Page 44

HARPER

The air smells like sea salt and oranges.

I'm barefoot on the old tile of our kitchen in Florida, the one with the sun-bleached grout and that tiny chip by the sink from where I dropped a mug when I was twelve.

There's a breeze pushing in through the open window above the counter, rustling the pale yellow curtains.

Outside, I hear the distant cry of gulls and the soft hush of waves from just down the road, like the ocean is breathing in sync with me.

It feels so familiar it aches.

The light is golden and low, late afternoon, filtering through the blinds in long warm stripes.

I look down and realize I'm wearing my old cut-off shorts, the ones I outgrew in high school, and a faded T-shirt with a cracked camera graphic on it.

I lift my fingers to my face—they're smaller, softer.

My nails are painted the same chipped coral pink my mom used to paint for me. I look twelve. Maybe thirteen.

But I don't feel like I'm thirteen.

Everything is vivid, too bright around the edges. The silence hums. There's a strange clarity to it, like when you wake up after crying and everything feels raw, but clean.

"Hey, baby girl."

My body freezes.

My mother stands in the doorway, barefoot like me, in an old cotton sundress with tiny blue flowers on it.

Her curls are pinned up off her neck, loose pieces falling around her face, and she looks young.

Not like how she looked near the end, frail and faded, her skin paper-thin, her bones too sharp for her body.

No, this is her before—before the hospitals and the oxygen machines.

This is her how I want to remember her. Strong. Glowing. Beautiful.

She's holding a lemon in one hand and a paring knife in the other, like she's about to make something—tea or maybe that lemon sugar she used to put on toast. She smiles at me like she's been waiting for me. Like this moment is normal.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, honey." Her voice is soft, exactly as I remember it. She sets the lemon down and walks toward me, the sunlight catching on the silver in her earrings, her bare arms warm and familiar. "You okay?"

I stare at her. My chest aches. My eyes burn. "Mom. Mom. I didn't get to say goodbye."

The words rip right out of me, sudden and uninvited.

I don't even know if I mean to say them, but once they're out, I can't stop.

"I didn't get to say it," I whisper. "You were there, and then you weren't. And I was so angry. At you. At everything. I was supposed to be there, and I wasn't. I never said goodbye."

My voice breaks. My hands are shaking. And before I even realize I've moved, I'm in her arms. She wraps me up without hesitation, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other rubbing gentle circles across my back, like she used to when I had stomach aches or bad dreams. Her body is solid and warm and real.

So real it scares me.

I can smell her skin—sunblock and that peach-scented lotion she kept on her nightstand. I breathe her in like I'm drowning.

"I know, baby," she says into my hair. "I know you didn't get the chance. But I knew. I always knew how much you loved me. You don't have to carry that anymore. Please– don't feel guilty. I felt your love, I wasn't alone. I never was."

I shake my head, still clinging to her. "I thought I had more time. I thought—"

"I know." She pulls back enough to cup my face in her hands.

Her eyes are damp, but clear. "You were doing your best. And it's okay.

I promise, it's okay. I don't blame you, you shouldn't blame yourself because I love you, Harper.

You were the best thing that happened to me.

I want you to live your life, be happy, laugh, and be free. Be loved."

I swallow hard. "Do you see me now? Do you see what I've done with my life?"

Her smile grows, soft and radiant. "I am so proud of you. You hear me? I see you. Every day. You're so brave. So kind. You've made something beautiful out of the hardest things. And you've let someone love you."

Her words land so precisely, like she's reaching into my chest and settling them next to all the broken pieces I've carried around for years.

"I didn't know if I could," I whisper. "Let someone love me like that. I don't think I deserve it."

"You did," my mother says. "You let her in. And that girl—Millie? She loves you with her whole heart. I couldn't have picked someone better if I tried."

I laugh through the tears, my voice cracking. "You picked her?"

She grins. "Meh. Maybe it was the universe, but if someone asks just tell them it was me. But she's got you, baby. You're in good hands now. Have you seen that family? They love you, they treat you like you're one of them. Just stay there, sweetheart. They'll love you forever."

You're my universe, Mom.

I look at her. Her freckles. The slope of her nose. The little scar near her lip from when she fell off her bike as a kid. I want to memorize her all over again. Etch her into my mind. Just a little longer. Just one more minute.

But the kitchen is fading. The smell of lemons and sea salt is growing distant. Her hands feel lighter, less tangible. My grip slips.

"Wait," I whisper. "Don't go yet. Please—just stay. Mom. Mommy."

She leans in and presses her forehead to mine. Her voice is soft as a breeze.

