The parking lot of Chick-fil-A was nearly empty, the morning still young and the air crisp with October chill. Camila pulled into a space near the front, her SUV humming softly as she turned off the engine. The sky above Clayton was a pale blue, streaked with wisps of cloud like brushstrokes on canvas.
She stepped out, her black sweatpants swaying gently with each movement, her baggy t-shirt tucked loosely over her hips. Her white Y2K sneakers squeaked faintly against the pavement. Her hair, pulled into a low ponytail, swayed behind her like a quiet ribbon.
Inside, the restaurant was calm—no breakfast rush, no long lines. Just the scent of warm biscuits and brewed coffee drifting through the air. The floors gleamed, the booths were empty, and the counter staff stood ready with soft smiles and cheerful voices.
Camila approached the counter, her steps slow but steady.
"Welcome," the cashier said, her voice warm and maternal. "What can I get started for you today, love?"
Camila offered a small smile. "Can I get the sausage, egg & biscuit meal with an iced coffee and two hash browns, please?"
"Sure thing," the woman said, tapping the screen. "Is this for here or to go?"
"Here," Camila replied.
"Your total today is $13.99. Cash or card?"
"Card," Camila said, tapping her credit union card against the reader. The machine beeped, and the transaction was complete.
The woman handed her the iced coffee—cold, creamy, swirled with caramel tones. Camila took it gently, grabbed a table number, and walked toward the back of the restaurant.
She chose a red highchair tucked into the corner, beneath a large portrait of a cow holding a glass bottle of milk. A chicken stood in the background, looking mildly offended. The image made her smile—quirky, surreal, oddly comforting.
She placed her coffee on the table, set the number upright, and sat down. Her legs dangled from the highchair, not quite reaching the floor. She took a sip of the coffee—sweet, strong, familiar. The coldness hit her tongue like a memory.
She stared at the cow portrait, her thoughts drifting.
Everything had changed.
She had left her home. Her marriage. Her past. And yet, here she was—sipping coffee in a fast-food restaurant, finding comfort in the absurdity of a cow with milk.
A few minutes later, a young woman approached with a tray.
"Here you go, sweetheart," she said, placing the food gently in front of Camila.
"Thank you," Camila replied softly.
She unwrapped the biscuit first—warm, flaky, golden. The sausage was crisp at the edges, the egg soft and folded. She took a bite, and the flavors melted together—savory, buttery, grounding.
She picked up a hash brown, its surface crisp and golden, and dipped it into ketchup. The crunch was satisfying, the salt sharp and familiar.
With each bite, her legs swung gently back and forth beneath the highchair. It was a childlike motion, unconscious, soothing. Her bunny and frog hair clips were tucked safely in her backpack, but the spirit of them lingered—soft, whimsical, hers.
Camila sipped her coffee again, staring at the cow.
Food brought joy. At least in her world.
And in that moment, surrounded by warmth and quiet, she allowed herself to feel it.
Camila sat in the driver's seat of her SUV, parked beneath the soft morning light. The Chick-fil-A cup rested in the console, half-full with melting ice. Her stomach was warm from breakfast, but her chest still ached. The world outside was waking slowly—birds chirping, leaves rustling, a breeze brushing the windshield like a whisper.
She reached into her white backpack and pulled out her journal—a soft leather-bound book with pressed flowers etched into the cover. It smelled faintly of lavender and ink. She flipped to a blank page, clicked her pen, and began to write.
> *October 18, 2030. Saturday morning.
> I left. I really left.
> I packed my life into boxes and bags and drove away from the man I thought I'd grow old with.
> I saw the photos. I saw the truth.
> And I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I just walked away.
> I don't know what comes next.
> But I know I deserve peace.
> I know I deserve honesty.
> I know I deserve love that doesn't ask me to shrink.*
She paused, her pen hovering. A tear slid down her cheek, landing on the page. She didn't wipe it away. She let it stain the paper.
> *I'm going to Mom and Dad's house.
> I don't know what I'll say.
> I just need to be somewhere soft.
> Somewhere safe.*
She closed the journal, tucked it back into her bag, and started the engine.
The drive to her parents' house in St Charles Missouri was quiet. The roads were familiar—lined with trees she'd climbed as a child, sidewalks she'd skipped along in summer sandals. Her fingers gripped the wheel gently, her eyes scanning the horizon like it held answers.
She turned onto their street, her heart thudding. The house came into view—white siding, green shutters, a porch swing that creaked in the wind. The garden was still blooming, marigolds and mums bursting with color. Her father's truck was parked in the driveway. Her mother's wind chimes sang softly in the breeze.
Camila parked at the curb, turned off the engine, and sat still for a moment.
Then she stepped out.
Her sneakers crunched against the gravel as she walked up the path. She carried only her backpack, the rest of her belongings tucked safely in the trunk. She climbed the porch steps slowly, each one a memory.
She knocked.
The door opened almost instantly.
Her mother stood there—soft curls pinned back, apron dusted with flour, eyes wide with surprise and concern. Her father appeared behind her, tall and quiet, his brow furrowed.
"Camila?" her mother whispered.
Camila's lips trembled. "Can I come in?"
Her mother opened her arms. "Baby, you never have to ask."
Camila stepped inside, into the scent of cinnamon and warmth. Her father closed the door gently behind her. The house wrapped around her like a blanket.
She didn't speak right away.
She just cried.
And they let her.