#* self para

The chill that crept in was enough for her to look back at the door, swinging slightly open in the late night breeze, the cacophony of sound from beyond tempting her back into the light that would help her fake it through another day. She could do this. She would do this. Just as she had every other day - a quick side note to find Dylan, she still had some cash left for the week and undoubtedly, nothing would be more beneficial to her than anything he had on offer. Daniela couldn’t let the high wear off, it’d been almost five years and she knew that was one thing she wouldn’t handle well. 

The lightbulb overhead swung back and forth on its cord as if it’d only just been switched on and she paused, for little more than a moment trying to listen out for someone else within the shed, looking to scare her. But nothing - nothing but music and screaming and the ethereal giggle of people that reminded her she needed to get this shit done so she could go back to being careless. So careless, in the way she’d once again lashed out at Marcy - spilling things she’d never spoken aloud to anyone but Parker. Careless, in the way that she’d drink herself stupid and hopefully find Jesse in the dark of his living room to fuck away the pain. How did one satisfy themselves while ruining every aspect of their life without any real intention? Each way she turned, she seemed to set ablaze a life that could have been more. Water. Apples. Fucking focus. 

Turning the tap off with a certain new breath of life, Daniela plastered on a smile that could have fooled anyone, reaching for the crate of apples that sat upon the bench only feet away, it hit her like a brick. The buckle in her knee as it was kicked in from behind spliced sharply through her leg as she slammed into the concrete, “What the fu..---” the finality of her outrage falling short as a hand ripped through her braids, gripping with vice like strength to slam her face down into the edge of the basin. It split every thought into fireworks, an explosion shooting through her temple until she saw little more than a blip of stars. Even still, her fingers curled around the metal sink, as if clinging to it would somehow keep her there forever, the water that had splashed across the surface making it difficult to find permanent purchase as the same vice like grip curled around her ankle and yanked her backwards, “Get the fuck off me,” she kicked, once, twice - a third time, and was met by nothing more than darkness, as something hard, solid and sharp, smashed down against the back of her head.

It’s fleeting, no more than a few moments, that her head swims and the light comes back to her in a blur. Daniela can’t tell if she’s still within the confines of the shed, but the ground feels solid - cold, and all she can see is the back of whoever drags her by her legs - hands trailing behind, even as she tries to claw at the ground. They stop, abruptly, and though they turn - crouching down over her, she sees nothing of detail. Nothing she could remember, the mask in place of features skewes everything and she whimpers in some attempt to scream. The opportune moment they’d been waiting for, as they pressed the apple into her lips. Almost gentle at first, until she refuses, her head falling wayside. Fingertips - gloved - grasp at her cheeks, pressing in until Daniela feels the pain splinter across her jaw and she cries out. It’s a strangled cry, cut short as the fruit is forcibly caught between her teeth.

The heaviness she feels in her arm as she pulls it from the ground, trying to grasp at the mask is pointless as they return to full height - and though she already feels lost, she’s suddenly caught up within a swell of dread like she’s never felt before. Terror builds within onyx hues, and silently, she pleads with her attacker. Though, much like each attempt she’d made to claw her way from the depths of darkness, it was to no avail.

A shoe comes down against the apple with such force it’s indescribable. Teeth shatter, pushed inwards by the pressure and she tastes blood in the back of her throat. Coughing as the fruit presses deeper and her jaw yields to the pressure. Quickly, she struggles to draw air into her lungs, between the swell of blood and the apple jammed so deeply it blocks her airway. 

Tears flow freely - but she isn’t crying. It’s fear, manifesting the only way she can manage as her body refuses to react. The wound at the back of her head making thought and action impossible to collide. There’s no hope left, hair ripped from her scalp as she’s once again dragged to her knees, the whole world pulsates in the same way the back of her head does. She’s caught within the attempt to see through the fog and pulling limply at the grip they hold her with. Fire burns at the corners of her mouth, the flesh of her lips pulled taught and ripping as she heaves and fights for air, blood and saliva drip past her chin, splattering the ground she kneels upon. The sound of metal, and splashing water comes nearer, the chill as it spills over the lip of the bucket against her thighs tells her everything she needs to know. The murmur she manages is little more than a squeak beyond the apple jammed in her throat, still, she coughs and splutters trying to find a moment of strength that can bring her back from the edge and when something presses into the back of her head, pushing her forward, Daniela fights it, as much as she can.

