THE MAFIA’S LIGHT

VIVIAN ‘Ding ding dong…’ The continuous chime of my morning alarm pulls me from sleep. I reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand, eyes still half-closed, the edges of a dream slipping through my fingers. The soft rays of the sun spill through the thin cotton of my curtains, painting lazy lines across my bedspread. The warmth brushes against my cheek sending me a silent invitation to wake up, though my body protests. The air feels cool when I finally throw off the covers and drag myself toward the bathroom. My bare feet meet the chill of the tiled floor, and I groan quietly. Another morning, another battle with consciousness. The mirror greets me with tired eyes and a faint pillow crease on my cheek. I stare at my reflection longer than I should, toothbrush in hand, lost in thought. Some days I wonder how long this routine will last… wake, study, work, sleep and repeat. It’s a rhythm I’ve grown used to, comforting yet dull in its sameness. But then again, peace isn’t such a bad thing. The faint sound of birds filters through the window, mingling with the distant honk of cars from the street below. My room smells faintly of my gourmand scents and my bathroom is filled with the scent of air freshener. I glance toward the half-open door and sigh deeply at the sight of my messy bed.How I wish I could rot away in it all day. On one side of my room stands a tall wooden rack stacked with perfumes, and on the other side, is a chaos of sketch pads, paint brushes, and dried streaks of color that I keep promising to clean up. “Good morning, nae chingu!” My language enthusiast friend, Anna’s voice rings out, playful and bright. I nearly jump, realizing she’s leaning against my door frame, hair a messy blonde halo around her face. She must have wandered in at some point, while I was lost in thoughts. “Morning, did you have a good night's rest?” I mumble around my toothbrush. “Yes, but that doesn’t seem to be the case for you.” She teases “Hmmmmn, I hate mornings so much.” I said tiredly as I splashed some water across my face. “Breakfast in ten!” she announces dramatically. “Get dressed before then, lazybones. I need to change too, or we’ll both be late again.” She disappears before I can respond, her voice echoing down the hall. I shake my head with a small smile. Only Anna can sound so cheerful before 8 a.m. After my shower, I towel off and run a brush through my long auburn hair, tying it into a low ponytail. I pull on a black tennis skirt, a brown sweatshirt, and my favorite pair of black boots, worn in but comfortable. My reflection looks somewhat put together, which is as good as it gets for a morning like this. I hurriedly layer my perfume and glance through the contents of my bag ensuring my ladies supplies are in. “Veeeeeeeeeee! Breakfast is served!” Anna screams from the kitchen. “Coming!” I call back, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I open the door and nearly bump into Anna, who’s leaning forward mid-attempt to barge in. “You opened it just in time. I was seconds away from dragging you out by your ankles,” she grins, looping her arm through mine and pulling me toward the dining table. Her laughter fills the small apartment, bright, contagious, and annoyingly effective at making me forget I’m half asleep. Annabelle Miller isn’t just my best friend, she’s my sister in every way that matters. We’ve known each other our whole lives. Our families are close, we grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools. We were friends before we even knew how to spell the word friendship, and she’s been my anchor ever since. If sunshine had a human form, it would be Anna, loud, loyal, and full of warmth. “Eat faster,” she says between bites of toast. “We can’t afford another late entry. Professor Adams nearly vaporized me last time.” “That’s because you called her ‘Mom’ by accident,” I tease, earning a playful glare. “Traitor,” she mutters with her mouth full. We finish breakfast in no time, stuffing our notebooks and pens into our bags as we rush out the door. The morning air outside is crisp, and the city hums awake around us, vendors opening their stalls, students hustling toward campus, the smell of roasted coffee drifting from the bakery down the street. Anna adjusts her bag strap and waves. “See you later, Vee! Don’t let your art professor keep you hostage again.” “No promises!” I laugh as she veers off toward the linguistics department building, while I take the opposite path to Fine Arts. The walk to campus takes ten minutes, but I take my time. The morning sun feels good on my skin, soft and golden. I pass familiar faces, classmates, neighbors, the old woman who sells flowers by the corner . She waves, and I wave back, her hands already dusted with yellow pollen. The Fine Arts building sits near the edge of campus, a quiet contrast to the crowded science blocks. I love it here, the smell of paint, the faint hum of jazz music someone always insists on playing, the calm chaos of creativity. Inside, the studio is already buzzing with students setting up their easels. Canvases lean against the walls, jars of murky paint water clutter the tables, and sunlight spills through the tall windows, turning the air golden. I drop my bag beside my stool and start unpacking my supplies. My sketchbook falls open to a half-finished painting, a burst of orange and red that I can’t quite explain. It’s supposed to be abstract, but lately, I’ve been drawn to light. How it bends, how it touches everything, how it changes depending on where you stand. “Good morning, Miss Hart,” Professor