152
The scent curled through the air like an invitation. Garlic, herbs, something creamy, maybe cheesy... a pasta dish? Lasagna, I realized with a flicker of joy. Isabella’s lasagna. Of course. She cooked every chance she got. It was one of the reasons I decided to let her stay as long as I could. It was never just for sustenance with her, it was love, stitched into every layer, every bite. I remembered how she used to make too much food, even when it was just the two of us. Later, as the house filled with people, workers that helped, she somehow always made enough. Magic.
As I crept closer to the kitchen, the light changed, now brighter, a little more golden. A flicker of laughter reached me, soft and boyish, followed by the gentle clink of utensils.
I slowed at the threshold of the kitchen, my shoulder brushing lightly against the doorframe, and I leaned into it, crossing my arms into myself as though trying to hold onto the last strands of panic only to feel them slipping from my grasp.
And then I saw them.
Adam was sitting on a high stool by the island table, a half-eaten apple in his hand, the juice glistening on his fingers. A bottle of something, maybe mango juice? Apple?.... sat next to him, already halfway gone. But what struck me most was his outfit. The shirt he had been wearing when we found him was had been replaced. Maybe he had taken a shower? Maybe Isabella had convinced him to? He was now wearing what had to be one of her old shirts, pale yellow and floral-patterned, ridiculously oversized on his small frame. The fabric sagged off his left shoulder, occasionally slipping lower as he moved, chewing and gesturing and nibbling all at once like he didn’t know what to do first. It was comical, adorable, and something about it hit me so unexpectedly hard I had to hold my breath.
He looked... safe.
Snacks were scattered in front of him: a half-open pack of crackers, a small bowl of pretzels, a chocolate bar unwrapped halfway, and a few slices of cheese that looked like Isabella had cut them herself, with each piece a little uneven, like she’d been rushing but still wanted them to be just right.
Isabella stood by the stove, her back to him, and to me. She hadn’t noticed I was there, and neither had Adam. She had on a faded burgundy dress and her usual apron, the pale blue one with stitched daisies along the hem. It was almost amusing how it seemed like not much had changed here since I left. Isabella’s hair was in a loose bun, strands falling in waves down her nape, and she was humming softly, some Spanish lullaby I vaguely recognized but couldn’t name.
Her hips swayed just slightly as she stirred something in a pan, and I could hear the quiet simmer of sauce, the occasional sizzle when she tossed in a fresh herb or stirred too quickly.
And then…
“You know,” Adam said through a mouthful of apple, his voice high and casual, “I was talking to my crush when they found me.”
Isabella paused, only for a second, and her shoulders shook with a silent chuckle. She didn’t turn around, just kept stirring.
“¿Tu crush? Ay, Dios mío,” she said, the Spanish slipping out before she realized.
Adam blinked, chewing. “What’s that mean?”
She laughed again, a soft, low sound. “It means ‘your crush,’ niño.”
He grinned, wiping apple juice off his chin with the back of his hand. “Oh. Yeah. I was talking to her by the lockers. Her name’s Hannah. She has this pencil case with cats on it. I think I like her.”
“Ay, qué ternura,” Isabella murmured, then immediately caught herself. “Sorry…uh…so cute. That’s what I meant. Very cute, Adam.”
“I think she likes me back,” he said confidently, crunching into another bite. “But she said I talk too much.”
“Smart girl,” Isabella teased gently.
Adam let out a giggle. “Hey!”
“I’m just saying,” she said, placing a wooden spoon aside and reaching for a tray of pasta sheets. “You’ve been talking non-stop since you came in.”
“I like talking,” he said, his voice smaller now. “It makes me feel less scared.”
That made her pause. The silence was full, deep. Then Isabella turned slightly, just enough to peek over her shoulder, a soft smile on her face. “Then you talk all you want, corazón.”
My chest tightened. Not in pain. In something warmer. Like my lungs were finally remembering how to breathe again. My heart had slowed, settled, its thudding no longer wild and frantic but rhythmic, calm. I pressed deeper into the doorframe, hugging myself tighter, my fingers unconsciously rubbing circles over my forearm.
Adam swung his legs as he spoke again. “This place is nice. The kitchen smells better than school lunches. Do you cook every day?”
“Every chance I get,” Isabella said, layering noodles with practiced ease. “Cooking is like... painting. But for your stomach.”
Adam snorted. “That’s weird.”
“But true,” she said over her shoulder, wagging a spoon at him. “One day you’ll see.”
“Maybe,” he said, chewing on a pretzel, the chocolate bar now forgotten as he went back to the apple. “Do you know how to cook waffles?”
“Waffles? Por supuesto. With strawberries or without?”
“Strawberries. And whipped cream.”
“Then tomorrow morning, waffles it is.”
I didn’t realize I had tears in my eyes until one slipped free. I didn’t wipe it away. I just stood there, letting it fall, watching this tiny slice of peace that I hadn’t even known I was craving. I wished this would last long, more than this evening, more than today, more than a few hours, or weeks, months, or years, I wish it would last forever.
And for one whole second, one impossibly golden, still second, I wanted this life. I wanted this exact kitchen. I wanted warm smells and oversized shirts and stools too high for little legs and soft voices speaking in two languages and someone swaying by the stove.
I wanted a world where I wasn’t always running.
Where I wasn’t always looking over my shoulder.
Where the sound of a child’s laugh didn’t feel borrowed.
Where love, this kind of love, wasn’t temporary.
I leaned my head softly against the wood and closed my eyes, holding the moment like it might break.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself hope.
Maybe... just maybe...
I could have something like this too.
Someday.
It wasn’t just a thought, it was a craving buried somewhere deep and fragile, tucked between every broken thing I’d ever lost and every little piece of myself I was still trying to protect. I stood there, breath caught behind my ribs as I watched the softest, most unexpected scene unfold before me: a boy in a kitchen not his own, cheeks puffed slightly from snacking, dressed in an oversized faded shirt that swallowed his small frame and kept slipping off one shoulder every time he moved. The sight of him, so misplaced in that shirt, so at ease and yet so far from home, was oddly endearing. It made me want to cry and laugh all at once. And as I stood frozen there, heart pounding like a nervous metronome, something in him shifted.
Adam’s eyes lifted.
Just barely.
Just enough.
He saw me.
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