The Weight of Lightness
Michael's blue gaze lingered on the pages, as if each swirl of ink were a constellation mapping the unspoken chambers of my heart. Then he looked up — eyes cutting through the haze of my thoughts like light through smoke.
"Tell me, Aubrey," he said softly, voice low but insistent, "what did that girl do to reignite your spark?"
The question caught me off guard — too direct, too perceptive. His words hovered in the air like rising steam, fragile and glimmering.
"She…" I began, and even saying her name in my mind felt like stepping onto sacred ground. I saw her as she had been that first day — laughter spilling like wind chimes, the soft tilt of her head when she listened, as though every word I spoke could shift the world's balance."She reminded me of hope," I whispered finally. "She made it possible to breathe again, after years spent beneath the ice."
Michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers drumming absently against one another. "And what's her name?" he asked, one brow rising. "It can't actually be Snowflake, can it?"
A faint smile tugged at my lips. "Her real name's Emma," I said. "She works at that café down the road."
His head snapped up, disbelief flickering in his expression. "The same café you asked me to investigate?"
I nodded.
For a moment, he just stared — then exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're unbelievable," he muttered, though there was no malice in it. Only wary amusement. "Do you… like her that much?"
Like her. The words felt almost comical. I loved her. I had been trying not to, but every breath I took seemed to pull her name into it. She'd become my compass and my undoing all at once.
"I don't just like her," I said, voice low. "I need her — more than I ever imagined needing anything."
Michael didn't speak right away. He only studied me — like he was trying to decide whether to be happy for me or afraid because of it. Then his shoulders relaxed, and his tone softened. "I'm happy to see you like this," he said at last. "Alive again." He leaned back, thoughtful. "So… did you tell her?"
I hesitated. "No. Not yet."
"Why?"
"I'm terrified she'll reject me," I admitted, the words scraping out of me before I could stop them.
Michael laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd see the great Aubrey Ardel — the man who faced sold-out crowds — afraid of a girl."
"Shut up," I muttered, flipping him off.
His chuckle deepened, gentle, not mocking. "Then don't let fear keep you quiet."
He rose, walking to the tall window, where sunlight fractured into amber shards across the glass. Pressing a hand to the pane, he said without turning, "Go to her tomorrow. Don't bring rehearsed words. Bring the truth you buried in those pages."He gestured toward the stack of fresh ink on my desk, its edges glowing gold in the firelight. "She doesn't need perfection, Aubrey. She needs you."
His words struck like a chord that lingered too long in the air.
Something in me — small and trembling — started to believe him.
The violin in the corner seemed to echo the thought, a faint hum against the quiet, as though even it knew the world had begun to tilt again. I gathered the pages into a neat pile, pressing them to my chest. "Thank you," I said, voice thick with gratitude I couldn't hide.
Michael turned, and for the first time in months, his face softened. "It broke my heart," he said quietly. "Watching you fade. Knowing I couldn't pull you back." His voice caught, barely noticeable. "But you're not alone anymore."
His words wrapped around me like the warmth of the fire — a promise that almost felt holy.
Tomorrow, I thought, I'll go to her.Tomorrow, I'll speak the truth.
Later — the kitchen
"Let's take a break, guys," Kais said, brushing the dust from his hands and checking the camera clips. His grin was mischievous, eyes bright with that constant glint of trouble. "But seriously — why the hell did you nickname my sister Snowflake?"
I leaned against the wall, smirking. "Because the first time I met her, she was sketching this absurd-looking snowflake in her notebook. It looked like a spider trapped on ice."
Kais groaned. "Unbelievable. You could've gone with Angel or Muse, and you chose invertebrate on ice?"
Michael, nursing a mug of coffee, nearly choked on his laugh. "To be fair, you made it worse, Kais. You spent weeks playing bodyguard instead of brother."
"I was protecting her," Kais shot back defensively.
"From what? Compliments?" Michael deadpanned. "You stalked him."
Kais gave a mock-offended gasp. "Surveillance, thank you. It's called being a responsible older brother."
Michael smirked. "You had spreadsheets on him."
"Color-coded," Kais said proudly.
The sound of their banter filled the apartment — warm, easy, alive.
Then his phone chimed. He glanced at the screen, thumbed it open, and snorted."It's from Hayat. She's not coming today. Says we should either cook or starve."
Michael groaned, rinsing his mug. "Cooking is a death wish."
Kais clapped his hands together. "Takeout it is. What do you guys want?"
I straightened, feigning thoughtfulness. "Herb-crusted sea bass with asparagus tips, truffle risotto, and duck breast with fig glaze."
Kais didn't blink. "Cool. Ordered pizza."
Michael arched a brow. "Why even ask?"
"Courtesy," Kais said, smug. "I'm polite like that."
The doorbell rang ten minutes later. Kais returned with a stack of pizza boxes that smelled like melted heaven. "Three large — pepperoni, Margherita, and Michael's crime against nature."
Michael opened his box reverently. "Goat cheese, fig, and caramelized onion. You swine will never understand refinement."
I bit into a slice of pepperoni. "You once ate cereal with cold brew."
"That," Michael said, deadpan, "was innovation."
"Genius-level survival," Kais added with mock solemnity.
For a while, the kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of plates. The firelight from the living room spilled in warm flickers, wrapping around us like a memory we didn't yet know we'd miss.
"To culinary compromise," Michael said, raising his slice.
"To Hayat abandoning us," I added.
"To not poisoning ourselves," Kais finished.
We laughed — real laughter, unguarded, echoing off the walls like an antidote to everything heavy in our chests.
And yet — as the laughter faded, a strange quiet lingered.
Outside, the wind brushed softly against the windows. Snow was beginning to fall — faint, hesitant flakes swirling in the glow of the streetlights.
I stared at them for a long moment, my half-eaten slice cooling in my hand.
Michael followed my gaze out the window, his expression unreadable. "It's snowing again," he murmured.
Kais chuckled. "Perfect weather for regrets."
None of us replied.
The snow kept falling.
And beneath the warmth and laughter, I could feel it — the quiet pull of something inevitable.The sense that tomorrow would change everything.