Page 11

Eleven

The sunlight didn’t wake me.

It was the quiet.

I opened my eyes slowly, the ceiling above me painted in streaks of gold, filtered through the familiar curtains I hadn’t seen in years. My old bedroom looked like it had been vacuum-sealed in time. Same dusty shelves. Same crooked poster edges held up by aging tape. Even the soft scent of vanilla and old books lingered in the air, like it had been waiting for me to breathe it in.

For a second—just one—I could almost pretend I’d never left.

But the comfort didn’t quite settle.

There was something off in the stillness. Like the room was holding its breath too.

I sat up, dragging my fingers through my hair as I reached for my phone.

One new text.

Lena: You better not flake. Ethan already ordered your usual.

I smiled. Soft. Real. But when I tried to laugh, it caught in my throat.

I typed back.

Me: You two are chaos. I’ll be there soon.

Lena: Good. We’ve got stories to tell. Bring your face.

I stretched, wincing as a muscle in my shoulder popped. My body didn’t feel like it had earned this kind of rest. Like the peace I’d slipped into overnight hadn’t been mine to take.

A chill threaded down my spine.

Not from fear.

Just recognition.

The sense that something had shifted in the silence while I slept—and whatever it was, it had let me rest on purpose.

I stood slowly, trying to shake it off.

Just nostalgia.

Just old shadows.

Just my mind catching up with my body.

Still, I caught myself glancing toward the bookshelf before I left the room.

Not at anything specific.

But something in me… paused.

And then kept walking.

The drive into town was too familiar.

Every crack in the road. Every peeling sign. Every storefront that hadn’t changed since I was seventeen. I passed the old gas station where we used to sneak energy drinks before late-night drives. The corner bookstore with its sun-bleached "Help Wanted" sign still taped to the window. The diner where I first learned what heartbreak tasted like.

It was all still here.

And I wasn’t sure if that made me feel grounded or haunted.

The café sat nestled between a pawn shop and a florist, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. The hand-painted sign still read Marigold & Honey , the lettering chipped in the same place it always had been, like time had decided to leave this one thing alone.

I hesitated on the threshold, fingers brushing the handle. A faint buzz stirred in the back of my head—not a voice, not a pull. Just… anticipation. A hush waiting to be broken.

Inside, Lena waved like a lighthouse in a storm, her hair up in a messy bun and her eyes already sparkling with sarcasm.

Ethan didn’t bother waving. He just raised his brow and pushed a coffee toward the empty seat across from him.

I exhaled, the door clicking shut behind me.

The warmth hit first.

Then the smell—coffee, cinnamon, something citrusy.

And then Lena’s voice, full of too much affection to be casual. “About time, Sleeping Beauty. I was about to send Ethan to drag you out by your ponytail.”

“I would’ve,” Ethan said dryly. “I have no shame.”

I slid into the seat across from them, the hum of conversation and clinking mugs wrapping around me like a lullaby I’d forgotten I knew.

“I’ve been up,” I lied, sipping the coffee. It tasted like memory.

“You look better,” Lena said gently. “Brighter. More like… you.”

I smiled, but it felt like trying on an old jacket that didn’t quite fit.

Maybe I was brighter.

Lena launched into a story about her latest date-from-hell, complete with dramatic reenactments and espresso-fueled outrage. I sipped my coffee and laughed when I was supposed to, but it didn’t feel forced. Not exactly. It felt like slipping into an old hoodie—worn in the elbows, familiar in the best way. I’d missed this. The way Lena rolled her eyes like a punchline, the way Ethan tapped his spoon against the rim of his mug when he was holding back a comment he knew would get him smacked.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

Ethan finally chimed in mid-rant, mouth full of croissant. “You have got to stop dating people who say their favorite movie is Fight Club unironically.”

Lena threw a sugar packet at him. “I’m trying! It’s not my fault red flags are so good at hiding behind jawlines and leather jackets.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. The kind that shook something loose in my chest, something small and rusted that hadn’t moved in months. It felt good. It felt like remembering who I was before everything bent sideways.

“You’re still seeing that art therapist guy, right?” I asked, nudging my cup toward her half-eaten muffin.

Lena grimaced. “He made me paint my inner child in his studio. Told me my ‘trauma colors’ were blocking my third eye.”

Ethan snorted so hard he choked on his drink. “That sounds like a hate crime.”

“It was,” Lena said, tossing her napkin onto her plate. “Against taste. Anyway, I walked out after he tried to smudge me with palo santo and asked if my aura had abandonment issues.”

“Oh my God ,” I said, trying not to wheeze. “You attract so many broken men.”

“I attract projects, ” she corrected, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s a curse.”

Ethan leaned back with a lazy grin. “At least you don’t go full hermit and vanish off the face of the earth.”

I shot him a look, but it didn’t sting. Not like it would have a few weeks ago.

“That was a one-time thing,” I said lightly. “I’m back now.”

Lena caught my eye then—something sharper flickering behind her smile. “Are you?”

I hesitated, fingers brushing the rim of my mug. “I think so.”

It wasn’t a lie.

But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

They didn’t press. The conversation drifted into easier things after that—mutual friends, gossip, someone’s wedding that neither of them wanted to attend. I let it wash over me like background noise in a memory I wasn’t ready to let go of. For a little while, I let myself believe this was how things could stay.

Just coffee.

Just old friends.

Just Dawn.