POV: Maya
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“You ever think about who you were?” I asked him one night, eyes tracing the ceiling.
The light was off, the only glow coming from the orange streetlamp light coming through the curtain. He lay beside me, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly on his stomach. He was calm and still.
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I try not to,” he said, voice low and slow. “Feels like chasing smoke. And I’m scared of what I might find.”
I turned to face him. “Why?”
His throat bobbed. “What if I was... awful?”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
I paused before I stretched out and touched his hand.
“I do.”
---
In the morning, he made pancakes.
Actual pancakes.
Not burnt toast or a sad egg on dry bread. I came out of the shower to find him standing over the stove, fli
