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Eden
It’s a grey, miserable Saturday, the kind that makes you want to crawl under a duvet and cease to exist, yet apparently, half the city has decided this is the prime time to purchase artisanal cheese and overpriced tubers.
“You need fresh air more often,” Piper says as she inspects a crate of pomegranates. “You’ve been staring at that laptop for a week. You’re turning grey, Eden.”
“I’m working, Piper. Deadlines,” I mutter, burying my chin deeper into my scarf.
“Deadlines,” she scoffs, tossing the pomegranate into a paper bag. “You only started back on Tuesday.”
Correct. But I’m also in a ‘transition period’ which actually means “Please don’t have another mental breakdown, stay in your apartment, we just need you to work.”
“It’s busy,” I deflect, dodging a woman wielding a baguette. “Can we just get the kale and go? My skin’s itching.”
“You need to get out more,” she insists, moving relentlessly toward a flower stall. “Actually, I was talking to Greg last night. You know Greg? From my Christmas party last year? He has a cousin.”
My blood runs cold. “No.”
“He’s nice! He’s an actuary. He likes hiking.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Eden, come on. Just a coffee. You need a distraction. You need something… normal.”
I almost laugh.
Normal.
How do I explain that I don’t want a hike with an actuary; I want to be yelled at and picked on by a silver-skinned headache? How do I tell her that I’ve spent the last three weeks staring at the empty space on my couch, pining after a literal demon who I’ll never see again?
“I’m not dating,” I say tightly. “I’m focusing on… me.”
“You’re focusing on becoming a hermit,” Piper corrects, grabbing a bunch of eucalyptus and thrusting it towards me. “Here. Hold this. Maybe the smell will clear your sinuses. You sound congested.”
“I’m not congested, I’m allergic to joy,” I snap, taking the branches.
The crowd surges, a wall of bodies pressing in, and for a second, the noise drops out, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I stop dead in the middle of the walkway, causing a chain reaction of annoyed pedestrians to swirl round me like a stream around a stubborn rock.
“Eden?” Piper stops, nearly tripping over her own feet. “What? What is it?”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy dissecting the crowd, my eyes darting from face to face, frantic and clinical. I’m not looking for a person.
Is it the guy chattering about the sourdough? The woman aggressively fondling the cantaloupes? The teenager rifling through the fruit?
Which fucking one of you is a demon?
“Eden!” Piper grabs my arm. “Seriously, you’re freaking me out. You look like you’re about to hit someone.”
I blink, the world snapping back into focus—the grey sky, the smell of fish and bread, the concern etched into Piper’s forehead.
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing my shoulders to drop. “I just... I think I should go home. I’m not feeling too good.”
Piper sighs, the sound deflating her entire posture. She stares down at her half-wrapped peonies, then back at me, resigning herself to the fact that her Saturday fun has officially been cancelled due to my sudden inability to function in society.
And honestly, I don’t blame her. I’m annoyed at me, too. I’ve been fine for weeks. I’ve been a model citizen of stability—sleeping, eating, not flinching at shadows. So why the fuck am I suddenly glitching today? Why does the air feel like it’s vibrating? I was doing so well, and now I’m frozen.
“Fine,” she grumbles, looping her arm through mine. “You win. Let’s get you back to your cave before you fully dissociate into the produce section.”
We start walking, but my skin still feels too tight, and my hand’s buried in my pocket, fingers curled around my house keys, the sharp metal threading between my knuckles.
