CHP-3

The sound of traffic is the first thing I hear when I wake up.

Not birdsong. Not the rustling of canvas. Not my mother’s voice calling my name from the kitchen downstairs, or my fathers laughter. Those are ghosts now—echoes from another life.

This is the present.

And the present smells like coffee and city air, warm croissants from the bakery downstairs, and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo that isn’t mine.

I blink up at the ceiling fan in our tiny apartment, counting the slow, wobbling rotations like they're a lullaby. Then—

The kettle was screaming again, and so was Rhea.

“Arabella! Your demon water is possessed!” she shrieked from the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon like a wand as steam billowed behind her.

“It’s called tea, Rhea.” I peeked over the top of my book, lounging on the couch in my favorite hoodie—the one with paint stains I pretended were intentional.

“It’s called black smoke and the scent of doom,” she shot back, pulling the kettle off the burner and fanning herself with a paper plate. “If I die in this kitchen, tell my mother I died being fabulous.”

“You’re in fuzzy socks with a hole in one toe, and your bun is so messy.”

“Exactly. Tragic and beautiful.”

That was Rhea—part-time law student, full-time drama queen. We met a few months ago when I moved to the city with my younger brother, Elias. She had a spare room, a cat that hated me, and a personality big enough to rival a telenovela cast. I liked her immediately. Not because she asked too many questions (which she did), but because she filled the silence I’d been living in.

This city was a restart. a blurry, frantic escape from the past with nothing but Elias, a sketchbook, and a hope that anonymity might keep us safe. I hadn’t painted much since the exhibit, but every now and then, the compulsion came creeping back.

“Arabella!” Elias barreled into the living room like a mini tornado, all limbs and pre-teen boy energy. “Rhea said I could have cookies for dinner. Is that true or just her ‘chaotic neutral’ phase again?”

“Both,” I said, catching the book before he knocked it out of my hands. “And didn’t we talk about not using D&D alignment charts to justify poor decisions?”

“I’m chaotic good,” he grinned. “I bring joy.”

“You bring crumbs.”

“Same thing.”

He grabbed a cookie anyway, stuffed it in his mouth, and flopped down next to me. Elias was fourteen now, smart, sarcastic, and still in that in-between phase where he could be both painfully insightful and completely disgusting in under three minutes.

“You should draw Rhea’s face right now,” he said, pointing at her. “She looks like an angry frog Princess.”

“I will smite you both,” Rhea said dramatically, standing in the kitchen doorway with a spatula held high. “And then I’ll bake cupcakes for your funeral. Red velvet. Extra sprinkles.”

I snorted. “At least make mine lemon. I deserve something zesty.”

“Girl, you haven’t had zest since you moved here. You’ve been brooding like a vampire in an indie film.”

“Excuse me,” I said, mock offended. “I’ll have you know my brooding is elegant and well-curated.”

“She’s in her ‘tortured artist’ arc,” Elias said, rolling his eyes. “It’s, like, a whole thing.”

“I hate you both,” I muttered, grinning.

The truth was, I had been withdrawn since we got here. Moving cities after… everything… wasn’t easy. But Rhea had a way of pulling me out of my head, dragging me into dumb conversations about celebrity crushes and viral dances, and reminding me that there was still light—even if I didn’t always feel it.

“I saw this job listing today,” Rhea said later, flopping onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn. “Something at a publishing company, Aragon Enterprises or something. You’d look hot as an assistant.”

“I’d look hot eating peanut butter in a cave, but that doesn’t mean I should,” I replied.

“Touché. But seriously. You need to, like, interact with society. Or at least men. Hot ones. Who wear ties and look like they bite.”

“Ew,” Elias groaned.

“Sorry, baby, grown-up talk,” Rhea winked.

“I’m literally fourteen.”

“Exactly. Time to start learning what red flags look like.”

I laughed. “If I wanted red flags, I’d just open my old texts.”

“Ooooh!” Rhea held her hand up for a high-five. “Tell me everything. Who was he? The one who gave you your ‘tragic painter’ complex?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh my god, even better. That means he was hot and toxic. Spill.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“I will sit on you and tickle you until you confess.”

“She’s not bluffing,” Elias added, mouth full of popcorn. “She did it to me when I wouldn’t admit I liked Encanto.”

“You loved Encanto.”

“WE DON’T TALK ABOUT THAT!”

The room dissolved into giggles. For a few moments,

“Okay,” Rhea declared, legs flung over the arm of the couch like she owned it—which, technically, she did. “We’re doing this. Full girl mode. Arabella, spill your last situationship. Start to heartbreak.”

I buried my face in the throw pillow. “Why do you want me to relive my emotional trauma like it’s a N*****x special?”

“Because I am your therapist, best friend, stylist, and future bridesmaid. Also, I’m nosy, and there’s no new Bridgerton season yet. So talk, woman.”

