Chapter 2: No One Asks If She’s Okay
2360 Words
“You used hazelnut. I said vanilla,” the customer snapped, lips pursed.
Avery slid the cup back across the counter. “I’ll remake it right away.”
“You think I have time to wait again?”
Marcus called from the espresso bar, “Avery, how do you not punch people?”
She laughed—light, practiced. “I’m saving it for someone special.”
She turned to remake the drink, steam hissing under her hands.
Behind her, Marcus muttered, “You okay?”
Avery didn’t answer. Just nodded.
“I’d have cried twice by now,” he added.
She smiled faintly, pressing the lid into place.
When she set the cup down again, the customer grabbed it without a word.
“Have a good day,” Avery said.
The bell above the door jingled as they left.
She wiped the counter, caught her reflection in the coffee machine—blank, distant.
For a moment, she didn’t move.
Then, a breath.
She ran her hands down the front of her apron, forcing the curve of her mouth back into place.
Marcus turned away.
She took the next order.
The line kept moving.
So did she.
Steam burst from the espresso machine.
Avery’s phone vibrated once, then again.
She glanced down: Jonah – CALL ME.
She hit answer with her pinky, tucking the phone between shoulder and cheek.
“You’re on speaker,” she murmured.
“I got in trouble again,” Jonah barked. “She said I rolled my eyes!”
A customer interrupted—“Miss, this was supposed to be iced.”
“Sorry, just one moment,” Avery replied to both of them.
Jonah’s voice cut through. “I hate that school.”
“Lower your voice.”
“She said I was disrespectful!”
“Excuse me?” the customer repeated.
Her boss appeared beside her. “You alright?”
Avery didn’t blink.
“It’s not serious,” she said.
She handed the customer their drink, then whispered into the phone, “I’ll call you later.”
She hung up without waiting for Jonah’s reply.
The machine hissed again.
The overhead light buzzed.
Her fingers curled tighter around the damp rag she hadn’t realized she was still holding.
No one noticed.
She exhaled.
“Table four again,” Devon called, waving a napkin. “Spilled their latte. You’re closest.”
Avery wiped her hands on her apron. “Got it.”
“Seriously, girl,” said Tasha, balancing a tray. “You’re so chill. I’d be screaming.”
Avery gave a small smile, already moving.
She crouched, blotting milk from the floor.
“You good, miss?” the customer asked, slightly embarrassed.
“Totally fine,” she said softly. “It happens.”
As she stood, her back to the bar, a voice drifted—Tasha again.
“She’s like a robot, right? Always smiling.”
Devon snorted. “She doesn’t even blink.”
Avery placed the dirty towels into the bin.
The laughter faded as quickly as it came.
No one called her name again.
No one asked if she’d heard.
She had.
She returned to the register.
The corners of her lips lifted.
Not enough to show teeth. Just enough to seem polite.
Marcus looked up but said nothing.
Her hands folded neatly.
She stared forward, waiting.
Ready to help.
Ready to disappear.
The café lights flickered to their dim closing hue.
Kira leaned against the counter, sipping from a half-empty paper cup.
“Want to grab dumplings?” she asked, voice low, casual.
Avery glanced at the mop still propped by the sink. “Tonight?”
Kira nodded. “Yeah. Just food.”
Avery wiped her hands on a towel, eyes fixed on the stain it didn’t clean.
Kira waited, gaze steady.
“No pressure,” she added, softer this time. “You just looked… I don’t know. Tired.”
Avery forced a small smile. “Rain check. Maybe.”
Kira held the pause, just long enough.
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
She backed toward the door, one hand already pushing it open.
Outside, the streetlights buzzed to life.
Inside, Avery folded the towel twice before setting it down.
She didn’t watch Kira leave.
The door clicked closed.
Behind her, the café hummed in stillness.
Avery stood for a moment, unmoving.
Not lonely.
Not fine.
Just quiet.
Her hand hovered over the towel again, then dropped.
The front door clicked shut behind her.
Jonah’s door was cracked open, the glow of his monitor casting blue shadows across the hallway.
Gunshots and footsteps echoed from his headset.
Avery slipped off her shoes, moving into the living room.
Their mother sat on the couch, staring at a blank TV screen.
“Dinner?” Avery asked.
