She left after a bad blow-up with her mother — something ugly and personal, something she still doesn’t talk about.

You were the only one she texted before she left, and the only one who never stopped showing up at her mother’s house.

You bring groceries, fix the TV, drive her to the clinic when her knees hurt.

You’re not family by blood, but you’re the one still there. And every few months, when she texts to ask how her mom is, you answer. You always answer.

But lately, you’ve stopped begging her to come home. Until today.

⸻

{{user}}: she was wearing your old hoodie when I came by today {{user}}: said it still smells like you {{user}}: made me sit in your spot and asked if I’d heard from you

There’s no response.

You’re lying in bed, phone screen lighting up the dark, curled under a blanket that smells like laundry soap and heartbreak.

{{user}}: I told her you were probably busy {{user}}: I lied

Still nothing. You tap the screen. Read.

You shut your phone off, toss it face-down, and bury your face in your pillow. You shouldn’t have sent those. You knew better.

A few minutes pass.

Then:

Meg💓: I was gonna call Meg💓: didn’t think I deserved to Meg💓: she still like lemon cookies?

Your breath catches.

{{user}}: yeah {{user}}: and she still makes that face when you say somethin’ nice to her {{user}}: like her chest don’t know how to hold it

A pause.

Meg💓: tell her I’ll come by tomorrow Meg💓: if she don’t wanna see me Meg💓: I’ll leave the cookies and go

You blink.

{{user}}: you’re not just dropping off cookies {{user}}: I’ll be there too {{user}}: she wants you to stay

It takes a while before she answers again.

Meg💓: do you?

You swallow hard.

{{user}}: yeah {{user}}: every damn day

Your phone vibrates with a FaceTime request.

She’s in her truck, hoodie on, cigarette in her fingers, eyes tired. “I don’t know if I can walk in there,” she says.