I groaned. “Fine. His name was Dimitri.”

Elias perked up from the floor like a meerkat. “Wait, was he the guy who used to send you sad poetry at midnight when you were back from school during holidays?”

“Yes,” I muttered.

“Oh my God, you dated a Tumblr poet,” Rhea gasped, grabbing a couch cushion like it offended her personally. “What was his star sign?”

“Scorpio.”

“I KNEW IT. Scorpios are walking, talking warning labels wrapped in sex appeal and spiritual trauma.

“Oh my God, no,” I wailed, dramatically collapsing.

I sighed. “It was college. I was twenty- one. Emotionally unstable. Thought brooding men were deep instead of just emotionally constipated.”

“You were twenty-one?” Rhea blinked. “That was four years ago?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. My parents had just died the year before. I was nineteen, barely functioning, and he... showed up like a badly written novel.”

“Did he quote love statements during foreplay too?” she asked

“Once,” I admitted.

“I need holy water.”

“Right?” I groaned, laughing despite myself. “And he always smelled like i can't really describe.”

“Girl, that guy was a scented candle with intimacy issues.”

Elias muttered, “I hate this conversation,” and shoved his earbuds in.

Rhea scooted closer, eyes gleaming. “But how was the you-know-what?”

I raised a brow. “You mean the trauma or the sex?”

“Both. But mostly the sex.”

“Ugh,” I rolled my eyes. “It was… fine. Moody. Like he was auditioning for a perfume ad but in bed.”

“Moody sex is so overhyped,” Rhea sighed. “Give me a man who laughs during foreplay and eats my pussy like his rent depends on it.”

“RH—”

“I SAID WHAT I SAID.”

I was wheezing. “You need help.”

“I need a man who knows how to make pancakes and doesn’t ghost me after three days. Speaking of, did you even finish, or was he one of those ‘Did you cum?’ types?”

I choked. “RHEA.”

“Answer the question, coward.”

I buried my face again. “No, okay? He was the kind of guy who thinks making eye contact afterward counts as emotional intimacy.”

Rhea let out a noise that sounded like a dying goat. “Disgusting. I swear, men under six feet shouldn’t be allowed to be that emotionally unavailable.”

“He was six-two.”

“Then he had no excuse! I hope his Spotify crashes.”

We both cackled.

After a few seconds, she poked me. “So… have you had anyone since?”

I made a face. “No. Been kinda busy avoiding emotional collapse.”

“Yeah, but like, emotionally collapsing with someone is more fun.”

“Rhea…”

“I’m just saying! Look, I know you’ve been through hell, but you’re here now. And you’re hot. Like, main-character-walking-slow-mo-into-a-party hot. It’s time.”

“For what?”

“For me to dress you up and throw you into the jungle.”

“That sounds unsafe.”

“I’ll be your spirit guide. Like hot Rafiki.”

I was laughing too hard to argue.

She suddenly grabbed my phone off the coffee table and began scrolling. “You need to d******d a dating app. Something spicy. I’m thinking... BiteMe.”

“Please tell me that’s not real.”

“Not yet. But it should be. No vampires, just red flags and sexual tension.”

I stole my phone back. “Absolutely not. I don’t need a man right now.”

Rhea crossed her arms. “That’s not what your vibrator said when it died mid-shift last week.”

“OH MY GOD. THAT WAS PRIVATE.”

“I had to hold a funeral for it, Arabella. It deserved better.”

Elias ripped his earbuds out. “I’m literally RIGHT HERE.”

“Go to your room!”

“Gladly. Adults are weird.”

He stomped out dramatically, mumbling something about never trusting women who own too many scented candles.

Rhea waited until his door clicked shut before whispering, “Okay but seriously. When’s the last time you even kissed someone?”

I hesitated.

“Don’t make that face,” she said, eyes wide. “Arabella. No. You haven’t kissed anyone in, like, over a YEAR?!”

I shrugged. “Does kissing Elias on the cheek count?”

“DO NOT SAY THINGS LIKE THAT. MY SOUL IS DRYING UP.”

“Sorry I’m not out here making out with baristas and bad decisions like you.”

“Excuse you, I’m very selective. I only make out with baristas who know my name and spell it right.”

“I bet you gave them a fake name like Beyoncé.”

“I give them ‘Morticia.’ Sets the tone.”

I was crying laughing.

“But seriously, babe,” she said after a beat, her voice gentler. “You deserve to feel wanted again. Not by some walking cigarette with a tragic past. By someone good. Someone who makes you laugh. Someone who listens. Someone who—”

“Rhea.”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate it. I do. But right now, I just… I don’t even know what I want. Except maybe croissants and peace of mind.”

She nodded, leaning her head on my shoulder. “We can start there.”

We sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the city filtering through the open window: cars honking, someone yelling about fried plantains,.

And for once, I didn’t feel broken.

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