ONE FIFTY FIVE
The living room felt like a graveyard. Dim. Still. The air hung with the heavy scent of soap and burnt cheese—remnants of dinner. The plates were cleared, the table wiped down, Isabella quietly whisking things away into the kitchen, her presence barely audible except for the occasional soft clatter of cutlery or a low hum she probably didn’t even realize she was making. I sat curled into the corner of the couch like I was trying to vanish into the cushions. My arms were wrapped tight around my kneecaps, chin resting between them, eyes bleary and sore from everything—everything. The silence clung to my skin like sweat. Only the soft hum of the television filled the space now, and even that felt like too much.
Earlier, after dinner, I had gone to take a shower in the bathroom attached to my old bedroom. The space was familiar yet foreign, a time capsule of memories. The tiles were slightly discoloured, at least something that showcased a little of age in this house. Maybe Isabella had washed it, tried to keep it clean a couple of times over the years and then gave up as soon as she realized I might not be coming back.
The mirror above the sink didn’t spare me, it never did, but tonight, it felt particularly cruel. I stood there for a long moment, just staring, barely blinking, like maybe if I looked hard enough, I’d see someone I recognized. But I didn’t. What stared back wasn’t me. Not really. The face in the reflection looked tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix, like the exhaustion had sunken deep into the bones, settled in like an unwanted tenant and made a home there. My eyes were rimmed with red, not from tears this time, but from the weight of everything I’d seen in the last few days: blood, fear, the wreckage of choices that couldn’t be undone. The skin under them was puffy and dark, bruised-looking, like I’d been in a fight. I guess in some way, I had been. My cheeks had lost their fullness too, now they were hollowed out slightly, like I’d been starving myself without realizing it, anxiety chewing away at me from the inside. I lifted a hand, ran my fingers over the curve of my face, trying to remember the last time I had seen this version of me. She looked older. Worn. Someone who had lived through too much too quickly.
And then there was my hair. God, my hair.
I tugged the cap off my head, the one Tina had given me in the car earlier that day, shoving it onto me with a firm press of her hand, muttering something about needing to keep my face hidden. It had worked well enough, kept my head down, my eyes low, but now, under the bright bathroom lights, I felt the weight of it again. My scalp ached from the tight bun I’d twisted it into, and when I reached up to pull out the pin, it was like untying a knot made of stress and panic. The strands came loose in chunks, tumbling down around my shoulders like some kind of unholy waterfall. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. My hair was an absolute disaster. It was knotted, wild, frizzy at the ends, matted in places where it had been crushed under the cap or tangled in the chaos of running and hiding. A mess.
A long, brown, untamed mess.
It didn’t even feel like mine anymore. I tried to run my fingers through it, hoping to find some kind of order, some kind of comfort in the familiar sensation, but every pull was met with resistance, every attempt snagged on a knot I hadn’t noticed, and it hurt. It actually hurt. And it wasn’t just the tangles. It was everything. The physical pain, the exhaustion, the hunger, the ache in my chest that hadn’t gone away since I saw Adam’s face for the first time in a long time and since he looked up at me with those big eyes and didn’t know me at all.
I pressed my palms to the cold edge of the sink and let my head drop slightly, taking a deep breath. The smell of the shower gel Isabella had given me still lingered in the room, lavender, soft and subtle, familiar in a way that made my throat tighten. I didn’t cry, but I came close. And as I stared into the mirror again, watching myself blink through the sting in my eyes, I thought, This is what it looks like to unravel. This is what it looks like when the past finds you and doesn’t let go.
Dust had settled on the countertop, disturbed only by the faint streaks left by my fingertips.
Isabella had provided me with shower gel, its floral scent reminiscent of gentler times. I stepped into the shower, the initial blast of water cold against my skin before warming to a soothing cascade. I scrubbed myself vigorously, as if trying to erase not just the grime but the weight of the past days. The water swirled down the drain, carrying with it fleeting moments of relief.
After the shower, I wasn’t satisfied so I sunk into the Jacuzzi. I filled it, the water churning as it rose, steam curling into the air. Sinking into the warmth, my muscles unwound, but my mind remained restless. The familiarity of the room pressed in on me, each corner echoing with memories of laughter, of whispered secrets, of a life that felt like a distant dream. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, refusing to succumb.
Emerging from the water, I wrapped myself in a towel, the cool air biting against my damp skin. Once I stepped back into the room, In the dim light, I could still see Tina lying on the bed, her form shivering slightly under the blankets. The sedative Gael had administered earlier still held her in its grip, her face a mask of troubled sleep.
I hesitated in front of the closet, fingers hovering just above the metal handle, a familiar pang of guilt twisting low in my gut. The kind of guilt that settled like a pit and didn’t let go, because I hadn’t been here in two years. Two whole years. And still… everything was just as I’d left it. Maybe a little dustier, sure, but neat, untouched in a way that almost made it sacred. The guilt deepened. Because someone had been caring for this place in my absence. Not just dusting the shelves or vacuuming the floor once in a while, but really taking care of it. My closet doors creaked gently as I pulled them open, and inside, my clothes hung like they were waiting for me. Clean. Folded. Pressed. Some of them even smelled faintly of the fabric softener Isabella used, that soft floral scent she always swore by. It hit me then, she’d been the one taking care of them. Taking care of me, even when I was gone.
I stepped closer, brushing my fingers over the hangers, over the soft cottons and stretched-out sleeves of shirts I’d nearly forgotten I owned. There was a navy blue hoodie I used to live in, frayed at the cuffs, the inside worn from too many washes, but it smelled like home. I almost reached for it, but paused, instead moving to a little stack of clothes folded on the lower shelf. That was new. That wasn’t how I left it. Neat piles of comfort wear: faded tees, pajama bottoms, leggings, an oversized sweater I hadn’t seen in years. Isabella must’ve found it at the bottom of the hamper or something. I pulled it out slowly, it was cream-colored, soft like clouds, and loose in a way that felt like safety. Like it could swallow me whole if I needed it to.
I grabbed a pair of old black cotton leggings that had definitely lost some elasticity over time, but still looked wearable. The kind with the tiny hole near the waistband that I’d kept swearing I’d sew shut but never did. I layered it with a light blue tank top, one that clung comfortably to my skin, and then tugged the oversized sweater on top. The fabric fell to my thighs, sleeves too long, hiding my hands the way I liked. It didn’t match. None of it did. But it was soft. Familiar. Lived-in. It felt like me before everything went to hell.
And as I got dressed, piece by piece, I could tell. These clothes hadn’t just sat here collecting dust. Someone had taken them out, washed them, folded them, maybe even ironed them. They didn’t smell stale. They didn’t smell like time or mildew. They smelled like care. Like lavender softener and sunlight and Isabella’s quiet way of loving you without ever saying a word. I stood there in front of the mirror for a second, looking at the mess of my hair, the tiredness still heavy under my eyes, but at least now, I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own skin. I felt like someone trying. Someone remembering.
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