98

THEA

I wake up with heat clawing down my spine.

Like I’ve been running… or burning.

Or dreaming of something I can't remember.

My eyes blink open, heavy with something I can’t place. The ceiling is familiar. The light slanting through the curtains is gold, warm, soft. It’s morning.

But I don’t feel rested.

I feel… wrong.

My throat is dry. My chest aches. Not like a cold or flu, not like something I can take medicine for but like I’ve been crying all night without knowing.

Like I lost something in the dark.

And now daylight has arrived but it didn’t bring it back.

I sit up slowly, my limbs sluggish and sore, my skin too hot. I press the back of my hand to my forehead and pull it away quickly. Burning.

Am I sick?

It feels like fever, like my blood’s trying to climb out of me.

But it’s not just my body.

It’s my heart.

There’s something… wrong with it.

Like it’s trying to remember a rhythm it once danced to. Like a song I forgot the words to, but the melody still aches in my bones.

I breathe in.

It doesn’t help.

I breathe out.

It still hurts.

My gaze drifts across the room—everything is exactly where I left it. The books by the lamp. My coat flung over the chair. Finn’s drawing pinned to the wall.

Finn.

I blink slowly, trying to piece it together.

What happened yesterday?

The memory comes in blurry flashes. Shirley. I called Shirley to keep him overnight.

Why?

Because I felt… off.

That’s right. I wasn’t feeling great. My head had been pounding, my skin warm. I told her I didn’t want Finn catching whatever this is.

But this?

This doesn’t feel like the flu.

It feels like… mourning.

Like an extension of the day after my divorce with Sebastian.

And I don’t know why.

I inhale shakily as I slide my legs over the bed, standing on feet that don’t feel like mine. The floor is cold under my soles. My head swims a little, like I'd cried myself to sleep. My breath hitches as I cross to the mirror, but I don’t even look at it.

I’m scared of what I’ll see.

Not physically.

But in my eyes.

Because something inside me feels fractured.

Why does it hurt?

Why does it feel like someone pressed their mouth to mine and left behind silence?

Why do I feel loved and abandoned at the same time?

My fingers graze over my sternum like I can soothe the ache there. My heart pulses under my touch as I tug my knitted sweater over my skin while I take a step toward the door.

I think I need air.

I need—

I don’t know what I need.

Maybe that’s what hurts most.

I open the door and step into the hallway, the morning sun kissing the floor, warm and bright and blinding.

But it doesn’t touch me.

I feel nothing.

And I don’t know why that makes me want to cry.

The stairs creak softly under my weight, the way they always do. The rhythm of my feet knows the path by heart, but my body feels like it’s moving through fog.

I reach the last step and pause.

The living room is warm. The curtains are half-open, sunlight painting soft lines on the floor. It’s a quiet, ordinary morning. The kind people pray for.

But something about it feels misplaced.

I let my eyes linger on the window before walking to the kitchen. My fingers move without thinking, reaching for the kettle. I make the coffee the way I always do—two spoons, one spoon of sugar, just like I like it.

At least, I think I do.

I don’t know why that doubt creeps in.

I pour the hot liquid into my favorite mug, the one with the faded blue letters that say "CEO of my own damn life." I stare at the steam as it curls up.

Then I turn toward the couch and I see it.

My phone.

Sitting there. Quiet.

Just lying on the couch cushion.

And that’s… wrong.

Because I never leave it there. It always stays on my dresser, always. I didn’t even check it this morning because I don’t reach for it first thing when I wake. That’s a rule I made. A habit.

But it’s there.

Like someone left it for me to find.

I set my mug down slowly and walk over, bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. I pick up the phone.

The screen lights up.

And the first thing I see is the notification from my bank app.

A transfer. A large one. Several thousand dollars to Shirley.

I frown, unlocking the phone.

And there it is.

Sent: 3:22 AM. Tuesday.

I blink.

3:22 AM? Tuesday?

Why?

I scroll up. No message with it, no note, no voice note.

Just… money.

Today is Saturday. How come?

My mouth parts slightly, brows pulling together. The pressure in my skull sharpens like a knife behind my eyes.

I wince, touching my forehead.

Why can’t I remember?

I try to rewind—to think back to yesterday and the day before. But it’s like walking into a locked room in my mind. The harder I push against the door, the harder my head pounds. My breath shortens,  chest tightening.

I breathe in. Then out.

I tell myself it’s fine. Maybe I was just worried. Maybe I thought Shirley deserved it. Maybe I was tired. Or sick. Or delirious with fever.

I tell myself anything that will make this not feel like something’s wrong.

I shake it off with a forced breath, fingers trembling slightly as I tap open her chat and type:

"Hey. I'm coming to pick up Finn this morning. Hope he was okay overnight."

I hit send.

And then I just sit there.

Phone in hand.

Coffee forgotten.

Heart too loud in my chest.

Something happened.

I know it.

But every time I try to look inside myself, there’s a wall I can’t climb. A veil I can’t lift.

A name I can’t find.

A grief I can’t explain.

It’s like losing someone in a dream.

And waking up with your pillow soaked in tears… but no memory why.