“Already ate,” Jonah called, without turning.
The remote rested in their mother’s lap.
She didn’t look away from the reflection in the black screen.
“We’re out of meds.”
Avery paused.
“How long?”
Her mother shrugged. “Three days?”
The ceiling fan spun slowly above them, the chain ticking with each turn.
Avery took out her phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
“I’ll call the pharmacy tomorrow.”
No one responded.
Jonah laughed behind his door.
The controller clicked.
The silence returned.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said.
The light from the kitchen buzzed overhead.
Her mother blinked, slowly.
“Of course you will.”
Avery placed the phone face down on the counter.
Her reflection stared back in the microwave door.
She didn’t stay to watch it.
The paper bag crinkled as Avery unloaded groceries onto the chipped counter.
Cereal. Eggs. Instant noodles.
Then, a corner of something bent beneath the milk carton.
She froze.
Her sketchbook—creased and damp from condensation.
She lifted it gently, thumb smoothing the warped pages.
The cover stuck slightly from spilled rice.
Jonah shuffled past, yawning, stretching one arm behind his head.
“That your art stuff?”
She didn’t look up. “Just old assignments.”
He opened the fridge, peered in.
“You still do that?”
Her hands lingered on the cover.
She closed it, slowly.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The fridge door clicked shut.
“Just asking.”
He left the kitchen, door swinging lazily behind him.
She pressed the sketchbook between two cookbooks like a secret.
The counter was still cluttered.
She didn’t finish unpacking.
Instead, she rinsed her hands under cold water, then dried them with the same towel she used on the pages.
The sketchbook stayed shut.
But she hadn’t thrown it away.
Avery sat at the table, sorting the remaining pills into the faded plastic organizer.
Three compartments came up empty.
“You need a refill,” she said, not looking up.
Her mother, seated across, stared at a tea stain on the table.
“You’re the one with time,” she muttered.
Avery paused. “Okay.”
She snapped the lid shut.
Jonah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You could ask for help sometimes, you know.”
She turned slightly. “Could you give it?”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t reply.
Their mother reached for the pillbox.
Her fingers brushed Avery’s—neither pulled away.
Outside, a car honked. Inside, the clock ticked.
“I just meant…” Jonah started.
Avery stood, pushing her chair in.
“I know what you meant.”
Her voice was level. Too level.
She rinsed the empty bottle under the faucet, the water louder than any of them.
Jonah stepped back.
Their mother adjusted the lid on the pillbox but didn’t open it.
No one said sorry.
No one said thank you.
Just the sound of water draining down the sink, as Avery dried her hands.
The café lights buzzed low, catching steam in midair.
Avery stood by the espresso machine, her apron tied tight at the waist.
Marcus leaned on the counter, sipping foam off a spoon.
“You always bounce back,” he said. “What’s your secret?”
She raised her cup. “Good shoes.”
Marcus chuckled. “No, seriously.”
She sipped her coffee, the mug warm against her hands.
Behind her, the glass door caught her reflection—half-obscured by glare.
“You’re like… unbreakable,” he added.
“I sleep in the fridge. Preserves the mood,” she said, flashing a grin.
“You’re a freak,” he laughed.
Avery turned her back to him.
She rinsed the milk jug, watching the swirl of water cloud then clear.
The silence stretched.
Marcus kept laughing, softer now.
She nodded, once, as if that answered something.
Her hand wiped condensation from the counter.
The rag trailed steam.
Marcus went to help a customer.
Avery stood alone, the corner of her smile frozen.
In the reflection, her face didn’t match her voice.
She didn’t look back.
The blanket barely covered her shoulders.
Avery lay on her side, thumb scrolling in rhythm with passing cars outside.
Jonah’s muffled laughter leaked through the wall.
Her screen blinked: Sara posted a story.
She tapped.
Birthday candles.
Laughter over karaoke.
A clinking glass.
“Wait, wait—one more!” someone shouted through the tiny speaker.
Avery swiped again.
Another group photo. A dinner spread. A concert, maybe.
The light from her screen pulsed gently across her cheekbones.
A couple posed under fairy lights, someone kissed someone else’s forehead.
Another clip: “We love youuu!”
Avery’s finger hesitated.
She tapped once more—then again.