But her energy is spent, shattered in the blinding light of pain and a swinging bulb that once screamed at her to run. All at once, she bites down against the apple, hoping it might split further and topple from her mouth, yet all it does it inflict an ache that lights everything in white hot flame, every nerve ending shooting excruiciating pain into the back of her skull, as her world is quickly silenced.

Panic is all she knows. Panic and the blurred sound that the depth of water pulls her into. Hands grip at the edge of the tub, pushing with all the might her exhausted frame offers her, but there’s nothing to give. Nothing that isn’t immediately taken from her as she is pushed so far into the water that the bubbles that rise with every attempted scream, hit the bottom before they rise. 

Fingernails tear against the tub, against the concrete as she kicks at the unknown, every movement drawing another breath from lungs that cannot take it. Blood and water spill, and such a hold becomes impossible.

Everything, becomes impossible.

how it happened was something no one could really explain, not even delilah herself, because nothing about that summer was supposed to be different and yet everything about it was. for generations, the royal family had followed the same tradition — when summer came, they left the main castle behind and moved to the southern residence, a grander, brighter place meant for gatherings, appearances, and the kind of life that required being seen. it was expected, unquestioned, a rhythm as old as the crown itself. and delilah had always gone with them, always followed, always understood that her place was wherever duty required her to be.

but that summer… that summer had been different.

that summer, it had been her dream to stay.

and for reasons no one quite explained — or perhaps simply because she had finally asked in a way that could not be dismissed — she was allowed.

she wasn’t alone, of course. she could never truly be alone. the castle remained fully staffed, her maids close by, the cooks, the guards, the quiet presence of those whose lives existed to orbit hers. everything was as it always was, structured and prepared and perfectly maintained. and yet, for the first time in her life, the space felt like it belonged to her.

the castle, without her family, felt… different. quieter, softer, like it was exhaling after years of holding its breath.

summer afternoons stretched endlessly before her, golden and slow, spent in the gardens that seemed to go on forever. there, beneath the open sky, delilah allowed herself something she had never quite been able to before — stillness without expectation. she painted for hours, not because she was instructed to, not because it was part of her education, but simply because she wanted to. she walked her dogs across the long paths, letting them run further than she usually allowed, their joy uncontained in a way that made something in her chest ache quietly. she rode her horse through the castle grounds, the wind catching in her hair, the rhythm of movement grounding her in a way that felt almost like freedom.

almost.

because even then, she knew the limits. the walls were still there. the gates still closed. the world beyond still just out of reach. she wasn’t free in the way others were, couldn’t simply leave, couldn’t disappear into the life beyond her title.

but within those boundaries… she felt lighter.

mornings became something softer too. she woke early, as she always had, but without the rigid schedule waiting for her the moment her feet touched the ground. breakfast, for the first time, wasn’t served in a formal dining room with measured conversation and quiet expectations. instead, she found herself in the kitchen, perched on the counter, dress cascading around her like it didn’t belong there, laughing softly with the cooks as they worked.

“your highness… you know we don’t do that,” one of them had said gently, unsure whether to correct her or indulge her.

delilah had simply smiled, something a little more real than the ones she gave in public. “everyone is out,” she replied, almost conspiratorial. “just ignore that.”

and they did.

because in those moments, she wasn’t the crown sitting before them.

she was just delilah.

she asked questions she had never had the chance to ask before, listened to stories, learned names, noticed the small things she usually only observed from a distance. she stayed longer than she should have, longer than protocol would ever allow, and no one stopped her.

in the evenings, when dinner was meant to be taken alone in the vast dining room, she broke the rules again — quietly, gently, like everything she did. she invited them to sit with her, insisting with a soft persistence that made refusal impossible. at first, they hesitated. they always did. but eventually, they gave in, and the long table that had always felt too large, too empty, became something warmer, filled with quiet conversation and hesitant laughter.

