CHAPTER FOUR

Naomi 

The next morning, I woke to the vibration of my phone on the nightstand. For a moment, I lay still, staring at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains, wishing the world could stay still. But Sophie’s soft breathing next to me reminds me that the day has already begun moving.

The phone buzzes again.

I reach for it, careful not to wake Sophie, and I tap the screen.

The alumni group chat has exploded overnight.

Class 2014 —- UCLA Design Faculty

Over 300 unread messages .

I swallow the familiar heaviness in my chest. Alumni Reunions always sit like a huge stone in my heart. Too many eyes, high expectations, wagging tongue, too many memories, the people who once painted and laughed as if my body were a public spectacle.​

I scroll, feeling the old anxiety flicker.​

– Did you hear about that girl back then, Chloe?

– The one who disappeared ?

– Didn’t someone say she died ? Tumor or Something ?

– Honestly… She was a mess.​

The words hit me like heavy punches: ridiculous, cruel, careless. The same gossip from seven years ago, recycled. I took a deep breath, letting my fingers tremble for a moment before I steadied myself. The pain inside struck deeper, old wounds reopening beneath the surface.

“Mom?” Sophie murmurs, still half asleep, rubbing her eyes.

“Good morning”, I whisper softly, brushing through her hair with my fingers.

She yawns. “Am I going to school today?”

“Yes, baby.” My voice cracks lightly. I hope she didn’t notice it.​

I get up from the bed, head spinning. Those messages should not affect me the way they do. I have changed every part of myself. I have rebuilt my life, given myself a new name, worked on the way I look, and reclaimed my voice.​

And still,

Still, the words hurt.

My phone vibrates again, this time a private message.

Lina: Hi, Naomi, are you coming to the reunion? Everyone is asking about you. If you don’t come, they will think you are still hiding. Come and show them you have changed.​

I close my eyes. That’s exactly what scares me.

Showing them.

Showing myself.

Showing him.

I send her a short reply : “can’t make it, busy with work.”

A lie, but an easy one.

I toss the phone aside and start preparing breakfast, but inside me, the old dread gnaws.

The person I used to be lived in the shadows of these people’s memories, Refusing to die regardless of how much I have changed,

​

Peter 

I sit in the private consultation room, pretending to check lab reports but staring at a blank screen. My mind has refused to settle. Every patient that comes in, every chart I touch, her face sneaks in the corner of my vision.

Naomi.

Or…. whoever she truly is.

I slightly tap my fingertips against the desk, restless. I open the alumni chat for distraction. My notifications are overflowing, my old classmates discussing the upcoming reunion. I scroll, barely reading anything until a message catches my eye.

Didn’t Chloe’s tumor rumor turn out to be true?

She probably died somewhere quietly. Tragic, but honestly not surprising

My jaw clenches instantly.​

“She didn’t die,” I murmured to myself before I even realized I’m speaking

The urge to correct them is instant, violent, and irrational.

I don’t even know why. I shouldn’t care.​

Another message pops up:​

— She was so fat, remember? How did Peter even look at her? I swear he was blind in freshman year.

My fist clenched with anger.

A very rare, very specific anger I haven't felt in years.

I type before I can stop myself.​

Peter : Don’t talk about people like that. Grow up

A beat of stunned silence follows in the chat before someone responds lightly.​

— ooooh, sensitive much? Didn’t know you still cared about her.​

I close down the chat, slam the screen shut.

Why do I care?

I shouldn’t care.

I open my desk drawer without thinking, my fingers brushing the engraved silver pen.​

C.Q.

Something inside me twists.

As if on cue, Sydney knocks and enters, my sister, vibrant, confident, carrying an energy that always jars against my own.

“You look terrible”, she says bluntly.​ I sigh. “ Good morning to you, too.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “You are frowning more than usual.”​

I hesitate. “Do you ever think about the past?”

She shrugs. “You don’t even think about the present.”

I ignore her jab.

“What if,” I say, still hesitating, “a past mistake shows up again, out of nowhere?”

Her expression changes, just a fraction. She looks at me. “Did you…. See someone?”​

I look away.

“If you cared  for her back then, even a little, then don’t pretend you don’t care now.”

I stare outside the window, past the reflection of my face.​

Care.

It's not that simple.

​

Naomi 

After dropping Sophie at school, I drive toward my workplace, the rain erasing into a fine mist. LA traffic along Wilshire, brake lights glowing red like a line of bleeding soldiers, my thoughts shift back, uninvited, to the phase of my life I tried the hardest to forget.

Ethan Chen.

Grandma Chen.

The marriage that wasn’t a marriage.

I was twenty-three, alone, lost, and afraid. The pregnancy phase was barely over, Sophie was a newborn, and the world felt too heavy to carry.

Grandma Chen had taken me in, not out of obligation, but kindness. She offered shelter, food, and a voice that calmed me when I cried quietly at night.

Her grandson, Chen, was her attempt at “fixing my life”. A flash marriage, a flash divorce. A mistake stamped permanently in my records.

No romance.

No love.

No Intimacy.

Just confusion and desperation.

To this day, I am grateful to the universe that nothing ever happened between us.

But the world doesn’t care. The world only sees labels.