Until the rhythm felt like tapping on a bruise.
Jonah knocked. “Your light’s still on.”
“I’m getting there,” she replied, not lifting her head.
“You okay?”
“I’m just… watching something.”
He didn’t reply.
Her thumb hovered.
The screen dimmed, lighting her face one last time—eyes dry, but empty.
She pressed the button.
The phone went black.
She turned to the wall.
Didn’t move.
The shelf creaked as Avery shifted books aside.
A thin box slid free from the back corner, dust coating its edges.
She squinted at the faded tape.
“Old stuff,” her mother said, pausing in the hallway.
“Don’t get sentimental.”
Avery knelt, setting the box on the rug.
The tape gave easily under her nail.
Inside: yellowing papers, expired coupons, a ribbon.
At the bottom—
An envelope.
Her name, written in deep navy ink.
She froze.
Her fingers ran across the letters like they might smudge.
“Where did this come from?”
Her mother didn’t answer.
Avery turned to look.
“I said it’s old,” her mother muttered. “Let it be.”
Avery glanced down again.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
She didn’t open it.
Instead, she reached for her bag.
Slipped it inside.
Her mother disappeared down the hallway.
The silence stretched long after.
Avery zipped the bag shut with quiet precision.
She stood slowly, brushing lint from her palms.
The envelope shifted inside her backpack—but she didn’t touch it again.
The lamp clicked on with a soft hum.
Avery knelt beside her bed, pulling the backpack from beneath.
She unzipped it slowly, like the sound itself might wake someone.
Inside, the envelope glowed pale gold beneath the lamp’s amber light.
She placed it on her comforter, untouched.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, staring.
Her thumb hovered over the flap.
She didn’t tear it.
She didn’t move.
Outside, someone shouted on the street. A car horn followed.
Her phone buzzed once—then again.
Avery didn’t reach for it.
From the hallway, Jonah’s muffled voice drifted, then faded.
The room was still, except for the soft ticking of the wall clock.
She traced the corner of the envelope with her index finger.
Then flipped it over, face-down, like it might stare back.
She let out a breath she hadn’t noticed holding.
The lamp stayed on.
She curled beside the letter without touching it again.
The lights from outside painted slow-moving shadows across the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed once more.
She didn’t check who it was.
She didn’t turn over the envelope.
Wind nudged the curtain just slightly.
Outside, a car passed. Headlights flared then faded.
Inside, Avery remained curled on her side, hand tucked under her cheek.
Her eyes were open, unfocused, watching the dark space between the dresser and the wall.
Footsteps echoed in the apartment hallway.
Someone upstairs flushed a toilet.
The city whispered on.
But she didn’t blink.
The envelope rested inches from her shoulder.
Its edge caught a line of moonlight through the blinds.
A slow inhale lifted her chest.
Still, she didn’t move.
A floorboard creaked behind the door.
“Av?” Jonah’s voice came, barely audible.
Avery didn’t answer.
He didn’t knock again.
She didn’t breathe again.
Only the shadows across the ceiling moved—stretching, shrinking, breathing in her place.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
The sound fell away quickly.
Avery blinked once.
Her eyes stayed open.
The letter didn’t move.
Neither did she.
The window rattled once as the wind shifted.
Avery reached over, not for the letter, but to turn off the lamp.
Darkness rolled softly over her like a blanket.
She lay still, arms tucked close, breath shallow beneath the covers.
The envelope stayed on the mattress, unmoved.
Her mother’s television clicked on faintly in the other room.
She could hear the static before the volume caught up.
Jonah’s bedroom door creaked—then shut again.
Avery closed her eyes, lashes fluttering once.
The letter remained pressed between the sheets and her hip.
She shifted an inch, careful not to crumple it.
From outside, a windchime rang once—then went silent.
A sharp inhale.
Then stillness.
Then—
A tear welled without urgency, without force.
It slid sideways down her cheek, caught briefly on the curve of her nose.
She didn’t wipe it.
Didn’t sob.
Didn’t speak.
The letter remained unopened.
Not forgotten.
Not thrown away.
Just… waiting.
The wind blew again, rattling something loose outside the frame.
Avery’s breathing slowed into sleep.
The tear dried on her skin.
The story didn’t start yet.
But something had shifted.
- Writer