those were the moments she held onto.

the ones that felt… human.

but her favorite part, the part that slowly became something she needed more than she expected, came at night, when the castle fell silent and the world seemed to belong only to her. she would slip out quietly, sometimes with music playing softly in her ears, something gentle, something that didn’t demand anything from her, letting the sound fill the space where thoughts usually crowded too loudly. the grounds felt endless under the moonlight, the gardens softer, shadows stretching long across the paths as she walked without direction, without purpose other than to feel something that was entirely her own. she wandered past the ponds, the water still and reflective, catching fragments of the sky above, and she would stop there sometimes, just standing at the edge, looking at her reflection blurred by the dark surface, like even that version of her didn’t fully belong to anyone.

she would sigh then, quiet and unguarded, tilting her head back to look at the sky, at the stars she never had time to notice before, her chest rising slowly as she closed her eyes for a moment, letting everything fall away — the title, the expectations, the future that had already been written for her. in those seconds, she wasn’t the crown, she wasn’t the heir, she wasn’t something the world was waiting on. she was just a girl standing in the quiet, breathing, existing without being watched, without being measured. and she held onto that feeling as long as she could, stretching it, memorizing it, like she knew it wouldn’t last forever.

until, gently, reality would return.

“your highness…” her guard’s voice would come from a respectful distance, never too close, never intrusive, just enough to remind her of where she was, of who she was. “it’s late. your room is ready.”

and just like that, the moment would shift.

she would open her eyes slowly, the softness still lingering in them for a second longer before it disappeared behind something more composed, more familiar. she would nod, quiet, controlled again, turning away from the pond, from the sky, from that brief, fragile sense of something more.

and she would walk back inside.

back to the life waiting for her.

but something stayed with her.

something small, something quiet, something impossible to ignore now that she had felt it.

dakota had always been a stay-home kind of guy, the kind who never felt like he was missing out on anything because everything he needed was already right there. his world had never stretched much further than the ranch, and he never wanted it to. for him, it wasn’t small — it was full. his family, his two siblings, his parents, the land they had built their life on… that was enough, more than enough. he didn’t need parties or noise or a hundred different people passing through his life. he liked knowing who he was waking up next to at breakfast, liked the predictability of it all, the quiet comfort of routine. there was something grounding about it, something that made him feel steady in a way nothing else ever had.

he had always been protective — not in a loud, overbearing way, but in that constant, unshakable presence kind of way. ever since he was younger, he had taken it upon himself to look after what was his, to make sure things stayed the way they were supposed to. avery and emmy had grown up with that without even realizing it, with dakota always somewhere close, always paying attention, always ready to step in before something became a problem. he was the one who fixed things before anyone else noticed they were broken, the one who stayed up later if something felt off, the one who stood a little too close when someone unfamiliar lingered too long around his family. he never made a big deal out of it, never acted like it was a burden — it was just who he was. loving them and protecting them had always gone hand in hand for him.

and that same instinct showed in the softer moments too, in the way he helped avery with things around the ranch without being asked, stepping in quietly when the work got too heavy or when something needed an extra pair of hands. with emmy, it was different but just as present — a little gentler, a little more patient, even if he liked to tease her sometimes. he listened when she talked, even when she rambled, offered advice when she needed it and space when she didn’t, always making sure she felt safe in a way she could rely on without question. they were his people, his responsibility in a way that never felt forced, and he carried that naturally, like breathing.

he loved the farm life in a way that ran deeper than habit. waking up early never felt like a chore to him, even on the coldest mornings when the air bit at his skin and the sun hadn’t fully risen yet. there was something peaceful about those hours, about the stillness before everything came alive. he liked working in the vegetable garden, hands in the dirt, watching things grow slowly, patiently, the kind of progress you couldn’t rush. he liked the horses, the way they moved, the way they trusted him, the quiet connection that didn’t need words. everything about it felt real, tangible, like he could see the results of what he put in every single day.

so when his dad suggested he could take on the old farmhouse — the one they had lived in before the new house was built — something in dakota lit up instantly. it wasn’t just another project. it meant something. that place held history, memories layered into every wall, every creak in the wood, every window that had seen years of their lives pass by. and the idea of turning it into something new without losing what it was… that excited him more than anything ever had.

