I woke that morning feeling like I hadn't slept at all. My body was heavy, weighed down by the remnants of last night—the lingering tension, the echoes of Mom and Clara's argument, the thoughts that refused to let me rest. Still, I knew I had to get moving, make the day productive.
I sat up slowly and made a list in my mind: call Daniel, check on him, attend a few meetings, and somehow tackle the small but necessary errands of the day.
Standing in front of my wardrobe, I paused, unsure what to wear.
My hand grazed a black gown, and I went with it. Perfume on, hair set, I felt… okay. Breakfast was waiting…bread and coffee, served quietly by Mom. I kissed her goodbye. Clara didn't even look up from her tablet, but I kissed her anyway.
The car engine hummed to life. I drove cautiously, slower than usual, almost painfully slow. Every pedestrian, every car in the distance, made me tense. I didn't want to cause an accident, didn't want to invite any more chaos into my life.
I dialed Daniel's line. He answered immediately.
"Hey," I said. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," he replied tersely."
"I promised I'd check on you. You're taking your meds, right?"
"Really, you don't have to come by. I don't need—" he started, but I cut in.
"Daniel. I'm coming. Whether you like it or not."
There was a pause. Then, quietly: "Alright… fine."
I smiled, even though he couldn't see it.
"I'll be there at noon. Hope it's cool?
"Yeah…I'll survive," he muttered, but I could hear the relief in his voice.
The call with Daniel ended, and I quickly dialed Tyla.
"Hey Ty, how are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm good but still at home," she replied, her voice soft, "but I'll be coming in a little late."
"That's fine," I said, smiling. "I'm already heading to the salon anyway."
I hung up, my thoughts already shifting to the day ahead. The road to the salon was quiet, the sun just beginning to climb, spilling pale gold across the streets. I parked, and as usual, the door was still locked. Not late at all. I pushed it open, and a familiar wave of scent…hair creams, shampoos, the faint sweetness of styling products…welcomed me like an old friend.
The salon was still hushed, but I could hear the faint shuffle of staff arriving, the quiet hum of conversation as the day began. Walking toward my office, I felt the warmth of sunlight streaming through the windows, painting the walls with gold. My staff were already moving into place
Kyle noticed me and waved slightly, greeting, "Good morning!"
"Hi!" I replied, letting the word float in the still air. It felt good to be here, to be in my element.
I settled into my office, sliding open the drawer to grab the order lists and planning sheets. Everything had its rhythm, its small comfort taking orders, arranging appointments, deciding what the day would look like. For a moment, the chaos of the morning,the tension, the heavy thoughts seemed miles away.
Then Tyla appeared at the doorway, already dressed for the day, her smile brightening the space between us.
"Hi," I said, letting the warmth of the morning meet her energy.
"Hi," she replied, and the brief pause between us felt natural, like the calm before a day full of work.
I leaned against my desk, glancing around the salon, and finally asked, "Okay… so what do you have planned for today?"
She grinned, and in that moment, it wasn't just a question about work—it was a shared understanding that today, like every day, would have its own rhythm, its own little victories and challenges. And somehow, that was enough to make me feel steady, ready, alive.
The salon was alive with laughter and the soft buzz of dryers. Customers chatted over mirrors, music floated gently through the air, and for a moment, everything felt calm and bright again.
I was helping a customer choose a style when one of my staff hurried toward me, eyes unsure.
"Ma… someone is outside asking for you."
My stomach tightened.
Daniel? Maybe he decided to surprise me.
"Give me a second," I said, forcing a smile while I finished up.
I wiped my hands, smoothed my dress, and stepped outside.
The moment I saw him, the air shifted.
Richard.
He stood near the entrance like a shadow that refused to leave — hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on me, that familiar smirk pulling at his lips. The noise from the salon faded, replaced by the pounding in my ears.
Not fear this time.
Something firmer. Stronger. Clear.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't argue. I simply turned away and pulled out my phone.
"Don't walk away from me," he said, moving closer. "We need to talk."
My fingers dialed the police.
He laughed — low, mocking. "Seriously? You're calling them? For what?"
"For this," I said, my voice steady. "For showing up here. For refusing to leave. For making me feel unsafe… again."
Within minutes, the police car pulled up. The officers stepped out — calm, professional.
"What's the problem?" one asked.
I pointed at Richard.
