Morning comes slowly, like it's unsure whether I'm ready for it.
Sunlight slips through the thin gap in my curtains, painting faint lines across the wall and the edge of my bed. I don't move right away. I stay still, listening to the house breathe, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the muffled sound of a car passing outside, the soft creak of wood settling.
It feels different today.
Not lighter exactly. Just… quieter. Less crowded in my head.
I roll onto my side and check my phone out of habit. No notifications. No messages waiting. For once, my chest doesn't tighten at the sight of the empty screen.
I let it be.
Getting out of bed feels unhurried. I pull on an old hoodie, the fabric worn thin at the cuffs, familiar in a way newer clothes never are. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, my hair is a mess, the electric blue streak peeking through like a secret I haven't decided whether to keep.
I like it.
In the kitchen, my mom is already up, moving around quietly, a mug of coffee steaming in her hand. She glances up when I enter.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning."
She studies me for a second longer than necessary. "You sleep okay?"
"Yeah," I answer honestly. "Better than usual."
That earns me a small smile. We sit at the table together, the silence between us comfortable. No pressure to fill it. No questions I'm not ready to answer.
Before I head back to my room, she reaches out and lightly touches my arm. "Don't disappear today," she says gently. "Wedding chaos might need you."
"I won't," I promise.
And I mean it.
Back in my room, I open my laptop out of instinct, then close it just as quickly. The glow of the screen suddenly feels intrusive, like it doesn't belong here today.
Instead, I crouch down and pull my guitar from under the bed.
The case is dusty. I wipe it down absently, fingers brushing over old stickers I never bothered to peel off. When I sit on the edge of the bed and rest the guitar against my knee, a familiar nervousness settles in my chest.
It's been a long time.
I strum once. The sound is uneven, sharp in places, but it vibrates through the room, and through me. I try again. Slower this time. Letting my fingers remember what my mind forgot.
I don't play a song. I don't even try to. I just let my hands move, string to string, chord to chord, letting the sound exist without purpose.
This is what I used to do when I didn't know what I wanted yet.
When I wasn't trying to be impressive or productive or put together.
A quiet knock sounds at my door.
Maya leans against the frame, arms crossed, her eyes lighting up when she sees the guitar. "Wow," she says softly. "Didn't think I'd hear that again."
I glance up, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm out of practice."
She shrugs. "So? You sound like you."
That lands somewhere deep.
After she leaves, I play a little longer. Not because I'm good at it. Not because I have anything to prove. Just because it feels right.
Later, I scroll through my phone while lying on my bed, sunlight now fully filling the room. My thumb pauses when a familiar name appears.
Felix.
My heart does something small and irritatingly noticeable.
Felix: Random question. Are you going to the reunion alone?
I read it twice.
There's no pressure in the message. No assumption. Just curiosity.
I type, erase, then type again.
I hadn't really thought about it.
The reply comes quickly.
Same. Just figured I'd ask.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. This would be the easy moment to keep things vague. To let the conversation drift away without committing to anything.
Instead, I take a breath.
We could go together, I type. If you want.
My phone feels heavier in my hand as the three dots appear… then disappear.
Seconds stretch.
Then:
I'd like that.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
It isn't overwhelming. It doesn't knock the air from my lungs.
It feels… steady.
The rest of the day unfolds gently. Wedding talk fills the house, flowers, seating charts, colors that all start to blur together. I help when asked, offer opinions when needed, step back when I'm not.
No one says it out loud, but I can feel it: I'm more present than I've been in a long time.
That evening, I stand in front of my mirror, studying my reflection as the sky darkens outside.
Same scar on my eyebrow. Same sharp eyes.
But the tension I've carried for years isn't sitting on my shoulders tonight.
I straighten my posture, smoothing my hoodie down.
What would my teenage self think of me now?
She'd probably roll her eyes at how serious I became. At how tightly I tried to control everything. But I think she'd like this version of me. The one who's learning how to pause. How to listen. How to feel without immediately running from it.
Before bed, I send one last message.
Looking forward to it.
Me too Felix replies.
I set my phone down and turn off the light.
The reunion is coming. The past is closer than I'd like to admit. Questions are waiting.
But tonight, I don't feel the urge to race ahead of my life.
I let myself stay here.
In the quiet.
In what's slowly beginning.