he threw himself into it completely. long days turned into longer ones, hands rough from the work, clothes covered in dust and paint, but he never complained. he stripped old wallpaper carefully instead of tearing it down, wanting to preserve whatever he could. he sanded the wooden floors himself, spending hours making sure they kept their warmth instead of replacing them with something newer and colder. he repaired the porch plank by plank, remembering stories his parents had told about sitting there years ago, wanting future guests to feel that same quiet comfort. he planned every room with intention — simple, cozy, nothing excessive, just enough to make people feel at home the second they walked in.

sometimes avery would come by and help him lift heavier things, the two of them working side by side in comfortable silence, and other times emmy would sit nearby, talking while he worked, keeping him company without getting in the way. those were his favorite moments, the ones where everything blended together — the work, the family, the feeling that he was building something not just for himself, but for all of them.

the idea of the hotel kept growing in his mind, not as something flashy or big, but something honest. a place where people could come and breathe, wake up early to the same quiet mornings he loved, walk through the fields, see the horses, eat food grown right there on the land. he wanted them to feel it — that steady, grounded kind of happiness that didn’t need anything extra to exist.

and through all of it, he never lost the rhythm of his life. sundays were still for church, for sitting beside his family, for that same sense of peace that had always been there. he didn’t question it, didn’t feel the need to look for something more or something different. his life wasn’t loud or complicated, but it was his, built on things that mattered to him.

elio was happy.

It had always been easy to tell that Tess poured her entire body and soul into figure skating. Other people practiced; Tess surrendered. She had been on the ice since she was three years old, so small that the skates had looked oversized against her thin legs, her hands perpetually reaching for balance until one day they simply didn’t need to anymore. Her family used to joke that she learned how to skate before she learned how to walk, and while that wasn’t technically true, the difference felt negligible. Walking had always seemed like a temporary skill. Skating was instinct. When she laced up her boots and stepped onto the ice, something inside her quieted and sharpened all at once. The cold didn’t bother her. The sting in her ankles didn’t register. On the ice she wasn’t restless or competitive in the sharp, biting way she could be off it. On the ice she was exact. Controlled. Free in a way that didn’t require apology.

She lived alone now, in a small apartment not far from the rink, the kind of place that was functional rather than cozy. Clean counters. Minimal furniture. The walls mostly bare except for a whiteboard crowded with training schedules and technical layouts. Her fridge was stocked with protein, fruit, and electrolyte drinks. There were no distractions. No one to witness how late she came home or how early she left. Her life revolved around blades and balance and repetition. She liked it that way. It meant every success and every failure belonged entirely to her.

When she got the news that she was going to the Olympics, she didn’t scream. She didn’t call everyone she knew. She stood very still in her kitchen, phone still in her hand, and felt the world tilt into focus. Then she laughed once—sharp and disbelieving—and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, she sat cross-legged on her living room floor with notebooks spread around her, sketching costume ideas, mapping technical elements, calculating where to place her highest-scoring combinations. She replayed potential music choices through her speakers until dawn crept through the blinds. Every detail mattered. She refused to leave anything to chance.

Within days, she had cleared out the interior of her garage space in the building’s lower level and invested in synthetic ice panels. It was expensive, slightly imperfect, and nowhere near the quality of a full rink—but it was hers. She ripped out old storage shelves, stacked boxes against the walls, and laid down panel after panel until the concrete disappeared beneath white sheen. It didn’t glide the same way real ice did; the friction was heavier, the edges duller. But it allowed her to practice footwork at one in the morning. It allowed her to rehearse transitions when the rink was closed or crowded with other skaters chasing their own dreams. Under harsh fluorescent lights, long after the rest of the building had gone quiet, Tess would lace up again and run sections of her program until sweat soaked through her training clothes.

