CHAPTER THREE
1650 Words
Naomi
Morning Sunlight fades slowly through the blinds, pale gold filtering across the wooden floor. Los Angeles feels calmer after the rain. Sophie’s giggles drift from the kitchen, mingling with the sound of a cartoon playing loudly on the TV.
I sit on my bed, still in my silk pajamas, staring at the picture in my hand. The edges had faded with time, the ink receding faintly.
It’s a picture of Peter and me from years ago, at UCLA. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, both of us smiling at something out of frame. I look chubbier, my cheeks reddened, Joy untamed. I trace the outline of his jaw with my finger, my heart fluttering like the way it always does when I let myself look.
I keep telling myself I will trash it out, every time, but I can't.
Sophie’s little feet tapping down the hallway, and she shows up in the doorway, hair still a mess from sleep, with French toast in one hand.
“Mom?” Why have you been staring at that picture? She asks between bites, tilting her head with that guileless curiosity only children could have.
I quickly tuck the picture into the drawer, trying to smile. “It's just an old picture that holds memories."
She observes me a moment longer, eyes sharp for her little age. “Is he my dad?”
The question falls softly, yet feels like a stone dropping into an ocean.
I force a laugh that sounds frail even to me.
“You’ve been watching too many movies, baby."
She doesn’t look like she is convinced. “He looks like me."
I froze…. It’s not the first time she’s mentioned it, but it’s the first time she says it so calmly, almost as if she knows some truth above her age.
“Go finish your breakfast," I tell her gently, brushing her hair back.
She finally leaves, and I sit still for a long time, staring at the drawer where I hid the picture.
My hands tremble lightly.
Seven years. And still, one look, one name, one hospital visit was enough to unfold everything I thought I'd buried.
By noon, the small apartment smells like lavender tea and lemon detergent. Grandma Chen is sitting on the couch, knitting a sweater, her gray hair pulled into a neat bun.
Though she is not my biological grandmother, she is the closest thing I've had to one in years.
I met her through Ethan Chen, my ex-husband. Our wedding barely made it to six months, our divorce papers were signed faster than our wedding pictures were delivered. We got married on impulse, two lonely people trying to fix the holes in themselves. But Grandma Chen never blamed me.
“You work too hard," she says now, without looking up from her knitting sticks.
“Designers need rest to see beauty properly."
I smile faintly. “Tell that to my boss."
She lets out a small laugh, eyes soft. “How is work?”
I hesitate. “My new collection draft got rejected again”. They said it felt too ‘disconnected’, like it had no emotion”.
The irony makes me want to laugh. Emotion is all I have. It’s the only thing I tried to hide for years.
Grandma Chen looks up at me, as if reading my thoughts. “Maybe they are right. Art always knows when the heart is holding something.”
I pour her more tea. “Maybe,” I muttered.
She sighs. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately.
Something happened?”
I quickly shake my head, “Uh no, it’s just work pressure.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a few seconds before she lets go. “You should come to the community dinner this weekend. It will be fun, there will be music, it will be good for you to unwind, and Sophie needs to be around other people.”
I smile, relieved by the change of subject.
“Maybe we will."
At work, the day drags endlessly. My workspace at the small design studio faces a window overlooking the busy street, where Jacaranda petals scatter along the pavement.
I try to concentrate on my sketches, but the lines are blurry.
Peter’s voice is still stuck in my head. I keep replaying it in my head.
Have we met before?
I press the pencil harder until the lead breaks.
“Rough morning?” a voice teases behind me. It’s Claire, my colleague and the closest friend I have here. Her red lipstick is perfect, her curls bouncing like confidence itself.
" I've had better," I admit.
She leans on my desk, a smirk on her face. “You, my dear, need a night out. Oh, speaking of, guess what? The Alumni Association is hosting a reunion this Friday at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Everyone’s pumped about it”.
I look up, shocked. “UCLA’s alumni?”
“Yep. Your year, Architecture, design, and medicine combined. It’s almost like a nostalgia circus”.
I hold the pen tightly, “I am not going."
Claire pouts. “Okay…. Why not? You never go anywhere. Don’t you want to see who’s gotten rich? And who has gotten fat?”
“ I do not care for all that," I replied quietly.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Naomi, come on. You might even meet someone rich and hot, maybe an architect or even a lawyer. Anyone but this sketchbook of yours”?
I force a small laugh. "No, thank you, I'll pass."
She looks at me, then sighs. “Fine. But if you change your mind, I’ll be here, you have my plus-one”.
After she leaves, I turn back to the window.
Outside the city gleams restless, glowing, indifferent.
A Reunion.
I imagine walking into the hotel ballroom, the sound of laughter and polite envy, the old familiar faces that once gossiped about me behind library shelves. I imagine Peter there, in his flawless suit, encircled by adoring gazes, maybe a woman by his side.
The image cuts deep enough to make my stomach ache.
No, I can't. Some doors, once reopened, can’t be shut again.
That night, Sophie snuggled in bed with me, her little hands squeezing the edge of my shirt. I lay down eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, the slight hum of the city outside our window.
I think of the photo in the drawer, of Grandma Chen’s sweet, calm voice, of Claire’s invitation I still haven’t deleted.
The past presses closer in the dark.
I reach for my phone and scroll absentmindedly through old alumni group messages. The names blur by, but one stops me–Dr Peter Hayes Added to the group.
My heart drops.
He’s already back in Los Angeles for good, then.
I quickly grab my phone beside me and send a message to Claire, fingers hovering above the screen. Maybe I'll come for a bit.
Then I delete it before sending it.
I turn off the phone, close my eyes, and pretend that silence can keep the past from finding me.
But even in dreams, Peter’s voice lingers. Calm, low, apologetic.
And I wake up with the strange certainty that our paths are not done crossing.
By Thursday, I convince myself that I have made peace with not going.
Then, on my lunch break, Grandma Chen calls.
Her voice is energetic, sneaky. “Naomi, dear, I heard about your school reunion! You have to go. You’ve worked hard. Let people see the woman you have become”.
I laugh faintly. “You have been talking to Claire, haven’t you?”
She chuckles. “Good friends conspire for good reasons. Go. Wear that blue dress I like”.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea."
“Why not? Are you scared of ghosts?”
Her words hit deeper than she intended. I stare at the sketchpad in front of me, at the half-finished design of a pale blue silk gown, the same shade as the one she means.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
She sighs softly. “Child, ghosts only follow those who keep looking back."
The line crackles, and for a moment, all I hear is my own heartbeat.
When the call ends, I sit there for a long time, pencil moving.
Outside, the Jacaranda petals drift down the street like violet snow.
I think of Peter’s gray eyes when he looked at me in the office, unaware, curious, almost tender. I think of the photo in the drawer, the one I still can’t throw away.
I close my sketchbook, grab my bag, and leave early.
At home, Sophie meets me at the door, holding a wobbly drawing. “Mom, look! It’s you and me!”
I smile, taking it from her. She drew two stick figures, one tall, one small, and a third weird, faintly sketched figure standing nearby with gray crayon eyes.
“Who is this other person?” I ask softly.
She hesitates before answering. “I don’t know. He just showed up”.
I laugh, but my throat tightens.
That night, as she falls asleep, I sit at my desk and open the drawer again. The picture stares back at me, patient and mean.
I sighed heavily, slid it into my wallet, and whispered to the empty, “just one night”.
- Writer
