Chapter 3

Isla

My day starts off differently today. It’s my day off, and each day off is different for me.

I wake up later than usual, sunlight already filling the room through the single window of my studio apartment. There is no alarm. No uniform waiting for me on the chair. No radio chatter, no steel doors or schedules to follow today.

I stretch in bed and roll onto my side, reaching for the book I left on my nightstand last night.

It’s a romance novel. One of those dramatic ones with glossy covers and unrealistic men. The story is about a woman in her forties who falls in love with a billionaire ten years younger than her. The plot is ridiculous, but I like it anyway. The woman has been divorced, cheated on, and overlooked, and now suddenly she’s being adored by someone who wants her for exactly who she is.

I like that for her. She has suffered enough.

I sit up against my pillows and read for a while, flipping pages slowly, letting time pass without watching it. Outside, I hear a car horn and someone laughing. My phone buzzes once on the dresser, but I don’t check it.

My apartment is quiet and clean. The bed is against the wall, covered with dark blue silk sheets. A small couch sits across from it with a throw blanket folded over one arm. There’s a short table between them that I use for eating and paperwork. My kitchen is along one wall, narrow but functional, with a microwave, a coffee machine, and a stove I don’t use often.

There are framed photos on the shelf. My mother. Me and Rissa from work at the beach last year. I remember how the photo came to be. Rissa was new last year and didn’t have any friends, so when I got home from work, I told my mum about her. She came over the very next day and took both of us to the beach.

I miss that version of her so much.

There’s a photo of my sister that I don’t usually look at for too long.

I read until my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten.

I get up and make coffee, then toast two slices of bread and spread butter on them. I eat standing by the counter while skimming another chapter.

After that, I decide to start my laundry.

I collect clothes from the hamper and sort them on the bed. Whites in one pile, colors in another. I carry them to the small laundry room down the hall of the building and start a load.

When I come back inside, I wipe down the kitchen counters and rinse the coffee mug. The place doesn’t really need cleaning, but I like knowing everything is in order. It keeps everything in check, plus double-checking never hurts.

I vacuum the rug near the couch and straighten the pillows. Then I sit back on the bed and return to my book.

The woman in the novel is finally admitting she wants more than just safety. She wants desire. She wants someone who looks at her like she matters.

“About time,” I say quietly.

It’s the only thing I say out loud all day.

Around noon, I move my laundry into the dryer, because the washer is that slow, and come back to shower. I let the water run hot and stand there longer than necessary. When I’m done, I wrap myself in a towel and open the window a little to let in fresh air.

My phone rings while I’m getting dressed.

“Isla,” Rissa says, “tell me you’re not asleep.”

“It’s my day off,” I say.

“So?”

“I’m doing nothing on purpose.”

She laughs. “Must be nice. I’m stuck doing overtime.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” I say, chuckling.

“I hate you.”

“Lie better,” I tell her.

We hang up after a minute. We usually just call to check up on each other, mostly. 

I iron my uniform in the afternoon. Shirt first, then pants. I hang everything neatly in the wardrobe so I don’t have to think about it tomorrow morning. The iron hisses softly as I press the creases.

The apartment smells like warm fabric and detergent.

When my laundry is dry, I fold it and put it away. I make my bed properly this time, smoothing the sheets and lining up the pillows.

I order food on my phone and eat at the small table near the window. A steak. Medium. With vegetables. I scroll through my phone while I eat, stopping on nothing in particular.

From where I sit, I can see part of the street below. People walk past with grocery bags, and dogs and headphones in. Someone across the street is arguing on the phone. A delivery truck blocks the road for a minute.

I don’t think about work much. I don’t think about inmates or bars or locked doors. Tomorrow exists, but it’s not here yet.

After eating, I wash the dishes and wipe down the table. I change back into loose clothes and go back to my book.

By the time the sun starts to set, I’m near the end of it. The woman and her billionaire finally admit they love each other. It’s dramatic and rushed and unrealistic.

I close the book and place it on the nightstand.

My apartment is quiet again. Clean. Ready for tomorrow.

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

Another day off done.

Tomorrow will be different.

I’m setting an early alarm for tomorrow when my sister’s name appears on my screen. I ignore the first call until it stops, but she calls again. If I don’t answer, she’ll keep calling until I either turn off my phone or mute it and put it away.

I pick up the third time it rings.

“Isla,” she says softly from the other end of the line.

“Elara.”

“You’re ignoring me again,” she says, because she already knows.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know how my baby sister is doing.”

“She’s doing fine. Bye.” I’m about to end the call when she rushes to stop me.

“Isla, I’ll keep saying I’m sorry until you forgive me. I really am sorry for what I did.”

I don’t answer. The words still hurt, and I won’t lie about forgiving her when I haven’t. It’s going to take time. More time than she wants to give me.

I want to end the call. I want the sound of her voice to disappear. But I can’t.

I miss my sister. This is all I allow myself to have of her now, her voice, every time she calls.

I’m just not ready to forgive.

I was nineteen when it happened. Old enough to know what love was. Old enough to believe my sister would never hurt me.

At first, I didn’t understand why everything suddenly felt wrong. Why the person I trusted most wouldn’t meet my eyes. Why my chest hurt in a way that didn’t go away after a day or a week. I kept replaying conversations in my head, trying to find the exact moment things shifted. The sentence. The look. The pause that should have warned me.

I cried alone in my room, crying into my pillow because I didn’t want anyone else hearing me cry. My throat would burn, my eyes would swell, and I’d tell myself I was fine even as my hands shook. 

It wasn’t just what she did. It was what it meant.

It meant I wasn’t as important. That my happiness was something she could move around like furniture. That the person who raised me, who protected me, who promised she always would, had chosen something else over me.

After that, everything between us became careful. Polite. Distant. We talked, but we didn’t say anything real. We stood in the same rooms but never felt close. Every conversation felt like walking across thin glass.

I stopped telling her things. I stopped trusting her with the parts of me that mattered. I learned how to keep my voice neutral, how to smile without meaning it, how to pretend nothing was wrong when everything was.

Then one day, I left.

Not dramatically. Not with a fight. I just… didn’t come back.

It’s been seven years now.

I haven’t seen her face in person since I was nineteen. I only know what she sounds like when she calls. Her voice still carries the same warmth, the same softness. Sometimes it makes my chest tighten. Sometimes it makes me angry.

She says she’s sorry. Over and over. Like repetition can undo time.

I shouldn’t still be angry at her after all this time, but somehow, I am. I think I stayed mad for so long that I only kept the bad memories of her, and now I struggle to remember the good ones.

Some nights, I still cry. Because I miss who she used to be to me. My sister. My person. The one who was supposed to stand beside me, not against me.

I don’t hate her.

That’s the worst part.

I still love her. I just don’t know how to let her back in without losing myself again.