Still Yours

Chapter One

Sarai’s POV

The city greeted her with noise.

Not the kind that startled—but the kind that settled into your bones. Horns. Footsteps. A distant train rumbling underground. Sarai stepped out of the ride-share and stood still for a moment, letting the sounds wrap around her like a coat she hadn’t worn in years.

It hadn’t changed that much. Not really.

She used to love this place.

Used to walk these streets with headphones in, poetry swirling in her head, his voice echoing in her memory. Used to believe the city was hers to conquer—every bookstore, every rooftop, and every late-night café where she scribbled verses on napkins.

But now?

Now it felt like the city had moved on without her.

She passed the corner where they once slow-danced to a street musician’s saxophone. The alley where she used to sneak away to cry after open mic nights. The bakery with the strawberry tarts she swore tasted like summer.

Everything was still here. But it all felt… quieter.

She wasn’t the same girl who left for college with a suitcase full of notebooks and a heart full of hope. She’d learned how to survive.

How to stay guarded. How to write without bleeding.

But walking these streets again cracked something open.

She didn’t know if she was ready to face the memories. Or the people. Or him.

Her mom’s building came into view—familiar, faded, still standing. Sarai adjusted the strap on her shoulder and took a deep breath.

She was home.

Whatever that meant now.

The building hadn’t changed much.

Same rusted gate. Same cracked steps leading up to the second floor. Same faded number plate hanging crooked above the door.

Sarai stood there for a moment, suitcase at her side, keys in her hand, heart thudding like it didn’t know what came next.

She unlocked the door slowly, pushing it open with her shoulder.

The apartment smelled like lavender and old paper. Her mother’s signature scent—sachets tucked into drawers, candles half-burned on the counter. It was comforting. And suffocating.

“Hey, baby,” her mom called from the kitchen, voice soft but tired. “Welcome home.”

The apartment was modest, tucked into the second floor of a five storied weathered building that had survived the city’s constant reinvention. It wasn’t big, but it held history in every corner.

She entered directly into the living room, a narrow space with mismatched furniture and a soft, sagging couch that had absorbed years of late-night conversations and quiet dinners. A small bookshelf leaned against one wall, filled with old romance novels, herbal guides, and a few poetry collections Sarai had left behind.

The window was the room’s centrepiece—tall, wide, and framed by sheer curtains that fluttered with the breeze. Just beyond the glass, the black, iron fire escape clung to the building’s side like a secret staircase. It zigzagged upward toward the rooftop and downward toward the alley, technically communal, but always felt like Sarai’s. She used to climb it late at night, notebook in hand, while the city pulsed below and her mom slept in the next room.

To the right, a galley-style kitchen stretched along the wall—compact but functional. Pale green tiles lined the backsplash, and the counters were cluttered with spice jars, a chipped kettle, and a lavender candle that had burned halfway down. A small two-person table sat beneath the other window, where her mom always insisted on eating dinner, no matter how tired she was.

Down the short hallway were three doors. The first led to her mom’s bedroom, always neat, always quiet. The second was Sarai’s old room, still painted in soft blue, with a twin bed pushed against the wall and a desk tucked beneath the window. The closet held forgotten clothes and boxed-up memories. A photo frame sat face-down on the nightstand, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and dust.

The bathroom was tucked between the two rooms—tiny, tiled in pale green like the kitchen, with a mirror that warped slightly at the edges. Sarai used to write affirmations on the glass with dry-erase markers. Her mom never erased them.

Her mom smiled faintly, eyes flicking over her daughter like she was trying to memorize her face. “You look older.”

“I am.”

They didn’t hug. Not yet. There was love, but also distance—years of silence and missed calls and unspoken things. Sarai didn’t push. She just slipped off her shoes and walked down the hall to her old room.

It was smaller than she remembered. She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the comforter. It smelled like home. Like memory. Like everything she wasn’t sure she was ready to feel.

Outside, the city hummed. Cars, people’s voices echoing, so full of life.

Inside, Sarai closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

She was back.

And everything hurt a little more than she expected.

Sarai sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, letting the hum of the city seep through the window. Her suitcase stood like a stranger in the corner, zipped tight, holding pieces of a life she wasn’t sure she wanted to unpack.

Eventually, she moved.

She knelt beside the suitcase, unzipping it with a quiet sigh. Clothes folded neatly. A few books. Her favourite mug wrapped in a hoodie. She placed things gently around the room—on the desk, in the drawers, like she was trying not to disturb the ghosts.

At the bottom of the suitcase was her notebook. The one she’d carried through college, through heartbreak, through every sleepless night when words were the only thing that made sense.

She didn’t open it.

Not yet. Just placed it on the nightstand like it belonged there.

She stood and stretched, her body aching from the travel and the emotional weight of being back. She padded softly to the bathroom and splashed her face with water. She washed her face slowly, watching the water drip from her chin like she was rinsing off the past.

Taking a look in the warped mirror, she could see herself staring back, older, more mature. Nothing at all like the wide eyed hopeful girl who left eight years ago. But her eyes still held that same softness. The same ache.

She made her way back to her room to change into something comfortable—comfy sweats and an old college T-shirt—and padded softly to the kitchen where her mom just began plating dinner.

Rice, steamed vegetables, baked chicken. Simple. Familiar.

“Smells good,” Sarai said, voice low.

Her mom smiled without turning. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

They sat at the small table by the window, the city lights flickering outside like stars that never slept. The silence between them wasn’t heavy. Just… cautious.

Sarai took a bite. Chewed slowly. Let the warmth settle in her chest.

She was home.

--

The clink of utensils was the only sound between them for a while. Outside, the city murmured—horns, footsteps, and the occasional siren. Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.

“You still writing?” her mom asked, not looking up.

Sarai paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Sometimes.”

Her mom nodded slowly, chewing with care. “You used to write all the time. Couldn’t get you to stop.”

“I guess college changed that.”

“College changed a lot.”

Sarai didn’t answer right away. She pushed her food around, watching the steam curl upward like it was trying to escape, the same way she wanted to escape the awkward silence that lingered between them, as if they were strangers and not mother and daughter.

“I didn’t mean to stay away so long,” she said finally.

Her mom looked at her then—really looked. “I know.”

There was no accusation in her voice. Just weariness. Maybe even relief.

“I thought about coming back,” Sarai added. “A few times. But I didn’t know if I’d still fit here.”

Her mom smiled faintly. “You don’t have to fit. You just have to be.”

That hit harder than Sarai expected. She blinked, swallowed, then nodded.

They ate in silence for a few more minutes before her mom spoke again.

“You passed by 7th Street?”

Sarai’s heart stuttered. “Yeah.”

Her mom didn’t say His name. Didn’t have to.

“He’s done well,” she said softly. “You probably already know that.”

Sarai nodded, eyes fixed on her plate. “I saw his face on a billboard.”

Even though they spent eight long years apart, Sarai’s mom knew her daughter like the back of her hand. She didn’t press for more information. Just reached for her glass and took a sip. Sarai would come to her when the time was right.

“I didn’t come back for him,” Sarai said, voice low.

“I know,” her mom replied.

She wasn’t so sure her mom believed her, and maybe she wasn’t sure if she believed herself either.