Reynolds greets as he walks by, his usual coffee in hand. “Working on the sunrise again?” I smile. “Trying to, sir.” He hums approvingly and moves on, leaving me to the comfort of my brushstrokes. Once I start painting, time disappears. The world outside fades until it’s just me, the scent of acrylic, and the soft drag of the brush. There’s something peaceful about creating something from nothing, colors becoming emotions, shapes becoming memories and creating art pieces that make people feel, think and remember, pieces that bring out long-buried memories and emotions. Sometimes I think art is the only thing that makes sense in my life. It’s where I can breathe, where I don’t have to pretend to have everything figured out. “Vee!” I blink up, startled, as Anna leans through the studio door, grinning. “Class over already?” I ask, glancing at the clock. Two hours gone, just like that. “Yeah, and you’re officially the last artist standing,” she teases. “Come on, Van Gogh, let’s get lunch before you start painting your soul again.” I laugh, wiping my hands on a rag. “You make it sound dramatic.” “It is dramatic,” she says, walking in and studying my canvas. “You paint like you’re in love with the sun.” I pause, then smile softly. “Maybe I am.” She rolls her eyes. “You and your poetic nonsense. Let’s go before I die of hunger.” We walk out hand in hand, the way we’ve always done since we were kids. Outside, the breeze carries the smell of freshly baked bread from the pastry café down the street, my next stop. The café sits on the corner of Willow Street, tucked between a hair salon and a small bookstore that smells like old paper and dust. The bell above the glass door jingles softly as Anna and I step inside, and I instantly feel at home. Warm air rushes to greet us, the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly ground coffee blending together in a way that always calms me. The low hum of conversation fills the room, mixed with the hiss of the espresso machine and the clinking of spoons against mugs. The place isn’t fancy, but it’s cozy. Wooden floors, warm lighting, soft music floating in the background. The chalkboard menu is filled with looping handwriting, and the display case gleams with trays of croissants, muffins, and golden pastries that make you forget about calories. “Welcome to heaven,” Anna sighs dramatically, placing a hand on her chest. I laugh. “You say that every time we walk in here.” “Because it’s true.” She beams, already heading for the counter. “Hmmmnnn, What should I have today?” She hums pretending to deliberate on what to pick from the menu, before settling for the first recommended snacks, as she always does. The girl behind the register, Leah, my coworker raises a brow but smiles. “How about an almond croissant with an almond iced latte?” “Perfect!, I’ll take it.” Anna said excitedly, grinning sheepishly at Leah. Leah glances at me knowingly. “And for you, Vivian?” “Cinnamon roll with butterscotch latte,” I say without hesitation. “Predictable,” Anna teases, nudging me. “It’s called consistency,” I reply, smirking. Leah giggles, punching in our order. “You two are like clockwork. You’ve made this café your second home.” “That’s because she works here,” Anna says, pointing at me again. “Right, the dedicated barista-s***h-artist,” Leah replies, sliding our receipt across the counter. We take our seats by the window, where sunlight spills across the table, catching in Anna’s hair and making her glow. She looks outside, absently stirring her drink. “So,” she says finally, “what’s our dinner plan tonight? I vote pasta.” “Hmm, spaghetti meatballs?” I suggest. “Chef Vee will make it.” She gasps dramatically. “Music to my ears. I’ll bring the wine, the cheap kind that tastes expensive.” I roll my eyes. “You mean the one that gave you hiccups last time?” She snorts. “No pain, no gain.” We fall into easy conversation as she launches into stories about her morning, her classes, and random scraps of information only she finds interesting, laughter flowing effortlessly. That’s the thing about Anna, she has this way of making everything lighter. No matter how exhausting the day is, she finds a reason to laugh. When we finish eating, she glances at the clock. “I’ve got to head to the bookstore. My shift starts in fifteen minutes.” “Five p.m. sharp, right?” “Yup.” She stands, pulling her bag over her shoulder. “Meet me afterward for grocery shopping?” I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.” She waves as she heads out, the bell jingling again behind her. I watch her disappear down the street before turning toward the counter. My shift starts in ten minutes. I move behind the counter, tying my apron and slipping into routine. There’s comfort in the motions, steaming milk, wiping counters, taking orders. Each sound, each smell, feels familiar. It’s simple, predictable, and I like it that way. As I wipe down the counter, I glance out the window. The sun is starting to dip, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. It’s beautiful, fleeting but beautiful. A small smile tugs at my lips. My life isn’t extraordinary, but it’s mine, college, coffee, and the quiet moments in between. I have Anna, my art, this little café. For now, that feels like enough. Sometimes, I wonder if everyone gets a turning point, a moment that splits their life into before and after. I wonder if life will ever offer more than this calm, predictable rhythm… But I don’t think about it for long. Because right now, life is peaceful. And I intend to keep it that way. At least, that’s what I tell myself.