Title: Still, She Loves

The house was too quiet. Maya stood in the middle of the empty living room, surrounded by unopened boxes and the scent of new paint. The walls were a muted olive, chosen carefully—strong enough to feel grounded, soft enough not to overwhelm. She dropped her keys into the chipped ceramic bowl by the door and listened to them clink against the silence. This was supposed to be her fresh start. Cedar Lane was nothing like Port Harcourt. It had no traffic, no shouting bus drivers, no blaring horns. Just trees, salty air, and the sound of waves if you listened long enough. Her new town was peaceful. Too peaceful, maybe. But peace was what she said she wanted. What she needed. She walked to the window. Across the street, a small boy was kicking a football against the sidewalk, his laughter echoing as it bounced back to him. His mother sat on the porch, braiding her daughter’s hair. A golden retriever trotted past, tail wagging like it was trying to wave hello. There was a warmth to the scene—a kind of family rhythm she had almost forgotten. Maya couldn’t remember the last time she laughed like that. The real kind—unfiltered and full. Her laughter, like her art, had gone silent the night everything changed. She turned away from the window and ran her fingers through her hair—now shorter, curled tighter since she cut it last month. It felt like shedding armor. Or maybe hiding behind different armor. She walked over to the couch, running her fingers across the back of it, tracing its fabric. Everything in this house felt new. The beige cushions, the warm wood floors, even the slight smell of fresh paint in the air—it was all a reminder that she was starting over. That she had to start over. The therapist she stopped seeing had said healing wasn’t linear. That it looked more like waves than a straight road. Maya had nodded, but all she saw were cliffs. Endless cliffs. In the corner, her easel sat like a ghost of who she used to be. She hadn’t touched it in over a year. Not since… no. She stopped the thought before it could finish forming. That was her old life. A life she could never go back to. New town. New air. New rules. The refrigerator buzzed softly. Her phone remained silent. Maya glanced at it out of habit—no messages. Not from her mother, not from her old friends. She’d cut everyone off, slowly and methodically, until the silence felt like safety. Loneliness, at least, was predictable. There was no need to confront the complicated love of family or the guilt from old friends who didn’t understand. It was just easier this way. The doorbell rang. Sharp and unexpected. Her heart jumped, and she froze. A second ring. Softer this time. Maya’s breath hitched, and her feet moved on instinct. She wasn’t ready for visitors—no one ever came by unannounced. She cautiously walked to the door and peeked through the curtain. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Was it a neighbor? Or a salesman? A man stood there, holding a basket. Tall. Messy dark hair. A kind face, unsure if he should be smiling. The kind of face that invited trust but also made her wonder if she was just being naïve. Maya opened the door just enough to speak. “Yes?” “Hey,” he said, voice easy like Sunday morning. “I’m Luca. I live three doors down. Thought I’d welcome you properly. Muffins. Store-bought—don’t get too excited.” Maya stared at the basket, then back at him. His hands were warm from holding the basket, his body relaxed, standing just far enough away that she didn’t feel crowded. “That’s… nice,” she said, her voice quiet. “Look, I get it. New neighborhood. You don’t know me. I promise I’m not trying to sell you anything or convert you.” One corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile, exactly. A shadow of one. Luca noticed. “That almost counts as a smile. I’ll take it.” “I don’t usually accept food from strangers,” Maya said. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to add that, but there it was. “That’s wise,” he replied. “But I’m a good kind of stranger. Scout’s honor.” “You don’t look like a scout.” “I wasn’t,” he admitted. “Got kicked out after two meetings. Long story. Maybe I’ll earn a story from you sometime, too.” Maya hesitated, then slowly opened the door wider and took the basket. She could smell cinnamon and something warm, like banana bread. A quiet warmth started to settle in her chest. “Thanks, Luca.” “You’re welcome…?” “Maya.” “Maya,” he repeated, like he was trying it on for size. “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t step closer, didn’t linger too long. She noticed that. Appreciated it. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t forcing her into a moment that wasn’t ready to happen. “If you ever feel like exploring,” he said, “I run a small community center down the road. We’ve got art classes, game nights, free coffee.” “I don’t paint anymore,” she muttered, a little too quickly. “Then maybe just come for the coffee.” She didn’t promise anything, but she didn’t close the door in his face either. That felt like something. After he left, Maya stood with the basket in her hands, the quiet pressing in again. She set the muffins on the counter, glanced once more at the easel, and walked away. Her hands were still trembling slightly from the exchange, and she didn’t know why. She shouldn’t have felt so rattled by a simple doorbell ring. But maybe it wasn’t just Luca—maybe it was everything. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But something had shifted. Later that evening, she sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket. The rain had started—soft, tapping against the window like a familiar song she couldn't quite remember the lyrics to. She opened the basket, broke off a piece of muffin, and tasted it. Sweet. Light. Imperfectly shaped. Real. Maya closed her eyes. The darkness behind her eyelids shifted, then deepened. The memories returned. She was back in her old studio—the one overlooking the water. The golden afternoon light poured through the windows, flooding the hardwood floors. She was standing in front of her canvas, brush in hand. The sound of soft music played in the background, mixing with the scent of oil paint and the warm breeze coming in through the open window. Her body felt different in the dream—stronger, freer. She didn’t feel the weight of the world pressing down on her. She was herself. She could feel the life inside her, pulsing through her veins, ready to burst out onto the canvas. Then, a shadow fell over her. Her heart skipped, and she turned. Standing in the doorway was a man—tall, dark hair, eyes full of intensity and warmth. He didn’t speak at first. He only watched her, as if waiting for permission. She smiled. Her hands were covered in paint, but she didn’t care. She wanted him closer. But then the dream fractured, splintered. The air went cold, and the vibrant colors of the studio bled into grays and blacks. The man’s face twisted, his expression darkening, turning angry. His voice, once soft, became a growl. The memory morphed into something she couldn’t quite grasp—something familiar but horrifying. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in. The dream shattered. Maya gasped, sitting up in bed. The room was quiet again, the rain softly tapping against the glass. She could still smell the paint—the same one from her studio lingering in the air, even though there was no trace of it here. Her fingers trembled as she wiped away the sudden tear slipping down her cheek. Not today, she reminded herself. But the ache in her chest, the one she’d hoped would fade was still there. The muffins were still on the counter, untouched now. Her mind felt fractured between the quiet peace of this house and the chaotic mess of her memories. A moment of stillness before the storm. She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. Tomorrow, maybe she’d open one of those boxes. Maybe she’d hang a painting on the wall. Not one she made just something colorful. Alive. Or maybe she’d walk to the community center. Just to look. Just to see.