Her days blurred into discipline. Early mornings at the official rink, carving full-ice patterns while the sun was still low. Midday conditioning—core circuits, plyometrics, ballet classes to refine her lines and extension. Evenings reviewing footage, analyzing frame by frame where her shoulders dipped too soon or her free leg lacked height. Then back downstairs to the garage for repetition. She drilled her triple combinations until they felt less like jumps and more like reflex. She attacked her spins, demanding faster rotation, tighter centers. When she fell, she didn’t curse. She stood, reset, and tried again. There was a contained intensity to her skating—explosive power wrapped inside meticulous control. She moved with speed, her footwork sharp and intricate, blades slicing precise patterns into the ice as though she were writing a language only she could fully read. Yet between the athletic bursts, there were moments of softness: elongated arms, a subtle tilt of her chin, an almost playful flicker in her expression that made the audience feel invited rather than intimidated.

For her Olympic program, she chose “Don’t Shut Me Down” by ABBA. The song pulsed with resilience and reemergence, its lyrics about return and reclamation striking something deep within her. “I’m like a dream within a dream that’s been decoded…” The opening beats gave her space to build tension slowly, gliding across the ice with measured restraint before launching into her first jump as the chorus swelled. The music carried both defiance and joy, and Tess matched it—her step sequence snapping into rhythm with the percussion, her spins accelerating in time with the layered harmonies. There was something almost triumphant about the way she interpreted the line “I’m fired up, don’t shut me down,” her body cutting across the rink as if daring gravity to disagree.

The Olympic arena felt enormous when she stepped onto the ice. The air was colder, sharper, filled with the electric hush of thousands of spectators holding their breath. For a split second, she was aware of how far she had come—from a three-year-old clinging to the boards to a woman standing alone under blinding lights. Then the music began.

She skated her short program with precision, each element landing clean and decisive. In the free skate, she pushed harder. The opening jump combination soared, her landing crisp and centered. Her footwork crackled with energy, blades tapping and carving in rapid succession as the song’s rhythm drove her forward. She felt powerful, present, entirely inside the choreography. There was one moment—a slight under-rotation on a late jump—that flickered through her awareness like static, but she didn’t let it unravel her. She finished strong, arms lifted as the final chorus echoed through the arena, chest heaving but eyes bright.

When the scores came in, she stood in second place.

Silver.

The margin was painfully narrow, the difference in points so small it felt almost theoretical. Close enough that she could trace exactly where those decimals had slipped away.

She smiled on the podium, medal resting cool against her collarbone, cameras flashing as the anthem played for someone else. She clapped sincerely for the gold medalist, posture straight, expression composed. From the outside, she looked accomplished. Victorious, even.

It wasn’t until she was alone on the plane back to Euroville that the composure fractured. The cabin lights were dim, most passengers asleep, but Tess sat by the window staring at the darkness beyond the glass. She replayed her routine in ruthless detail, isolating that one imperfect landing, that fraction of rotation that might have changed everything. The silver medal lay in her lap, heavy and undeniable. It represented years of work, discipline, sacrifice. It represented success by every measurable standard.

But she had always aimed higher.

The tears came quietly at first, then harder, her shoulders shaking as she pressed her sleeve against her face to muffle the sound. It wasn’t just disappointment. It was the ache of having touched the edge of her dream and realizing it wasn’t fully hers yet. She let herself cry until the sting dulled, until exhaustion replaced the sharpest edges of frustration.

When she finally lifted her head, her reflection in the window looked different—tired, yes, but not defeated. There was steel there. Determination layered beneath vulnerability.

She whispered the promise to herself, voice low but steady: at the next Winter Olympics, she would not come this close again. She would refine every edge, tighten every rotation, sharpen every transition. She would take what she had learned from silver and forge it into gold.

All her afternoons unfolded with the same choreography, so predictable she could measure them without looking at a clock. At three o’clock sharp, the bell rang and her classroom dissolved into motion—chairs scraping, pencil cases zipping, the constellation rug abandoned in a flurry of small sneakers. Aaliyah gathered them with practiced ease, her voice never rising but always carrying. She walked them down the hallway in pairs, reminding one to zip his coat, another to stop spinning, another to hold the line. By the time they reached the front doors, the noise outside was already swelling: engines idling, siblings arguing, parents calling names into the wind. She positioned herself just outside the threshold, back straight, clipboard tucked under her arm, thirty wiggling third graders lined up behind her like bright, impatient dominoes.