The thought of Peter knowing that part of me, knowing anything about that past, makes my heart sink.​

A text pops up on my phone from Grandma Chen:​

How is Sophie’s health? Come visit soon. I miss you.​

I exhale deeply. She means well; she’s the only real family I have besides Sophie.​

Someday…. Peter will hear about my past marriage.

About the divorce.

He will understand.

He will judge me.

And I will be powerless to stop it.

Peter ​

My next patient enters, but I am not fully present. I go through the motion exam questions, prescriptions, but my mind keeps drifting. Every time a mother speaks, I hear Naomi’s voice. Every time a child laughs, I remember her daughter’s curious eyes.

I keep asking myself the same question:

Why didn’t she look at me the way strangers do?  Why did her face tighten when she saw my name tag?

Why did she flinch?

My instinct never lies.

She knows me.​

Somewhere in my chest, a memory refuses to remain buried.​

And I don't know whether to chase it or let it die.

Naomi 

By the time I got to the office, my nerves were worn out. The lobby smells strongly of coffee and acrylic paint, familiar scents from the design studio. People move around with tablets tucked under their arms, sketches pinned to a board, mock-ups on the walls, colors, concepts, chaos.

I step inside,  hoping to blend in quietly, but the moment I place my bag on the desk, my supervisor, Lola Campbell, approaches. Graceful, polished, efficient. She stops in front of me, her expression unreadable.

“Naomi,” she says sharply. “Your design draft for the Wilshire hotel project was rejected.”

My stomach sinks. “Rejected? Again?”

she nods. “The client wants something vivid. You are holding back.”

Then she lowers her voice slightly, looking me straight in the eye.

“You’ve been distracted lately.”

she is not wrong. But the timing of her words felt mean.

I swallow. “I’ll fix it.”

“Good,” she responds. “The presentation is in two days.”

She walks away without another word.​

In the silence that follows, I stare at my rejected draft, a minimalist layout, clean lines, subtle tones. The kind of design I usually take pride in. But today, everything feels dull. I spaced out. My heart floats somewhere between panic and numb fatigue.

I try to focus, hands trembling slightly as I pick up my stylus. But every line I redraw collapses my concentration back into memories I can’t escape.​

Peter’s eyes.

Peter’s voice. “Do we know each other?”

I exhale, shut my eyes, and rub my temple.

Lina sends another message:

Lina: You should come. Really. People need to see you now.

I type back: Not interested. Stop pushing.

Then I lock the phone and place it face down, willing myself to breathe.

Peter ​

I step out of my office, stretching stiffness from my shoulders. Sydney  shows up behind me, flipping through her phone.

“By the way,” she says, “are you going to the reunion?”

“No,” I say immediately.

She raised an eyebrow. “You never go to any social event.”

“That’s the point.”

“You should go,” she insists. “People will expect you there.”

“I don’t care what people expect.”

She smirks. “That’s a lie.”

And she’s right. I don’t want to admit it, but she’s right.

My phone buzzes. Another message from the alumni chat.​

 THE REUNION IS TOMORROW

— Doctors, designers, entrepreneurs, everyone’s invited

— Peter had better show up this time

Sydey nudges me. “Think about it.” “I have patients,” I say to her dismissively.

She steps in front of me. “No. You’re hiding. ”The word lands too sharply.

“Hiding from what?” I snap. Her voice softens. “From her.”

My heartbeat stutters. She knows me too well. Too deeply.

I look away, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“You should see her,” she whispers. “Whoever she is now. You need closure.”

Closure.

An impossible word.

Sydney steps into the elevator, leaving me alone in the hallway with more questions.

than answers.

​

Naomi ​

The day crawls by. Every task feels heavier. Every breath feels strained. By the time I leave work, the rain has stopped, but the air holds the same cold bite.

I pick up Sophie from school. She skips toward me, hugging my leg.

“Mom! We painted clouds today!”

“That’s wonderful, baby,” I smile, lifting her into my arms.

She leans close. “Are you still sad?” Children see everything, too much.

“No,” I whisper. “Not anymore.”​

I’m lying.

We head home, and when I open the front door, my phone buzzes again.

This time, the message is from Grandma Chen.

Come home for dinner this weekend. Bring Sophie. I have something to tell you.

Something inside me twists. The last time she said those words, she insisted I get married. The result was a disaster.

I put the phone down and exhaled deeply.

Then I see a small picture tucked between two books on my shelf, an old picture of me and Peter, taken long before everything shattered. A picture I meant to throw away a hundred times… but never could.

Sophie notices it. Her little fingers reach for it.

“Mom… who is that man with you?” My breath stops.

The world stills, the air thins.

I stare at the photo, heart thrumming painfully.

“That was… someone I used to know,” I manage.

She bends  her head slightly, “Is he nice?”

I didn’t  answer.

I can’t.

Not without breaking.

​

Peter 

That night, I tried to sleep.

I failed.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of LA traffic drifting in from outside. Every time I close my eyes, the image of Naomi’s face reappears. And behind her face… the ghost of Chloe.

What if it’s her?

What if she stood in front of me today, waiting for recognition that never came?

The thought makes my heart ache in a strange way,  slow, heavy, suffocating. I turn on my side, glare at the silver pen on my nightstand, and curse under my breath.​

Why now?

Why her?

Why this?

The truth is simple and unbearable:

I don’t know how to forget her.

I never did.

​