"I'm with you, Harper. Always."

And then she's gone.

The kitchen disappears. The light fades. And I wake up—

Tears soaking the pillow, my breath caught in my throat. My heart racing.

I still feel her lips on my forehead, her arms around me.

My chest hurts from how tightly the grief grabs hold of me, like I can't breathe through it.

Like I'm still trying to hold onto her even though she's already gone.

The pillow is damp beneath my cheek and my body's trembling, the kind of shaking that doesn't come from cold but from something rawer, older.

Millie doesn't stir when I slip out of her arms, and I move carefully, not because I think she'll wake—she sleeps like a log—but because leaving her warmth feels like pulling away from the surface of the sun.

My limbs are heavy with everything I dreamed, every word I didn't get to say in real life but just heard in the deepest part of me.

I don't know if it was my mind giving me closure, or something more, something real.

It doesn't matter. I felt her. I heard her voice.

I smelled her hair and held her body and looked into her eyes and knew—knew—she was proud of me.

And still, my chest aches. Not in the way it used to, sharp and cold and unbearable, but in a quieter way now. A longing that hums low in my ribs, a bruise that doesn't hurt to press on, but reminds me of what once was. Of who I was. Of who I've become.

I don't bother putting on more than Millie's oversized hoodie that's draped over the chair in the corner of her room.

It swallows me completely, hanging past my thighs, the sleeves pushing past my knuckles.

It smells like her. It grounds me more than anything else could right now.

My feet are bare as I pad softly into the kitchen, still caught in the in-between, the dream clinging to my skin like sea mist.

The apartment is quiet, morning light stretching slowly through the windows, golden and drowsy.

The kind of light that makes everything feel slower, softer, like the world hasn't fully woken up yet.

I flip on the coffee machine and start pulling ingredients from the fridge and cabinets.

Eggs. Butter. Bread. Strawberries Millie bought yesterday because I offhandedly mentioned I'd been craving them.

It's all so mundane, so simple. But maybe that's what makes it sacred.

I crack the eggs into a bowl and whisk, letting the rhythmic motion settle something in me.

Every sound—the sizzle of the pan, the hum of the fridge, the low gurgle of the coffee maker—feels louder in the silence.

More alive. My hands move on instinct, muscle memory guiding me through every step of making French toast the way my mom used to.

A dash of cinnamon. A bit of vanilla. Not too much milk.

She always said the secret was in soaking the bread just long enough.

My throat tightens again at the thought.

It's not just the dream. It's the contrast. How different everything feels now.

Back then, I never thought I'd get to have this—this quiet morning, this borrowed hoodie, this feeling of safety.

Of belonging. I never thought I'd find someone who saw me the way Millie does.

Not just the curated version, not just the girl behind the camera—but me.

All of me. The raw, aching, healing parts.

I flip the toast in the pan, carefully golden on one side, and glance toward the hallway.

Millie's still sleeping. I imagine her curled on her side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other probably sprawled out across my half of the bed.

Her hair messy. Her mouth slightly open.

She'd looked so peaceful when I left, like she could sleep through a hurricane.

And suddenly, I miss her. Ten minutes out of her arms and I miss her like she's an entire coastline I used to live on.

I plate the toast—three pieces stacked, dusted with powdered sugar, berries arranged on top like I actually know what I'm doing.

I pour the coffee, hers just the way she likes it—black with a hint of cinnamon and sugar—and mine with way too much milk.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and caramelized sugar and warmth.

I set the plates down at the table and stand there for a second, just breathing.

I hear the creak of the bedroom door before I see her, and when I turn around, Millie's standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed and rumpled and beautiful in the kind of way that guts me. She blinks at me, then at the table, then back again, rubbing a hand through her messy hair.

"You okay?" she asks, her voice still thick with sleep.

I nod, eyes stinging again. "Yeah. I just... I wanted to do something for you. Although, it might taste like shit."

Millie crosses the room in three quick steps and wraps her arms around me from behind, burying her face in the crook of my neck. Her voice is low, warm against my skin, "You're a dream, Harper. You're my dream."

'She loves you with her whole heart. I couldn't have picked someone better if I tried.'

I lean back into her. Let myself be held.

Let the weight of the morning fall away in her arms. Her arms stay around me for a long time, her chin hooked over my shoulder, her breath steady and warm against my skin.

Neither of us speaks right away. The kind of silence that sits between us isn't heavy—it's familiar.

Safe. Like we've both learned how to speak in touches more than words.

Eventually, I turn in her arms and press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Come eat before it gets cold."

