Reya came back the next day.
And the day after that.
By the third day, I stopped pretending it was an accident.
She walked into the library like she owned the place, sliding her bag into the chair across from me before I could even glance up.
"You always start before I get here," she said, nodding at the sketchbook already open in front of me.
"I always start," I replied.
She smirked. "Figures."
Her blazer was different this time, a lighter shade, sleeves pushed up as if she'd gotten too warm. Her ash‑brown hair was clipped back with a tiny plastic butterfly, but it didn't stop a few strands from falling into her face.
She leaned closer, her amber eyes flicking over the page.
"This one's new," she said. "What's it called?"
I hesitated. The monster was still half‑formed — hunched back, clawed hands, mouth stretching too wide.
"It doesn't have a name yet," I said quietly.
She tapped her finger on the margin, grinning. "Looks like it's waiting for one."
By the fourth day, her friends noticed.
They trailed behind her when she walked into the library — the type who never traveled alone, always laughing too loudly.
"You're sitting there again?" one of them asked, casting me a sideways glance like I wasn't part of the room.
Reya didn't even hesitate. "Yeah."
They stared for a beat longer, then left her, their voices fading into the hall.
She sat across from me, elbows on the table.
"You don't mind that I'm here?" she asked suddenly.
I almost said I did. But the truth got stuck somewhere in my throat.
"No," I muttered.
Her smile widened just a fraction. "Good. Because I was going to sit here anyway."
The library became a rhythm.
She talked; I drew.
Sometimes it was about nothing — a bad joke a teacher had made, a stray cat she saw by the gate, how she hated the cafeteria's rice because it was always too sticky.
Sometimes it was about my drawings.
"Why are they all monsters?" she asked one day, turning a page carefully, like the sketches might tear if she touched them wrong.
I shrugged.
"They're just… easier," I said.
"Easier than what?"
"People."
She tilted her head, studying me like she was sketching my answer in her mind.
Another day, she flipped to a drawing of something winged, its ribs caged in lines.
"This one," she said softly, "doesn't look scary. It looks… sad."
I didn't answer, but I shaded the wings a little darker.
She didn't push.
On the fifth day, she caught me off guard.
"Do you ever draw people?" she asked.
The question made my pencil freeze.
"I mean," she said quickly, "not like… selfies or whatever. Just… people."
I thought about the pages buried deep in my sketchbook — Maria's hands around a chipped mug, the shadowed outline of her slumped in a chair when she thought I wasn't looking.
I didn't show her those.
"Sometimes," I said.
"Will you show me?" she asked, amber eyes steady.
"Maybe," I muttered.
She smiled. "I'll take that as a yes."
That evening, I walked home slower than usual.
The streets felt heavier somehow — the way she'd looked at me, the way her questions dug under my skin.
By the time I reached our door, the sky was bruised with orange.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of garlic and soy sauce. Adobo simmered on the stove, but Maria wasn't in the kitchen.
"Mom?" I called.
"In here," her voice came, faint, from the bedroom.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, a basket of laundry untouched at her feet.
"You didn't finish folding," I said, immediately regretting how sharp it sounded.
She smiled weakly. "I got tired. Thought I'd rest for a bit."
When she stood to greet me, I saw it — the way her breath hitched, the way she pressed a hand to her side like the effort cost her something.
"Sit down," I said quietly, guiding her back to the bed.
She laughed softly, trying to brush it off. "I'm not that fragile."
But when I glanced at the basket, still full of shirts and towels, I knew she'd been sitting like this for a while.
Dinner was quiet.
Maria only took a few bites before setting her spoon down.
"You barely ate," I said.
"I'm just not hungry," she murmured, staring at the plate like the sight of food exhausted her.
I washed the dishes while she sat at the table, chin resting in her hand.
Finally, I said what had been sitting in my throat all week.
"Do you want me to take a day off tomorrow?"
She blinked, looking up. "What?"
"I can stay home," I said. "Help around the house. Do the groceries. Whatever."
Her smile was small, and a little sad.
"You shouldn't miss school for me," she said softly.
"You can barely stand long enough to finish folding laundry," I said, sharper than I meant to.
Her eyes flickered — not angry, but tired, like she didn't have the energy to argue.
"I'll be fine," she said, but her voice lacked the usual insistence.
I didn't push further, but the thought sat heavy in my chest.
Later, I sat in front of the TV, some late‑night show filling the silence with canned laughter.
Maria had gone to bed early again.
The basket of laundry still sat by the couch.
I stared at it, at the empty space beside me, at the way the house felt too quiet for how small it was.
I thought about how she'd winced when she stood, how she'd barely touched her dinner, how she kept saying I'm fine like saying it could make it true.
The laugh track on TV kept going, tinny and hollow.
I sat there and let it fill the room, wishing it sounded like something real.
I glanced toward the hallway. Her door was shut. The light beneath it was off.
I knew she was asleep, but part of me wanted to knock, just to hear her voice say she was fine again, even if it was a lie.
I reached for the remote, turned the volume down until I could barely hear it.
The house was almost silent then.
Almost.
There was the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of the ceiling fan, the occasional cough from Maria's room that she probably thought I couldn't hear.
I sat there listening to it all, my sketchbook closed on the table beside me, my pencil still resting where I'd left it.
Tomorrow, I'd draw again.
And tomorrow, I'd see if she came back.
Reya.
She always sat across from me now, like it was her seat.
I wasn't sure if I wanted her to stop or if I was afraid she might.
Chapter 3 End