There was only one rule. “Tell me who you’re going with.”

They obeyed enthusiastically and all at once. “My mom!” “Grandpa!” “My babysitter but she has purple hair today!” “My dad but he’s on the phone but he said he’s here!” Their voices layered over one another until it was nearly impossible to separate them, but Aaliyah somehow did. She bent to eye level. She scanned faces in the crowd. She matched child to adult with the precision of someone who understood that this small ritual mattered. She kept count in her head the entire time, never losing track, never letting the line thin without knowing exactly who was left.

And sometimes, in the brief pauses between pick-ups, her gaze drifted across the street to the high school building. The doors there burst open with a different kind of energy—louder but freer. Teenagers poured out in groups and pairs, laughing, shoving, already halfway into their own independence. They didn’t wait to be claimed. They left because they could. No one stood at the door asking who they belonged to. Among them, moving at an unhurried pace that always seemed slightly out of sync with the rest of the world, was Matteo. Hands in his coat pockets. Shoulders relaxed. He walked like someone thinking about something far away, something measured in light-years instead of minutes. Sometimes she caught the tilt of his head as he listened to a student. Sometimes he was already halfway down the sidewalk before she could let herself look too long.

By the time the last child had been handed off safely, the noise outside softened into scattered conversations and car doors slamming. Aaliyah double-checked her clipboard, stepped back inside to turn off the hallway lights, and collected her bags. She always carried too much—lesson plans she insisted on reviewing at home, half-graded essays, the emergency snack pouch she refilled religiously, her lunch container she’d barely had time to touch. She’d never bought a car. She used to joke about wanting one of those tiny, impractical ones that could barely fit a driver. “Just enough space for me, Matteo, and a sandwich each,” she’d teased once, imagining their knees knocking because there wasn’t room for distance. It had been easier to joke about cramped space than about closeness. If she needed to drive somewhere, Matteo had always done it without question. He never made it feel like a favor.

Now she walked.

The route home wasn’t long, but after a full day of holding thirty small worlds together, it felt longer. Her shoulders ached from her bags. The late afternoon air pressed cool against her skin. She passed familiar storefronts and cracked sidewalks, her thoughts drifting in that quiet, unguarded way they only did when no one was asking anything of her. By the time she reached her porch, exhaustion had settled into her bones—not dramatic, not visible, but steady.

Matteo’s car was already parked next door. Like clockwork, her phone buzzed in her hand.

Jake is at your door.

Right on cue, a sharp, indignant meow sounded from the other side of it. She couldn’t help smiling as she crouched down. “Hi, Jake,” she murmured, scratching under his chin. The cat leaned into her palm immediately, tail flicking with approval, as if she’d been gone far longer than a school day.

She set her lunch bag on the floor beside her tote, papers threatening to spill out the top. She unlocked the door, Jake slipping inside with proprietary confidence. The house greeted her with stillness, the kind that amplified how tired she actually was. She didn’t bother tidying the small pile of belongings by the entryway. She told herself she would later. She always did.

Her shoes came off first. Then her cardigan, draped carelessly over a chair instead of folded like she preferred. She walked straight to the couch—the old one with the slight dip in the center—and let herself fall onto it face-first with a low, unfiltered groan. The cushions swallowed her weight. For a moment she didn’t move at all.

“Help me win the lottery so I don’t have to walk home ever again, Jake,” she mumbled into the pillow.

Jake answered with a short, unimpressed meow before jumping up beside her, circling twice and settling against her side.

She turned her head slightly. “Thanks, Jake. That really helps.”

He pressed closer anyway, a small, steady warmth against her ribs.

Her phone buzzed again.

You home?

She stared at the message longer than she meant to.

Yes. Jake says hi.

A pause. Then: Tell him I expect rent soon.

Aaliyah’s lips curved despite herself. She could picture him next door, maybe lining up one of those broken watches he collected for reasons she’d never fully understood, thinking about collapsing stars while she lay here calculating how much energy it would take to stand up again. Matteo thought in constellations and orbital cycles. She thought in grocery lists and spelling tests. Somehow they’d once met in the middle.

