.”
I don't speak. The words get stuck behind my ribs, caged with everything else I haven’t let out yet.
“You should talk about him,” she goes on, gently but firm. “Even if it’s just a whisper. Say the memories out loud before they rot inside you. That kind of silence eats you from the inside out.”
I stare at my mug. And suddenly, I can’t keep it in anymore.
“I love him,” I admit. The words feel like knives slicing my throat. “Even after everything. Even after he almost killedme. But I can’t trust him. And love without trust is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a pile of shit.”
