February 20, 2026.
Mia started asking.
Not outright. Not yet.
But the questions were there, slipping into conversations like cracks in ice.
It started small.
A text mid-week:
Mia: You’ve been so busy lately. Everything okay? Feels like I barely see you.
I replied with excuses—freelance deadlines, helping Mom with a project.
She let it go.
Then Friday night, she called.
I was at Damien’s, curled on his couch with my laptop, him reading beside me. Quiet. Perfect.
I answered on speaker, mouthing “Mia” to him.
He nodded, set his book down.
“Hey!” Mia’s voice bright. “What are you up to?”
“Just… working on a design.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“You sure? You’ve been ‘alone’ a lot.”
I laughed it off. “Introvert life.”
She didn’t laugh back right away.
“Lila… are you seeing some
