Chapter 08 (Part 02)

Saturday morning arrived with golden light spilling across the faded hardwood floor like honey, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air with the kind of careless joy I'd forgotten was possible. The blessed absence of an alarm meant I woke up slowly, naturally, my body finally allowed to follow its own rhythm instead of the relentless march of corporate scheduling.

I slept in.

Not accidentally—not because I'd forgotten to set my alarm or because my phone had died—but intentionally. Deliberately. With the kind of luxurious disregard for productivity that would have horrified my work self but filled my weekend self with something that felt suspiciously like contentment.

Deliciously, beautifully, unapologetically.

I woke up to birds outside the window and the gentle hum of the city just beginning to stir. Weekend traffic moved at a different pace, less urgent, more forgiving. Even the air felt different, softer somehow, as if the atmosphere itself had decided to take a day off from the relentless pressure of achievement.

The realization that I didn't have to rush anywhere settled over me like a warm bath. No meetings. No reports. No risk of disappointing someone who never smiled anyway, whose approval seemed as elusive as smoke and twice as insubstantial.

Just time.

Unstructured, unmonitored, unapologetically mine.

I made real breakfast—not the protein bar eaten standing at the kitchen counter while checking emails, not the coffee that served as both fuel and meal replacement, but actual food prepared with attention and care. Eggs that I whisked until they were pale yellow and cooked slowly over low heat until they were creamy and perfect. Toast buttered while it was still warm enough to melt the butter into every crevice. And not one but two cups of tea, because I could, because no one was counting, because Saturday mornings were made for small rebellions against efficiency.

Milo eventually rolled into the kitchen, hair a mess of dark curls that stuck up at angles that defied both gravity and styling products, his expression carrying the particular grogginess that came from too many late nights spent creating instead of sleeping.

"You're, like, glowing," he mumbled, squinting at me as if I were too bright to look at directly.

"I slept more than five hours for once." The words came out lighter than they had any right to, tinged with something that might have been happiness if I remembered what that felt like.

"Damn. Who knew sleep was your skincare secret?" He rubbed his eyes and stumbled toward the coffee maker with the dedication of a pilgrim approaching a shrine.

"Eat your eggs," I said, sliding a plate toward him across the table. "They're still warm."

He looked at the plate—really looked at it, as if he was seeing actual food instead of whatever nutritional necessity I usually threw at him before rushing out the door—and smiled. But then his expression sobered, taking on the kind of seriousness that reminded me he wasn't just my baby brother anymore but an adult who saw things I thought I'd hidden.

"You okay, though? Like... really okay?"

The question hung in the air between us, weighted with months of abbreviated conversations and rushed goodbyes, with all the times he'd watched me leave before dawn and return after dark, carrying stress like a physical burden that bent my shoulders and tightened my jaw.

I paused, fork halfway to my mouth, considering the question with more honesty than I'd applied to anything in weeks.

Was I okay?

The automatic response—fine, busy, you know how it is—died on my lips. Because sitting here in our sun-filled kitchen, eating eggs that tasted like comfort and watching my brother's face creased with genuine concern, I realized that okay might actually be possible again.

Then I nodded, and it felt like the truth. "Yeah. I think I just needed space."

He didn't ask from what.

He didn't have to.

Instead, he poured himself orange juice from the carton—the expensive kind I'd splurged on yesterday, pulp-free and somehow tasting like sunshine—and said, "You know, you never give yourself credit for how much you carry. You're always moving. Working. Protecting. Taking care of everyone else. Maybe you don't have to fight everything alone all the time."

The words settled in my chest like seeds looking for soil, finding purchase in places I'd forgotten existed. When had someone last told me I was doing enough? When had anyone acknowledged the weight I carried instead of adding to it?

I looked at him—my baby brother, wiser than he had any right to be, old enough now to see through the armor I'd constructed so carefully—and felt something crack open inside my chest. Not breaking, but opening. Like a door I'd forgotten how to unlock.

"Thanks," I said quietly, and the word carried more weight than it had any right to.

He grinned, transformation instantaneous, the serious young man disappearing back into the irreverent kid who'd spent our childhood making me laugh despite myself. "Now tell me again how annoying I am."

"Extremely," I said, and found myself smiling—actually smiling, the kind that used real muscles and reached actual eyes.

By early evening, I'd accomplished the kind of domestic productivity that felt like meditation rather than obligation. Three loads of laundry, sorted not by efficiency but by the simple pleasure of turning chaos into order. I'd reorganized the spice cabinet—don't ask me why, it just felt right, like I was reclaiming control over small things since the large ones seemed so elusive—arranging tiny jars of oregano and paprika and cardamom in neat rows that made me unreasonably happy.