"He's been harassing me. He keeps showing up where I work. He follows me. He won't leave when I ask him to. He makes me feel threatened."
Richard lifted his hands like he was innocent.
"I only came to talk."
The officer looked at him hard. "Sir, step back. You don't come to someone's workplace and make them uncomfortable. When someone says no, you leave."
I stood there, breath slow, heart firm — not angry, not scared —
Just done.
And for the first time, I realized:
I didn't owe Richard anything.
Not a conversation.
Not a chance.
Not even an explanation.
The officer turned to me, his expression calm but firm.
"Madam, we'll take it from here," he said, nodding toward Richard.
I felt a strange mix of relief and adrenaline. I straightened my shoulders, keeping my voice steady. "Yes, sir," I replied.
The other officer moved forward, his hand firm on Richard's arm. Richard tried to pull away, smirking, trying to play it off, but the officers didn't budge. Within seconds, they had handcuffed him.
"Sir, any more trouble and you'll be charged," one of the officers said, his voice sharp. "Now get in the car."
Richard struggled for a moment, but the grip on his wrists was iron. He gave one last glance at me — a mixture of disbelief and fury — before he was guided to the police car. The engine started, and within minutes, he was gone.
I exhaled slowly, finally letting my shoulders relax. The tension that had been coiling in my chest for weeks unspooled in one long, satisfying release. The salon noises returned: dryers humming, soft chatter, laughter. But now, the air felt lighter, safer.
I looked at my staff, who had been watching silently. Their eyes reflected relief, maybe even a little awe.
"Everything okay?" one whispered.
I nodded. "Yeah… everything's okay now."
Somehow I felt… free
... I felt Kyle's eyes on me before I even looked in his direction. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, pretending to scroll through his phone — but his attention was fixed on me. That same unreadable expression again. Curious. Calculating. Almost like he knew something I didn't.
I chose not to react.
'Not today', I reminded myself.
Today wasn't about anyone's mood, or assumptions, or silent judgments. Today was about me — my peace, my plans, my work.
I pushed open the door to my office and exhaled slowly. The room smelled of hair serum and freshly unpacked boxes — that mix of scent that somehow meant progress to me.
Cartons of wigs were stacked neatly against the wall, each one waiting to be tagged, sorted, loved, and transformed into someone's confidence.
I dropped my phone on the chair and rolled up my sleeves.
"Okay. One thing at a time," I said under my breath.
I began opening the boxes carefully, lifting each wig as though it were fragile glass — lace frontals, curls, bone‑straight, honey‑blonde highlights — everything I had been waiting on for weeks. I checked textures with my fingers, tugged gently at the lace, inspected closures, trimmed loose threads. Quality first. Always.
I wrote names on the tags: returning clients, new orders, VIP customers, wholesale requests. Each name meant trust.
Each order meant someone out there believed in my salon.
I picked up my phone.
"Tyla," I called out. "Come to my office for a minute."
She popped in almost immediately, smiling like she always did.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"We're sorting today," I said. "Please cross-check the list on the system and match them with these labels. No mix‑ups. Some of these are going out today."
"Got it," she said, already reaching for the clipboard.
We worked side by side, moving around the room like we had rehearsed this a hundred times — because we had. Whenever something didn't match, I double-checked. Whenever she hesitated, I explained. Calm. Focused. Professional.
In the middle of it all, my mind drifted briefly — back to Kyle, still staring earlier. Something about his silence bothered me. But then I shrugged it off.
I wasn't giving energy to confusion today.
I had appointments lined up, deliveries to confirm, and meetings with suppliers. There were new wigs to import, price negotiations to finalize, and emails waiting in drafts that needed approval before evening.
I took my planner from my table and flipped through my schedule, drawing little arrows, ticking boxes, and rewriting priorities. Everything needed to align. Everything needed to breathe.
At intervals, customers laughed in the reception area, dryers hummed, and scissors clicked from different corners of the salon. That sound — my sound — calmed me.
"Tyla," I said softly, "when we're done here, remind me to call the shipping agent. And make sure the new stock stays here until I say otherwise."
"Alright. I'm on it."
I smiled.
Work. Order. Control. That was all I needed right now.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered: ., I had to visit Daniel. No matter how busy the day looked, I had promised myself — and him.
