Morning hits like a bad joke—sunlight slicing through my blinds like it’s got something to prove. I groan, drag the blanket over my head, and consider quitting life for five more minutes of warmth.


No such luck.


My phone alarm goes off again, obnoxious and persistent. I roll over, swipe it off, and sit up. My neck cracks. My shoulders ache. My soul sighs.


Another day, another hustle.


I down half a glass of water, throw on jeans and my favorite oversized sweater, and run a hand through my curls. They’re a little wild, but I leave them that way. Controlled chaos. Just like me.


Breakfast is a lie—just instant coffee and a granola bar I find under some receipts. My camera bag waits by the door like a loyal dog, so I grab it and head out.


The city greets me with its usual soundtrack: honking cars, someone yelling in the distance, a street musician playing like his rent depends on it (it probably does). I walk to the corner café I shoot for twice a week in exchange for free drinks and a small check. The owner’s nice. Underpays, but nice.


The barista, Lena, waves me in. “You look like hell.”


“Love you too,” I mutter, handing her the SD card from last week’s shoot. “Band pics. Low lighting. A little blurry, just like my dreams.”


She laughs. “Want your usual?”


“Double espresso. And a miracle, if you’ve got one.”


As she gets to work, I sink into my usual corner spot near the window. From here, I can people-watch without being seen, which is my favorite pastime after judging couples who match their outfits.


I scroll through the shots from last night. A few keepers. One incredible one of the lead singer mid-scream, lights bouncing off sweat and sound and chaos. I mark it. Post it.


And then, like a fool, I think about him again.


Noah.


He probably forgot about me already.


Good. He should.


Men like that? The ones with eyes like winter and hands that look like they’ve fought ghosts? They don’t belong in my life.


But still… I wonder if he’s awake. What kind of coffee he drinks. What his mornings feel like.


Lena drops off my drink. “You okay?”


I nod too quickly. “Just tired.”


“You always say that.”


I don’t respond. Just raise the cup to my lips and drink until the noise outside feels far enough away.




After the café gig, I hop a bus across town, squished between a man who smells like regret and a teenager watching TikToks on full volume. My second job of the day is less charming: product shots for a handmade jewelry store that wants to “rebrand” but won’t pay for a studio or decent lighting.


The store’s owner, Marcy, meets me at the door in a puff of vanilla perfume and passive-aggressive energy.


“You’re late,” she says, even though I’m two minutes early.


“You’re dramatic,” I say, brushing past her.


She doesn’t laugh. She never does.


I set up in the back, using what little natural light spills through the dusty windows. I shoot necklace after necklace, pretending each one is worth the effort. They’re nice, but uninspired—like someone who learned how to make art from Pinterest boards and heartbreak.


Marcy stands behind me, breathing down my neck. “Can you make them… sparkle more?”


“Sure,” I mutter, “let me just call in some sunlight and Jesus.”


She doesn’t get that one either.


By the time I finish, my back aches and my patience is down to fumes. She hands me a paper envelope with cash—less than we agreed. I open my mouth, then close it. Not worth the argument. Not today.


Outside, the sky is starting to fade into gray again, the city slipping back into its moody palette. I sit on the stoop for a moment, letting the wind cool my skin. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a message from my sister.


Nova: Can we talk later? About Dad.


I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

The last time we “talked,” she cried and I shut down.


I text back: Yeah. After nine.


Then I pocket the phone and walk until my legs feel steadier.



Perfect. Let’s take Zara to her sister’s place and peel back more layers—family tension, emotional history, maybe some old wounds. Here’s the next part of Chapter Two:



Nova lives in a quieter part of the city—tree-lined streets, front porches, a neighborhood that still tries to pretend it’s not drowning. Her apartment is bigger than mine, cleaner, too. Probably because she actually makes her bed and folds things.


I knock instead of using the spare key. She opens the door almost instantly, like she’s been waiting behind it.


“Hey,” she says softly.


She’s still in scrubs, hair in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes. She looks older than me even though she’s the younger one.


“Hey,” I answer.


We don’t hug. We never really do.


Inside, the TV is on low, some crime doc playing. A half-eaten plate of noodles sits on the table next to medical textbooks and a scented candle called Calm Waters. It smells like forced peace.


I sit on the edge of the couch. She sits across from me. It’s silent for a minute too long.


“You heard from him?” I ask, already knowing the answer.


Nova nods. “He called last night. Said he’s clean again. Asked if we could visit.”


I laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “Right. Because ‘clean’ means ‘broke.’”


“Zara—”


“No, come on, say it. You want to go see him? Pretend everything’s okay for the hundredth time? Let him lie to our faces and call it progress?”


She flinches, but her voice is steady. “I want to believe he’s trying.”


I shake my head. “You always want to believe something.”


Nova leans forward, eyes glinting now. “And you never want to believe anything.”


That stings.


We sit in the tension, our shared history pressing in from every corner.


“He asked about you,” she says finally. “Said he missed your birthday.”


“Damn,” I say. “Only three months late. That’s practically love.”


She doesn’t smile.


I lean back. Exhale. “I can’t do this again, Nova.”


“I’m not asking you to. I just… I needed to tell someone. And you’re the only one who gets it.”


That part’s true. No one else does get it. Not the way we do.


I nod, tired in my bones. “Thanks for not sugarcoating it.”


She gives a small, sad smile. “Thanks for not walking out.”


I leave an hour later. We don’t hug when I go,

either.


But before I shut the door behind me, she says, “Be careful, okay?”


I glance back. “Always.”


But we both know that’s a lie.