LOGINKyleThey smell like everything innocent and good in the world.Alexander smells like apple juice—the kind that comes in those little boxes with the bendy straws. There's a faint stickiness to his neck where he didn't wipe his mouth properly. Graham crackers, too. I can smell the sweet, wheaty scent clinging to his shirt. And underneath it all, that particular smell of child-sweat that somehow manages to be sweet instead of sour. Like sun-warmed grass and playgrounds and pure, unfiltered energy."Hey, buddy," I manage to say.Alexander doesn't notice. His arms squeeze tighter around my neck."You're really here!""Alex, breathe," Mia says from across the room. "He needs to breathe too.""Oh." Alexander loosens his grip slightly. "Sorry, Daddy. Sometimes I forget about breathing. Mama says I talk so fast the words trip over themselves.""It's okay," I tell him,
KyleThe music continues—brass and percussion and piano still painting the air with color and rhythm.But the world feels quieter.Someone turned down the volume on everything except the space between us.Just her and me. Separated by maybe twelve feet of hardwood floor. Separated by five years and countless mistakes and a mountain of hurt so high I can't see over it.She's breathing hard. Her chest rises and falls beneath that blue cotton. Her cheeks are flushed.I want to move closer.The urge is physical. Visceral. Like gravity. I want to cross this space. I want to touch her.Her shoulder. That's where my eyes go. Where they always went. The curve of her bare shoulder where the strap of her dress sits, where a thin line of pale skin shows above the cotton. I want to run my thumb along that ridge. Want to feel if her skin is as soft as I remember. Want to feel her warmth, her solidity, the proof that she's real and here and alive.I want to ease the tension I can see coiling throug
KyleI've been watching her for too long.Long enough that I've memorized the exact shade of late afternoon light filtering through the living room windows—that honey-gold that makes everything look softer, warmer, more forgiving than it has any right to be.I'm hoping she'll look my way. That her eyes will find mine across this small universe of afternoon sunlight.Or maybe I'm hoping she never stops spinning. That she stays exactly like this—head thrown back, smile breaking across her face like sunrise, arms spread wide like she's trying to embrace the whole damn world.I don't know which outcome I want more.She's spinning. Really spinning. The kind of unself-conscious rotation that only children do, except she's doing it too. Her sundress—pale blue cotton that skims her thighs—flares out with each turn, creating this bell-shaped silhouette that makes my chest tight. It's not a performance. There's no audience in her mind. She's not thinking about how she looks or who might be watc
Mia's POVThe Pilates mat was unforgiving under my spine."Breathe in through your nose," the video instructor said from my laptop. Her voice was that particular brand of wellness-industry soothing. The kind that made you feel simultaneously relaxed and inadequate. "Hold for three. Two. One. And release."I breathed.In through my nose. The air felt cool. Clean. The apartment smelled like the lavender oil diffuser I had bought me last week.I held. Three seconds felt like thirty.Then released.My core muscles trembled. "Now engage your pelvic floor," the instructor continued. "Pull everything up and in. Like you're trying to stop the flow of urine mid-stream."Jesus Christ.Why did Pilates instructors always use bathroom metaphors?But I did it anyway. Engaged. Pulled up. Felt muscles I'd forgotten existed wake up and protest.Gas was lying in the corner. Watching me. Her head tilted to one side. That expression dogs get when they're trying to understand human behavior and failing c
Kyle's POV"I am not drunk. I am—" Morton paused. Considered this. "—okay yes I'm very drunk. But in my defense, my baby brother just got married and I was the best man and there were many, many toasts.""How many?""Seventeen. I counted." He let go of the doorframe. Tried to walk in a straight line toward the chair. Failed. Course-corrected. Overcorrected. Ended up doing this weird zigzag pattern that would have been funny if he wasn't also clearly about to fall over.Dr. Norbu stepped aside smoothly. Like he'd anticipated this exact scenario.Morton collapsed into the chair the doctor had just vacated. His long legs sprawling out. His head falling back against the cushion."This chair is comfortable," he announced. "Why is hospital furniture so comfortable? Regular furniture should be this comfortable. I should buy hospital furniture for my house.""Morton," I said. "Why are you here?""Because you're my best friend." He lifted his head. Looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "I have so
Kyle's POVDr. Norbu was still in the chair. His burgundy robes pooled around him like liquid. The fabric looked ancient. Hand-woven. The kind of thing looked like it had been passed down through generations of monks in some monastery high in the Himalayas where the air was so thin.He didn't look out of place here though. In this sterile American hospital room with its beeping machines and antiseptic smell and fluorescent lights that hummed like trapped insects.If anything, the room looked wrong around him."You went swimming tonight," he said.Not a question. A statement."I fell in a pool.""That was either very brave or very foolish.""Probably both.""Probably." He smiled. "But you are still here.""Is it?"He reached into his bag. Not the leather medical bag Western doctors carried. This was cloth. Woven. With patterns that hurt to look at too long because they seemed to shift when you weren't paying attention.He pulled out a small vial. Dark glass. Filled with liquid that loo







