The morning sunlight was merciless. It spilled into the living room through the half-open curtains, bright and intrusive, pressing against Adriella's closed eyes. She stirred, disoriented, and for a moment she thought she was back in the old days—waking up to the warmth of Tobi's arms, his voice teasing her out of sleep.
But when she opened her eyes, there was no one there. Just the couch beneath her, the blanket tangled around her legs, and the journal lying open on the table with ink-stained pages that screamed her loneliness.
Reality hit her all over again.
Her chest tightened. She pressed her palms into her eyes, but the ache didn't go away. She had cried herself to sleep, and her face showed it—swollen eyes, cracked lips, the weight of exhaustion carved into her features.
The knock at the door startled her. She froze.
Once. Twice. Then a familiar voice:
> "ella, it's me. Open up."
Adaora.
Adriella hesitated. She wasn't ready to be seen. Not like this—broken, unwashed, fragile. She thought of pretending she wasn't home, but Adaora's knock came again, softer this time, as though she already knew.
With a sigh, Adriella dragged herself off the couch. Her body felt like stone, every step heavier than the last. She opened the door.
Adaora stood there with a tote bag slung over her shoulder, her hair tied back in a messy bun, her eyes filled with quiet concern.
> "You look like you haven't slept," Adaora said gently, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Adriella let out a weak laugh. "That's because I haven't."
Adaora set the bag down and began unpacking without ceremony, filling the counter with small treasures—fresh fruit, bread rolls, a flask of hot tea, and finally, with a flourish, a tub of ice cream.
> "Breakfast of champions," she announced with a grin, holding it up like a trophy.
Adriella blinked, half amused, half overwhelmed. "At nine in the morning?"
"Desperate times, babe."
The corner of Adriella's lips lifted. A sound escaped her, shaky but real—a laugh. It startled her, how unfamiliar it felt, like a language she hadn't spoken in years.
Adaora's eyes softened. "See? Proof you're still in there somewhere."
But the moment was fragile, fleeting. Adriella's smile dissolved almost instantly, replaced by a fresh wave of heaviness. Her voice cracked.
"I don't feel like me anymore, Ada. I feel like… like I've been hollowed out."
Adaora didn't speak. She didn't need to. She walked over and pulled Adriella into her arms. Adriella stiffened at first, afraid of crumbling, but her body betrayed her. The hug broke the thin barrier she had been holding up, and the tears came in torrents—hot, unstoppable, humiliating.
She buried her face in Adaora's shoulder, her sobs loud and messy.
> "Let it out," Adaora whispered, her hand rubbing circles on Adriella's back. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
They stood like that for a long time. Adriella trembled, her cries soaking Adaora's shirt, while Adaora held her steady like an anchor in a storm.
When Adriella finally pulled away, her face was wet, her voice raw. "I hate this. I hate that I keep crying. I hate that he still has this much power over me."
Adaora cupped her face firmly, forcing Adriella to meet her gaze.
"You don't cry because of him. You cry because you loved. And because you lost. That's human, ella. Don't punish yourself for it."
Adriella's lips trembled, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. She wanted to argue, to protest, to say she should be stronger—but the conviction in Adaora's voice disarmed her.
They moved to the couch, where Adaora insisted Adriella eat at least a slice of bread. Adriella chewed slowly, each bite tasting like cardboard, but Adaora didn't push. She simply sat beside her, sipping her tea, filling the silence with stories.
She talked about the neighbor's cat that kept sneaking into her apartment. About the embarrassing thing her coworker had done yesterday. About nothing and everything, weaving humor into the air until Adriella found herself smiling through her tears.
"You're ridiculous," Adriella muttered, shaking her head.
"And you love me for it," Adaora shot back.
It was true.
They spent the rest of the morning talking in circles. Sometimes the conversation was light, full of Adaora's playful dramatics. Sometimes it grew heavy again—Adriella voicing her pain, her questions, her fear that she would never be whole.
Each time, Adaora listened. She never rushed Adriella to heal, never dismissed her feelings. She held space for the darkness while reminding her, gently but firmly, that it wouldn't last forever.
At one point, Adriella whispered, "What if I never get over him?"
Adaora reached out, threading her fingers through Adriella's. "Then you don't. You don't 'get over.' You carry it until it becomes lighter. Until it doesn't control you anymore. And I'll be here until it does."
Something in Adriella's chest cracked open at those words. Not in the way heartbreak had shattered her, but in a way that let in air, warmth, life.
The sun had climbed higher by the time Adaora stood, stretching. "Okay. Shower. Now. You're starting to smell like heartbreak and despair."
Adriella snorted, swatting her friend with a cushion. "You're so rude."
"Honest," Adaora corrected with a wink.
For the first time in weeks, Adriella showered without feeling like it was a chore. The warm water washed away more than sweat—it eased some of the heaviness clinging to her skin.
When she stepped back into the living room, Adaora had made the couch look cozy again, with pillows arranged and a steaming cup of tea waiting on the table.
It was such a small thing. And yet, Adriella's throat tightened at the sight.
She realized then what the night before hadn't allowed her to believe: yes, the heartbreak was still raw. Yes, the pain still consumed her. But maybe she didn't have to carry it alone.
And maybe—just maybe—healing had already begun.