She grins, slow and lazy, the way she always does when she first wakes up, eyes still a little hooded, voice low and scratchy. "You made me French toast. I should wake up to this every day."

I shrug like it's not a big deal, but it is. It is to me. "It felt like the kind of morning that needed it."

We sit across from each other at the table, knees brushing under the wood. Millie takes her first bite and lets out a soft, exaggerated moan. "Jesus, Harps. This is dangerously good."

I smile, cheeks warm, and tear off a piece of toast. "It's my mom's recipe."

Something shifts, just slightly, in the space between us. Millie doesn't press. She just reaches across the table, her pinky grazing mine. It's the gentlest touch, but it hits me hard. Makes the ache behind my ribs pulse again.

"I, um." I take a sip of my coffee and stare at the way the sunlight hits the steam rising from the cup. It feels easier to talk if I'm not looking directly at her. "I had a dream. About her. This morning."

Millie stills, her fork halfway to her mouth, and then she lowers it quietly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I let the word out with a breath.

My voice is softer now, fragile around the edges.

"It felt... I don't know. Real. Not in a magical way or anything.

Just... like maybe my brain finally let me go back to her.

To that time. But also... maybe not. Maybe it was something more. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking."

Millie's quiet, eyes on me, but I feel her watching the way she always does—with her full attention, like nothing else exists but what I'm saying right now.

"She looked so young," I whisper. "Younger than I ever got to see her as.

Hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, freckles across her cheeks.

She was wearing this old Gators sweatshirt she used to throw on in the mornings.

We were in our kitchen back home. The one with the ugly sunflower wallpaper and the linoleum that always peeled at the corners. "

A quiet smile tugs at the corner of Millie's mouth. "Sounds cozy."

"It was," I say, my voice catching. "And I don't think I've thought about that kitchen in years.

Not like that. Not with the light coming through the window just so, or the way her mug was always chipped at the rim but she refused to throw it away.

Everything was exactly how I remember it.

"

I draw in a slow breath, curling my fingers around the mug. "She told me she was proud of me."

The words sit there, heavy and full, like they've been waiting to be let out for years. Millie reaches across the table again and takes my hand fully this time, her thumb brushing gently over my knuckles. "Of course she is."

I blink fast. "I didn't get to say goodbye. I never got to tell her any of the things I needed to. But in the dream, I—I did. Or at least... I think I did. I told her about you."

Millie's brow lifts, her expression softening even more. "Yeah?"

I nod, biting my lip. "She said... she said she sent you to me. That I'm in good hands."

Millie swallows hard, eyes glossing just slightly. "That's... fuck, Harps."

"I don't know if I believe in any of that. You know I'm not really a signs-and-destiny kind of person. But... it felt like something. A piece of closure I didn't know I needed until I had it."

"You needed it," she says, and it's not a question. "Even if it was your brain giving you a memory to hold onto, or her actually finding a way to get to you... you needed to hear it. And I'm so glad you did."

Millie's voice settles over me like a warm blanket—steady, sure, unshaken. And it sticks with me, that she says she's glad. Like my grief and the mess it brings with it isn't something to tiptoe around. Like she'd sit with me in all of it, just to make sure I didn't have to go through it alone.

I stare at her across the table, and for a long moment, I can't look away. Her blue eyes—clear and quiet and always watching me like I'm more than I think I am—they catch the light, and I swear there's something holy in them. Something soft and devastating and good.

She takes another bite of French toast, the corner of her mouth quirking when she realizes I'm still staring. She doesn't say anything, just nudges my foot under the table and winks. It's so simple, so her, and it hits me harder than I expect.

She loves you with her whole heart.

The words come back to me all at once, my mother's voice still echoing in the back of my mind. Steady, kind, sure.

I let them sit there, trying not to give them too much weight.

But it's impossible not to look at Millie now and feel something heavy in my chest, something warm and aching and full.

Because she's still watching me like I'm a secret she's memorizing.

Like she wants to keep every version of me, even the bruised and tired and grieving parts.

She's still got toast on her fork and syrup on her bottom lip.

Her hair is mussed, cheeks a little flushed, wearing one of those threadbare tank tops she only sleeps in, the strap slipping off her shoulder.

She doesn't even notice. She never does.

And maybe that's what undoes me. The complete unselfconsciousness of her.

I start to think about all the ways she's already become a part of my life without either of us noticing it.

The little things. The way she carries my camera bag when she knows my shoulder's acting up.

How she reads my face like it's a map she's already memorized.

How she rubs my back when I can't sleep, never asking questions, just tracing slow circles with her palm until my breathing evens out.

