Morning comes softly.
Sunlight slips through the thin curtains, pale and careful, like it knows better than to be too bright. Ariel washes his face in cold water until his skin stings. He stares at his reflection longer than he should—at the faint redness around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw.
Not enough to be noticed, he decides.
He changes his shirt. Smooths his hair. Practices breathing like nothing is wrong.
By the time he steps into the kitchen, he is the version of himself everyone expects.
"Morning, bumkin."
His grandmother's voice is warm, familiar. It hits him harder than any accusation ever could.
Ariel freezes for half a second before forcing a smile. "Morning, Grandma."
She stands by the stove, hair pulled back loosely, humming under her breath as she stirs something in a pot. The smell of tea and toasted bread fills the room—comforting, grounding. Safe.
Too safe.
He hates that he almost cries again.
"Did you sleep well?" she asks without turning around.
"Yes," he answers immediately. Too quickly. He lowers his gaze, busying himself with pouring tea. The cup rattles softly against the saucer. He hopes she doesn't hear it.
She does, of course. She always does.
But she says nothing.
Ariel sits at the table, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into his fingers. His body feels heavy, like he never really woke up. Like part of him is still stuck in that dark room, counting heartbeats that refuse to slow.
He hates this part of himself.
The part that wakes up shaking.
The part that still breaks after all these years.
The part that can't just forget.
Other people move on. Other people heal. Ariel stays.
His grandmother sets a plate in front of him. Eggs. Toast cut neatly in half. She still does that, even though he's twenty now.
"You eat," she says gently. "You're too thin again."
"I'm fine," he murmurs, because that's what he always says.
He takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. The food tastes like nothing.
Across the table, his grandmother watches him over the rim of her cup. Her eyes are sharp despite her age—soft, but not blind. Ariel keeps his head down, focused on not giving himself away.
Don't look too long.
Don't linger.
Don't let her see the cracks.
Because if she notices—if she asks—he might tell her everything. About the dream. About the way his chest still aches. About how his mother never comes back, not even in sleep.
And Ariel can't bear to hurt her like that.
She already saved him once. He won't make her carry this too.
"So," she says lightly, breaking the silence, "working today?"
"Yes." He nods. "Late shift."
"Mm." She reaches over and squeezes his hand, just once. "Be careful, bumkin."
The word curls around his heart.
He smiles again. A real one this time—small, but sincere. "I will."
When he leaves the apartment, the door closes softly behind him. The hallway is quiet. Empty.
Ariel exhales.
The smile falls away.
For a moment, he leans his forehead against the cool wood, eyes closed, letting himself feel it—the grief, the exhaustion, the anger at himself for still being this way.
Then he straightens.
He always does.
Because crying is something he does in the dark.
And surviving is something he does in the morning.
Ariel's workplace smells like coffee and disinfectant.
The café is already busy when he arrives. Cups clink. Machines hiss. Voices overlap in an endless, exhausting rhythm. He ties his apron, forces his shoulders back, and steps behind the counter like he's stepping onto a stage.
Smile.
Be polite.
Don't think.
"Morning, Ari," one of his coworkers says.
"Morning," he replies, the word automatic.
Orders come fast. Lattes. Espressos. Takeaway cups sliding across the counter. Ariel moves on muscle memory alone—hands steady even when his head feels far away. He focuses on small things. The warmth of the cup. The numbers on the register. The way the steam curls upward like it's trying to escape.
For a while, it works.
Then someone hums.
It's barely audible. Just a few notes under their breath while they wait for their order. Soft. Absentminded.
Ariel's hands still.
The sound slices through him—sharp and sudden—dragging something loose inside his chest. His mother used to hum like that when she cooked. Not a song. Just sound. Just presence.
His vision blurs.
Not now, he thinks desperately.
Please—not here.
"Ari?" his manager calls. "Table three's waiting."
"I—yes," he says, but his voice comes out thin.
The café feels too loud all at once. The lights are too bright. The air too thick. His heartbeat stutters, then races, pounding against his ribs like it wants out.
Breathe, he tells himself.
Just breathe.
But his lungs won't cooperate.
His fingers tremble as he reaches for a cup. It slips from his grasp, shattering against the floor. The sound is sharp, final. Every head turns.
"I'm sorry," Ariel blurts. "I'll clean it—"
The room tilts.
The floor rushes up too fast.
The last thing Ariel hears is someone shouting his name.
He wakes to white.
Harsh lights. Beeping machines. The smell of antiseptic clawing at his nose. For a terrible second, he's eight years old again, sitting beside a bed that took everything from him.
"No," he whispers.
A nurse appears, calm and practiced. "Hey. You're okay. You fainted."
His throat tightens. "I did?"
"Yes. Probably exhaustion." She adjusts something near his arm. "Do you have family we can call?"
His grandmother's face flashes through his mind—worried, tired, loving.
"No," Ariel says quickly. "Please. Don't."
The nurse studies him for a moment, then nods. "Alright. Just rest."
Ariel stares at the ceiling once she's gone.
His body feels heavy. Empty. Like he's been wrung out and left to dry. Shame curls in his stomach, sharp and familiar.
Breaking down in public.
Making a scene.
Being weak.
His eyes burn.
He turns his face toward the wall and presses his lips together, holding in the sob that threatens to escape.
He hates this side of himself.
The side that collapses when it's seen.
The side that still hasn't learned how to survive without falling apart.
The monitor beside him beeps steadily, slow and indifferent.
Ariel listens to the sound and wonders—distantly—if this is how it starts again.