So I kept moving, tagging, arranging, planning — choosing peace, choosing focus, choosing me.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost 3 p.m. My mind shifted from the salon, from the wigs, from the appointments — all of it — to Daniel. I had promised myself I would check on him, and I wasn't about to break that promise.
"Tyla," I called softly. "Hold things here for a bit. I'm heading out to see someone. Make sure the phones are answered if anyone calls, and nothing leaves the salon without confirmation."
She nodded instantly. "Got it."
I grabbed my bag, double-checked my planner, and stepped out of the office. The California streets were alive with mid-afternoon energy — the faint hum of traffic, people walking briskly, the occasional honk of a horn. I slid into my car, placed the seatbelt across my chest, and took a deep breath.
Focus. Calm. I've got this.
I dialed Daniel's number as I eased into traffic. The phone rang twice before he picked up.
"Hello?" His voice was soft, a little hesitant, but warmed with relief.
"Hey," I said, smiling even though he couldn't see me. "I'm on my way. I just wanted to check — have you taken your medication today? And… have you eaten?"
There was a pause. "Yeah… I've taken it. Ate a little," he said quietly, almost shyly.
I felt a small relief ripple through me. "Good. Don't skip anything, okay? You know I'll get mad if you don't follow your schedule." My tone was light, but firm.
"Alright," he replied. "I'll be fine."
"Fine?" I said, teasing gently. "I'll be there soon anyway. Sit tight. I want to see you taking care of yourself properly."
We spoke for a few more moments, laughing softly at a small joke I made, before I ended the call. I placed the phone on the passenger seat, feeling the familiar flutter in my chest — part anticipation, part responsibility, part… care.
The drive was short but filled with subtle observation. The sunlight glinted off nearby buildings, casting long reflections on the windshield. I noticed small details: a child holding her mother's hand, a street vendor waving at a customer, the faint smell of food from a corner restaurant. Everything around me was alive, vibrant, but my focus remained on Daniel, on ensuring he was okay.
By the time I pulled up to his street, my heart had settled into a calm rhythm. I parked, gathered my things, and stepped out, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. Today had been productive — the salon, the appointments, the wigs — but this moment, this visit, mattered in a completely different way.
I raised my hand and pressed his doorbell, straightening my outfit as I waited, thinking about how important it was to him that I checked in, and how much seeing him cared for made everything I did in my day feel complete.
Finally I got to his neighborhood.
When I parked the car, the engine hummed quietly before fading into silence. For a moment I just sat there, both hands resting on the steering wheel, watching the reflection of the building through the windshield.
That was when I noticed them.
Across the other side of the compound, near the shade of a tall tree, a group of people stood gathered. Seven… maybe eight of them. They wore the same dark uniform — shirts tucked neatly, caps low over their brows — and they seemed to speak to one another in low voices.
Security? Officers? Neighbors' workers?
I wasn't sure.
They weren't laughing. They weren't relaxed. They were simply there, like shadows stationed with intention. And even though curiosity tugged at my thoughts, something inside whispered:
'Mind your business.'... My thought reminded me.
So I did.
I reached for my bag, locked the car, and stepped out. The late afternoon air brushed across my skin — warm but soft — carrying faint scents from distant kitchens and freshly watered lawns.
Each step toward the building echoed gently, heels tapping against the pavement. I kept telling myself I was here for Daniel. Not to overthink. Not to analyze everything around me.
Just visit. Check on him. Make sure he's okay.
When I reached the door, I lifted my hand and knocked.
Silence.
I waited. The kind of waiting where seconds stretch and start to feel longer than minutes.
I knocked again, slightly louder.
Still no sound from inside.
A small knot formed in my chest. I glanced over my shoulder — the men in uniform were still standing there — but none of them paid me attention. I turned back to the door and took a slow breath, feeling a faint tension crawl up my spine.
'Maybe he's resting. Maybe he's in the shower. Maybe he didn't hear'.
Just when I was about to knock again, I heard it — the subtle metallic click of the handle turning.
The door squeaked open.
And there he was.
Daniel.
Barely awake-looking, standing in nothing but a pair of grey shorts. His chest was bare — shoulders broad, skin still slightly damp like he had just washed his face or rinsed off sweat. The faint lines of muscle traced his collarbone and arms, soft but defined, and for half a second my eyes betrayed me and wandered.
'Okay… focus. You're visiting a patient, not attending an exhibition.'
I blinked hard, forcing my gaze back up to his face.