How she calls me Harps like it's a song she's always known the words to.

And the bigger things, too. Like how she didn't flinch when I cried in her arms after that day.

How she held me like something sacred. How she didn't rush it, didn't try to fix it.

Just anchored me, body to body, like she knew I needed to come back slowly.

How she kissed my forehead before she even kissed my mouth this morning.

I think about how she looked last night, curled into me on the couch, her hand on my ribs, her breath steady against my throat.

The way she talks in her sleep sometimes—soft, sleepy murmurs that don't make sense but sound like comfort anyway.

I think about how safe I felt with her wrapped around me, how I didn't want to move even when the sun came up.

I don't say the words out loud. I don't even let them fully form in my head. But the weight of them sits there, right behind my ribcage, pressing against everything that used to be hollow.

Because if what my mom said is true—if she did send Millie to me, if there's even the smallest thread of fate woven into our story—then maybe this thing between us isn't a coincidence.

Maybe it was always meant to be. Maybe I didn't just find Millie.

Maybe she was placed right where I needed her.

At the exact time I was ready. At the exact time I thought I'd never be whole again.

Maybe it's the kind of thing people search their whole lives for and never get to find.

And the thought of that... it doesn't scare me.

It grounds me. And it terrifies me, all at once.

Not because it's too much, but because it feels like I've finally stopped running.

Because this—this morning light, this quiet kitchen, this girl in front of me in a tank top and sleep-warm eyes—feels like it's already my home.

Suddenly, I realize I've been staring again, heart caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. Millie looks up, her fork paused halfway to her mouth, an amused wrinkle forming between her brows.

"You're either planning my murder," she says, grinning, "or I lost you to another universe."

That pulls a laugh out of me, soft and shaky.

"You'd know if I was planning your murder," I say. "There'd be weapons and mysterious notes around the house."

She snorts and leans back in her chair, biting down on another piece of French toast. "Okay, yeah. You'd definitely be the most dramatic assassin. Like, full Marvel villain arc."

I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. "You're such a nerd."

"You say that like it's an insult." She licks syrup from the corner of her mouth, and for a second, I completely forget how to function. "Besides, you love it. You always stay when I start ranting about the MCU."

I hum, resting my chin in my palm as I watch her. "Yeah. I do."

And I do. God, I do. I love every ridiculous, passionate, unfiltered inch of her.

The way she talks with her hands when she's excited.

The way she sings off-key in the kitchen when she thinks I'm not listening.

The way she softens when she thinks I'm sad, even if I haven't said a word.

The way she holds space for my grief, without needing to fill it.

She loves you with her whole heart.

My chest tightens.

Because I can feel that love, in every tiny, deliberate thing Millie does. The kind of love that isn't loud or flashy, but constant. Steady. Patient. A kind of love I've only ever read about, watched from a distance, convinced it wasn't something people like me got to keep.

She reaches for her mug, eyes flicking back to mine, and even without saying a word, I can tell she knows I'm somewhere else. She doesn't push. She just slides her foot across the floor until it touches mine again, the contact feather-light but grounding.

"You okay, baby?" she asks softly.

I nod. I take a breath. I let it out slow. "Yeah. Just thinking about... everything."

Millie smiles like she understands all of it without needing the details. "Thinking too hard before coffee? Bold move."

I huff out a quiet laugh, then get up and collect our plates before she can argue about it.

She watches me move around the kitchen, her gaze warm and easy, her arms folded on the table.

I can feel her eyes on me—tracking me, but not in a possessive way.

It's something gentler. Like she's storing me away, memorizing me in my sleep shirt and bare feet and sleep-tousled hair.

Like this is just as sacred to her as the kissing, the touching, the tangled-up nights.

I rinse the plates in the sink and glance at her over my shoulder. "You want more toast?"

"Are you trying to fatten me up?"

I grin. "I'm trying to spoil you."

She shrugs, unconcerned. "Same thing."

We fall into an easy rhythm—dishes, wiping counters, stealing little touches and glances as we move around each other. Every brush of her hand at my back, every smirk, every soft, sleepy chuckle—it sinks a little deeper under my skin.

And as we clean up the kitchen together, quiet and full and steady, I realize something so simple it nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

This isn't just love.

This is living in love.

It's in the mundane. The morning breath and coffee stains. The stupid jokes and half-burnt toast. The dream that left me sobbing and the arms that held me through it.

It's in her eyes, watching me like I'm something she chooses—again and again and again.

Yeah, Mom.

I love her with my whole heart too.