I'd even caught up on that novel I'd been too tired to read all week, the one that had been gathering dust on my nightstand like a reproach. The story pulled me in completely, characters with problems that could be solved in three hundred pages, conflicts that resolved with satisfying completeness instead of spawning endless email chains and follow-up meetings.

The afternoon passed in a haze of small pleasures: tea that I actually tasted instead of consuming, music I chose instead of whatever played in elevators and waiting rooms, silence that felt peaceful instead of ominous.

My phone buzzed just as I settled onto the couch, book in hand, ready to lose myself in someone else's story for a few more hours.

Call from: Layla 💃

The dancing emoji seemed to mock me from the screen, a small harbinger of chaos in my carefully constructed peaceful evening. I knew that ring tone, knew what it meant. Layla didn't call on Saturday evenings to chat about books or tea or the simple pleasure of doing nothing.

I groaned, long and dramatic. "Not today."

I let it ring, watching the screen light up and fade, hoping she might take the hint. That she might understand that some Saturday nights were meant for staying in, for existing quietly, for remembering what it felt like to be a person instead of a productivity unit.

It stopped.

Then buzzed again.

And again.

Incoming text:

B*tch pick up I know you're not working 😒

The message was so thoroughly Layla—direct, profane, unapologetically demanding—that despite my reluctance, I found myself almost smiling. Almost.

I sighed and answered the third time she called, resignation settling over me like a familiar coat. "Hey."

"Girl. No. Don't 'hey' me." Her voice came through the speaker with the force of a small hurricane, all energy and determination and complete disregard for anyone who might prefer a quiet evening. "Where have you been?"

"Working." The word felt automatic, the default explanation I'd been giving for weeks whenever anyone asked why I'd become a ghost haunting the periphery of my own life.

"Lame."

"Necessary."

"More like tragic. You've ghosted me for a month. A whole month! I've been texting into the void like some kind of digital hermit."

The guilt hit immediately, sharp and deserved. She was right. I had been ghosting her—ghosting everyone, really, except for Milo and the relentless demands of ValeCorp. When had my world become so small? When had I stopped making time for the people who actually wanted to spend time with me?

"I know. I'm sorry. Things have just been... a lot."

"Well, good news. You're free tonight."

I frowned, sensing the trap closing around me with the inevitability of a perfectly executed corporate maneuver. "What?"

"You heard me. I'm picking you up in an hour."

"No, Layla—" I started, but she was already steamrolling over my protests with the kind of determination that had made her a force of nature since we were teenagers.

"You don't get a say. You're coming out. You're going to remember what fun feels like. You're going to drink something that isn't tea or coffee, and you're going to dance until your feet hurt for a good reason instead of a corporate one."

"I really just want a quiet night. Maybe order takeout and—"

"I'm already in an Uber."

The words hit me like a splash of cold water. Of course she was. This was classic Layla—decide what needed to happen, then make it happen regardless of anyone else's preferences or protestations.

"Layla—"

"Don't make me kick your door in. I will do it, and you know I will. Remember sophomore year when you locked yourself in your dorm room for three days because of that asshole Brad?"

I did remember. I remembered the sound of her heels clicking down the hallway, the authority in her voice when she'd demanded I open the door, the way she'd hauled me out of my self-imposed isolation and forced me back into the world of the living.

I sighed into the receiver, defeat settling over me like dust. "Can I at least know where we're going?"

She paused for dramatic effect, and I could practically hear her grinning through the phone. When Layla paused like that, it meant she was about to drop news that would either make my night or ruin it completely.

Then, gleefully, with the kind of joy that came from orchestrating chaos:

"Where else do you think, girl? Of course we're going to the club."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, like a declaration of war against my carefully constructed peaceful evening. The club. Dancing. Crowds. Noise. Everything that felt like the opposite of the quiet sanctuary I'd been building around myself all day.

And just like that, my night was no longer mine.

I looked around the apartment—at my book waiting patiently on the coffee table, at the tea growing cold in my favorite mug, at Milo scrolling through his phone with the kind of contentment that came from being exactly where you wanted to be—and felt something like mourning for the evening I'd planned.

But there was also something else. Something that felt suspiciously like anticipation, like curiosity about who I might be when I wasn't measuring every breath against corporate expectations.

Maybe it was time to find out.