~Aria's POV
I finally retreated, yanking the curtain shut as if it had burned me, and stumbled backward until the bed caught the backs of my knees. I fell onto it with a soft bounce, staring up at the ceiling, my heart still misbehaving.
"Get a grip," I muttered to no one.
The room felt too quiet now. Safe, yes. But heavy. The kind of quiet that gives your thoughts too much space to stretch and turn ugly. My phone lay face down beside me, and I didn't touch it. I already knew what lived in there. My name twisted into headlines. Opinions formed by strangers who didn't know my voice, my process, my nights.
I rolled onto my side and sighed. Bored. Not the harmless kind. The restless, itchy kind that comes when you're avoiding something.
"Okay," I said softly. "Food first."
I reached for the room phone and dialed reception.
"Hi," I said, trying to sound normal. "Can I order breakfast, please?"
The woman's voice was warm. "Of course. What would you like?"
"Anything simple," I replied. "Tea, toast, maybe eggs."
"No problem at all. It'll be with you shortly."
True to her word, a knock came barely five minutes later, a soft, polite knock. I opened the door, and the tray was wheeled in with a smile on my face. The smell alone made my stomach ache with relief. Warm bread, eggs, and tea steaming gently as if it understood me.
"Thank you," I said, genuinely this time.
I ate slowly, sitting by the window, watching the morning move outside. I didn't rush. I let the food settle. Let myself exist without urgency.
Afterward, I showered.
The water was hot, almost too hot, but I let it run over me anyway, loosening the ache in my shoulders, washing off the night, the fear, the rain, the memory of those eyes on the balcony. I stood there longer than necessary, palms flat against the tiled wall, breathing.
When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I felt lighter. Not fixed. Just… lighter.
I dressed simply, but not carelessly. The dress was soft cotton, knee-length, a muted shade that didn't beg for attention. It skimmed my body without clinging, the kind of dress you wear when you want to disappear and still feel like yourself. The sleeves sat just right on my shoulders, light enough for the morning air. I slipped into my flats, worn but comfortable, the soles already shaped to my feet as if they understood me. I tied my hair back low, neat but unpretentious, then reached for a face cap and pulled it on, tilting the brim just enough to shadow my eyes.
Clean, easy, and honest.
I studied my reflection once more. No makeup beyond lip balm.
"You're still here," I whispered, my voice barely there. "That counts."
The urge to crawl back into bed tugged at me, familiar and tempting, but I ignored it. I slung my bag over my shoulder, checked my phone was fully charged, and stepped out of the room before I could change my mind.
At the reception desk, the same woman from the night before looked up.
"Good morning," she said warmly.
"Good morning," I replied. I slid the key card across the counter. "I'll be stepping out. Could you please have the room cleaned?"
"Of course."
I hesitated, then pulled out the charger she'd lent me and placed it beside the card. "Thank you for this. I'll get another one today."
She smiled. "Anytime. I hope you're feeling better."
"I am," I said. Maybe not entirely true, but close enough. "Thank you. Really."
Outside, the air felt fresh, like it had been washed overnight. The gate creaked softly as I approached, and Brian was there, leaning slightly against the security post, hands folded in front of him.
"Morning," he said, eyes scanning my face. "You okay today?"
I nodded. "Much better. Thank you… for yesterday. For everything."
He gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal, and reached for the gate. "Take care of yourself."
He held it open, and I stepped through, offering a quiet smile before moving on.
Once I was a little distance away, I slipped my AirPods in and let the music settle into me. Not loud. Just enough to soften the sharp edges in my head. A familiar song came on, one I'd played a hundred times before, and somehow it still knew exactly where to touch. I breathed out slowly, matching my steps to the rhythm, letting my shoulders drop.
I walked without a plan. Left, then right. Down a narrow street that curved like it had been drawn by hand. I took pictures as I went, not for anyone else, just for myself. Sunlight spilling through tree branches, dust dancing in the air. Old buildings with chipped paint and stubborn pride, standing there like they'd seen worse days and survived anyway. Wooden benches worn smooth by years of waiting. Closed shop doors that didn't feel abandoned, just resting.
The sidewalks were empty, wide enough to hold my thoughts without pressing them back into my chest. No horns. No shouting. No one was looking twice at me. The town moved at its own pace, unbothered by urgency, as if it had decided long ago that rushing only breaks things.
At some point, walking stopped being enough.
The music shifted. The beat grew faster, a little louder, like it was daring me. Before I could overthink it, I broke into a run. It wasn't planned. Just… movement. My flats slapped lightly against the pavement as I jogged past trees and fences and sleepy storefronts. Cool air rushed into my lungs, sharp and clean, and it burned a little, the good kind of burn.
I ran harder.
I ran past a bend in the road, past a narrow bridge. My thoughts scattered with every stride, loosening their grip. Rain from the night before still clung to the earth, and I knew it even as I ran. The dampness, the chill creeping into my chest. I sighed to myself.
"Great," I muttered. "Catarrh, here we come."
I always knew my body. Whenever I got drenched or stayed cold too long, it followed. Like clockwork. So when I slowed to a stop and lifted my head, breath coming in shallow pulls, it felt almost intentional when I saw it.
An apothecary.
The sign was old, hand-painted, hanging slightly crooked. The windows were cluttered with jars, dried herbs, and bottles catching sunlight in soft greens and ambers. It didn't look like a modern pharmacy. It looked… personal, like someone cared.
"Perfect," I whispered.
I pushed the door open.
A small bell chimed, light and clear.
The smell hit me first. Herbs and smoke. Something warm and spicy beneath it. The place was quiet, cozy, with shelves lining the walls, packed with glass jars and handwritten labels. And then I saw her.
She stood behind the counter, and for a second, I forgot why I'd come in.
Fiery red hair spilled down her shoulders, wild but intentional. Her eyes caught the light and held it. It was green, not soft green. And it was sharp and piercing as if she could see through skin and lies and excuses without trying. There was something about her that felt dangerous and grounding at the same time.