He smiled lightly, tired but warm. That smile that always looked a little shy, as if he was never fully sure he deserved attention.
"You're here," he said, voice rough with sleep.
"I told you I would be," I replied softly.
My tone surprised me — calm, gentle, almost careful — like the words themselves were being carried on my heartbeat.
I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. The house smelled faintly of menthol balm and something freshly boiled — maybe tea. Curtains were slightly drawn, letting in filtered light that painted the living room in soft shades of gold.
"Were you asleep?" I asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away.
"Sort of. Just lying down. My head was heavy."
My eyes softened. "Medication?"
He nodded. "I took it. Just like you said."
"And food?"
He hesitated.
I raised a brow.
"Toast and tea," he admitted. "Not much. But something."
I exhaled slowly, relief mixing with quiet satisfaction.
"Good. That's all I needed to hear," I said. "We can deal with the rest."
He chuckled faintly, then moved aside. "Come. Sit."
I walked past him, and again, against my will, my shoulder brushed lightly against his bare arm. Warm. Firm. Real. And a breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat.
I reminded myself — again:
'You are not here for this. You are here because you care. Because he needs support. Because he is recovering. Be sensible.'
I sat on the couch, crossing one leg over the other, placing my bag beside me.
"So," I began softly, eyes watching him carefully as he poured himself water, "how are you feeling? Truthfully this time. Not the 'fine' you like to say."
He paused, then sighed.
"Some days it feels like I'm inside my own body, watching it struggle," he said. "But today… today feels lighter. Because you came."
My throat tightened.
I didn't speak.
I simply looked at him — and suddenly the world outside the house, the uniforms, the salon, the noise, the frustrations — all faded into a quiet, gentle stillness.
And I realized something:
Sometimes visiting someone isn't about talking. It's about presence. About being there when the silence is too loud for them to face alone.
He sat across from me, elbows resting on his knees, eyes softer now.
'This was someone I hurt; not intentionally though and this is day two of seeing him'.
We spoke — slowly, calmly — about his meds, about rest, about things the doctor said. I found myself asking questions, reminding, encouraging, teasing him gently whenever he tried to brush off details.
Minutes blended into moments, and the afternoon lingered like a gentle curtain drawn against the noise of the world.
But deep inside me, a small whisper rose:
Today is not about anybody else. Today is about me choosing peace. Choosing boundaries. Choosing care — without losing myself.
When he finally leaned back, relaxed, I felt the weight leave his shoulders. And somehow, it left mine too.
I apologize again for the pain and he smiled.
My phone buzzed softly in my bag, a gentle reminder of the schedule I had left back at the salon. I glanced at it, noting the time, and slipped it back in my bag. For a moment, I let myself breathe, enjoying the calm in the room, the quiet hum of the afternoon, and the sight of Daniel sitting there, looking… just himself.
I stood slowly, stretching lightly. "I should probably get going soon," I said, my voice soft but firm. He nodded, not moving from his spot.
Before I stepped toward the door, a thought tugged at me.
"There's something I need to tell you," I began, lowering my voice just enough to make it intimate, careful. "Earlier, when I drove in… I noticed a group of people across the side of the building. Seven… maybe eight. They were in uniform, standing together. I don't know who they were, but… I thought you should know."
His eyes flicked toward mine, calm, measured. Not even a hint of surprise.
"Forget it," he said simply, shrugging as though it was nothing. "Really, it's nothing."
I paused, my hand on the doorknob, studying him. His casual tone, the lack of reaction — it didn't match the caution I had felt when I saw them. My instincts whispered at me, a quiet warning, but I let it slide. He seemed in control, unfazed. Maybe he had dealt with situations like this before. Maybe it was normal for him.
"Alright," I said finally, forcing a small smile. "But… be careful, okay?"
He nodded once, decisively. "I'll be fine. Don't worry."
I exhaled softly, letting go of the tension I had carried in my chest all the way from the car. I glanced around the room one last time — the soft sunlight falling through the curtains, the faint smell of tea lingering in the air, the quiet rhythm of his breathing — and realized that this was why I had come. Not to worry him. Not to interfere. Just to be here. To check. To care.
As I stepped out, the door clicking softly behind me, I felt a quiet satisfaction. Today had been about showing up, about being present. The city outside hummed with its usual noise, but for a moment, I felt insulated in a bubble of calm. I had come, I had seen, and I had done what I needed.