Her
Two weeks after New Year's Day, Dad's health takes a turn. A midnight rush to the emergency room, the familiar antiseptic smell of hospital corridors, hours spent in uncomfortable waiting room chairs. The cycle begins again.
"Setbacks are normal," the doctor assures us, though her furrowed brow suggests concern. "We'll need to adjust his medication."
I take a leave of absence from my part-time catering job, knowing we can't afford it but seeing no alternative. Dad needs care around the clock, and Mom is already stretched thin. My siblings help where they can, but ultimately, the responsibility falls most heavily on my shoulders.
Days blur together in a routine of medication schedules, doctor appointments, and preparing special meals. I sleep on a cot in my parents' room, alert to any change in Dad's breathing during the night.
One evening, while waiting for a prescription at the pharmacy, I scroll mindlessly through social media. A familiar face appears on my screen—Marcus, at some exclusive rooftop event, arm draped around a stunning model. The algorithm knows I've viewed his profile before and helpfully suggests more content from him.
I close the app, feeling foolish for the twinge of disappointment. What had I expected? That someone living in that world would have any genuine interest in someone like me, whose biggest concern is whether the insurance will cover Dad's new medication?
"Your prescription is ready," the pharmacist calls, and I tuck my phone away, returning to the reality that demands my full attention.
As winter softens into spring, Dad's condition stabilizes. He begins physical therapy, reclaiming small victories: standing unassisted, walking to the bathroom, joining us at the dinner table. I return to work, picking up extra shifts to make up for lost income.
One Saturday in April, I'm heading home after a morning catering job when I decide to take a detour through the artsy district downtown. I rarely allow myself these aimless wanderings anymore, but the perfect spring day feels like an invitation to linger a bit longer in the world outside our family's concerns.
I stop at a small gallery showcasing local artists. In the center of the main room stands a sculpture that immediately draws my attention: twisted metal forming the silhouette of a woman, face turned skyward, arms outstretched as if embracing the air itself. The piece is titled simply, "Release."
"Magnificent, isn't it?" a voice says beside me.
I turn, and the floor seems to shift beneath my feet. Marcus stands there, as unexpected as he was on New Year's Day but somehow more tangible in the gallery's soft light. He's dressed casually in jeans and a simple white t-shirt, no carefully curatedoutfit for the camera today.
"It is," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.
His eyes meet mine, and I see recognition followed quickly by something else—embarrassment? Regret?
"Zara," he says, my name sounding different in his voice. "I—"
"You don't need to explain," I interrupt gently. "It was just a casual thing."
"No," he says quickly. "It wasn't. That's the problem."
Before I can ask what he means, a gallery attendant approaches, clipboard in hand.
"Mr. Reed? The director is ready for you now."
Marcus nods, then turns back to me. "Can we talk? After this meeting? I won't be more than thirty minutes."
Prudence dictates that I decline. This man already disappointed me once; why give him the opportunity to do so again? But curiosity—or perhaps something deeper—has me agreeing instead.
"I'll be at the café across the street," I tell him.
As I wait, nursing a cappuccino and watching people pass by the window, I consider leaving. It would be so easy to walk away, to close this brief, strange chapter definitively. But when the café door opens and Marcus enters, scanning the room until he finds me, I remain seated, watching as he approaches with a tentative smile so different from his confident demeanor three months ago.
"Thank you for waiting," he says, sliding into the chair opposite mine. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Neither was I," I admit.
He takes a deep breath. "I owe you an explanation, and an apology."
Outside, cherry blossoms drift past the window, carried on a gentle breeze—fragile, ephemeral, yet somehow perfect in their brief existence. Not unlike the moment unfolding between us, I think, as I prepare to hear what Marcus has to say.