Jake’s purring deepened, rhythmic and grounding.

Aaliyah stared at the ceiling, letting the exhaustion settle without fighting it. She spent her days being steady—counting children, softening chaos, absorbing small hurts before they grew sharp. She was dependable in every visible way. But here, in the quiet of her living room, with her bags abandoned by the door and her composure finally allowed to slip, she let herself simply be tired. Not composed. Not accommodating. Just tired.

She closed her eyes briefly, one hand resting against Jake’s back, and wondered—not for the first time—what it would feel like to have someone walk in without texting first. To notice the weight she carried before she set it down. To sit beside her on this worn couch and say, gently, “You don’t have to hold everything together tonight.”

Jake shifted, pressing closer as if in answer.

Aaliyah has discovered that eight-year-olds treat her life like an ongoing chapter book they’re personally invested in. It usually begins during read-aloud, when she’s mid-sentence and a small hand lifts with urgent importance. “Miss Bennett,” one of them will whisper loudly, “do you have babies?” She lowers the book slightly, smiling with that practiced warmth that never quite cracks. “No, sweetheart.” That should close the discussion. It doesn’t. “Are you going to?” “Are you married?” “Are you going to marry Mr. Russo?” That question always makes the room go very still for half a second, like even the fairy lights in the reading corner are waiting for her answer. She keeps her voice gentle, measured. “Mr. Russo teaches high school,” she says lightly, redirecting without dismissing. “And right now we’re focusing on character development.” They groan. They whisper. They make charts in their heads. Children are observant in ways adults underestimate. They’ve seen Matteo drop off the cat carrier on mornings when she has early duty. They’ve seen him linger in the hallway, low voice steady as he asks if she needs help carrying book orders. They notice the way her shoulders soften when she hears him before she sees him.

The older students are less obvious but far more relentless. They corner Matteo after class, leaning on lab tables, pretending it’s casual. “Sir, are you and Miss Bennett together?” Matteo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deflect with humor. He doesn’t offer clarification. He simply goes quiet. He finishes erasing the board. He stacks papers. If they push again—“But you live next door, right?”—he adjusts his watch, the broken one he keeps out of habit, and says nothing at all. Silence, steady and deliberate. The lack of response only fuels them. Teenagers are allergic to ambiguity. The more he withholds, the more they speculate. He never lies; he just refuses the premise. When the questions persist, he shifts the topic entirely. “Open your textbooks to page 214,” he’ll say calmly. Or he’ll begin explaining stellar binaries—two massive bodies locked in orbit, influencing each other’s paths without ever fully merging. He never points out the metaphor. He doesn’t have to. His silence becomes its own gravitational force, pulling curiosity tighter instead of easing it.

Their breakup had not been explosive. No slammed doors. No public unraveling. It had been quieter, heavier. Aaliyah’s family—big, loving, deeply Christian—had expectations woven into every Sunday dinner. Marriage wasn’t just romance; it was covenant. Stability. A timeline. Subtle questions sharpened into not-so-subtle ones. Was he attending church regularly? Did he believe the same things? When would they make it official? Matteo’s parents, practical and culturally Catholic but not devout, didn’t see urgency in ceremony or doctrine. To them, partnership was enough. To Aaliyah’s family, it wasn’t. The tension didn’t erupt; it accumulated. Aaliyah felt herself bending again, smoothing conversations, translating values, trying to be the bridge she’d always been. Matteo, uncomfortable with ideological debates and emotional ultimatums, withdrew into analysis. He doesn’t argue loudly. He steps back, observing, going distant when pressure rises. She felt the space growing. He felt the weight of expectation as noise he couldn’t filter out.

So they chose distance before resentment could calcify.

And yet, they never truly left each other’s orbit. They share a cat—an indifferent black and white creature who refuses to acknowledge the breakup and moves between apartments as if nothing changed. They live next door. They work in the same building, separated by age groups and hallways but not by presence. They exchange spare keys for practicality. They text about vet appointments. Some mornings he knocks lightly before school, voice low and familiar: “She’s at your door.” Aaliyah opens it, already smiling, already composed. In the hallway at work, they stand a little too close for people who insist there’s nothing to explain.

When her students ask if she’s going to marry him, she laughs softly and hands out spelling worksheets. When his students demand answers, Matteo gives them none. The silence makes them more certain something exists. After school, sometimes they end up walking out together by accident—or by habit. He tells her about a student who finally understood gravitational pressure. She tells him about a child who read aloud without shaking. Their conversations are easy. Careful. Undefined.

nevaeh was live on the brand’s instagram account long past closing time, the salon technically closed but still buzzing with that low, familiar energy she always carried with her, the kind that made it impossible to just sit still. she moved constantly as she talked, circling the stations, reorganizing things that were already organized, tapping the side of the sterilizer with her knuckle while the comments flew up the screen. the phone was propped against a row of polish bottles, slightly crooked, and every now and then she’d stop mid-sentence to adjust it, laugh, then immediately forget what she’d been saying and jump back in like nothing happened. “okay, wait—before i forget,” she said quickly, grabbing a small box and holding it up to the camera, “these just came in and i’m obsessed. like, dangerously obsessed. the formula? insane. i’ll swatch them tomorrow because if i do it now i’ll be here for another hour.” hearts flooded the screen and she grinned, energy bright but not chaotic, just… alive.

she read a comment and snorted. “yeah, i’m twenty-five,” she said, shaking her head as she wiped down a counter. “no, i don’t feel like it. yes, my knees already crack. next question.” she hopped from topic to topic with ease, showing new tools, explaining why one file grit was better than another, stopping halfway through to sanitize a pair of cuticle scissors because she couldn’t stand leaving them out. at some point she realized she was rambling and laughed at herself. “sorry, my brain is like a browser with thirty tabs open at all times,” she said, completely unbothered, “but you love me for it.”

then she read a question that made her slow down, just a little. “how did you come up with the idea of nova & co.?” she repeated, eyes lighting up in a different way. “oh, okay, this one. this is my favorite.” she shut the sterilizer and picked up her phone, immediately starting to pace toward the back of the salon like she always did when she needed to think. “so—story time,” she said, already smiling even though her voice softened. “when i was ten, i got my period. and my mom had passed away that summer. like, very recently.” she gestured with her free hand as she spoke, words coming fast but clear. “it was september, i was at school, and i just… freaked out. full panic mode. i locked myself in a bathroom stall and cried until a teacher found me. i thought something was wrong with me. i was scared and embarrassed and alone.”

she leaned against the counter, shifting her weight from foot to foot, energy still there but grounded. “when i got home, my dad tried to help. truly. he went out and bought everything he could find, but neither of us knew what we were doing. it wasn’t his fault. it just… wasn’t enough.” she shrugged lightly. “so when i got older and started thinking about this brand, i knew exactly what i wanted it to be. i wanted nova & co. to feel like an older sister. like someone sitting on the bathroom floor with you going, ‘hey. you’re okay. this is normal. here’s how this works.’” she lifted the phone slightly, pointing toward the shelves out front. “that’s why there’s info in the boxes. why there are step-by-step guides. why we do tutorials. i don’t ever want someone to feel lost like i did.”

the comments were slower now, more thoughtful, and she nodded along as she skimmed them. then she laughed again when another question popped up. “‘and the toys? that has nothing to do with periods.’” she tilted her head. “okay, fair, but hear me out.” she grinned, already animated again. “that came from a collaboration and from sex education in general. pleasure shouldn’t be a taboo. bodies shouldn’t be confusing or shameful. it’s all connected—understanding your body, feeling safe in it, knowing what you like.” she pointed at the camera, playful but sincere. “education doesn’t stop at biology class.”

she kept answering questions, bouncing between topics, occasionally stopping herself to say, “wait, i forgot to answer that properly,” and circling back. by the time she finally thanked everyone for staying up late with her and ended the live, her cheeks hurt from smiling. the salon fell quiet instantly, the sudden silence almost ringing. she set her phone down, exhaled, then immediately started turning off lights, locking drawers, double-checking things she’d already checked twice.