My head was going to burst any minute.

The tear-filled pity parties I organised yesterday were a bad idea, but trying to write an essay on chromosomes and conception after I had cried my eyes raw and red, was a much more terrible one.

Not only did I constantly find my thoughts wandering to a certain someone in a certain group chat the entire time my fingers tapped away on the keyboard, I also didn't realize that my hazy vision---coupled with my unfocused mind---contributed to the utter trash I found in the word document when I opened it this morning.

Red and blue lines filled the pages almost as much as the words I had typed, laden with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors I could only term as Subject-Verb Disagreement. The sad part of not writing anything worth submitting, was not being able to read and make sense of the very words I had put down.

Heaving out a sigh, I shut my laptop screen, pressing a hand to my forehead as I climbed back into bed. My other hand felt around for my phone, enabling me to go right to the app I spent too much time on these days.

Parks: are you done yet, Mystery?

Me: Hardly. I don't even have motivation to write.

Parks: do you want some?

Me: Want some of what?

Parks: motivation to do the assignment.

Me: I very much NEED some. Yes.

Parker: alright.
every time you hit a 100 words, tell me and I'll send you a reward.

Me: What kind of reward?

Parker: i honestly havent thought abt it lol. is a selfie alright?

Me: A picture of you as a reward. Wow, how NOT narcissistic.

Parks: i realize how bad that sounds now. sorry

Parks: you want a voice note of me saying good job and encouraging you then?

Me: I was kidding. I'll take the selfies.

Parks: sweet. text me once you're done.

I loved the possibility of Parker taking photos for my sake. It was a phenomenon I had never dreamed of, let alone think would ever happen. But he suggested it, it happened.

Highlighting the previous day's writing, I cleared all traced of my fractured work and seated myself in the middle of my bed, tucking my crossed legs close to my body.

I wiggled my fingers, getting ready to type the title when my mother's voice floated into my room, reaching my ears and breaking my concentration.

"Did you touch the glass bowl, mijo?"

"Which one?" I yelled. No answer came.

My voice rose a couple of intonations when I added, "Mamá, which glass bowl?"

Not a word came from my mother's end.

"Mamá? You there?" I rolled off my bed, shouting even louder. I might have as well been shouting to myself because it didn't seem like she had heard me. Which is a good thing, because then my father probably didn't hear me too? He wasn't such a big fan of noise, especially those which ruined his Saturday afternoon nap.

Hurrying down the stairs, I headed to the kitchen, expecting to meet no one, recounting on how my questions were left hanging in the air.

"Were you the one who touched the bowl?"

There was always something tasty to eat whenever the glass bowl appeared in the fridge. It was a divine manifestation to see its presence in that rectangular box, a blessing. And the only way to get it was to check behind the jugs of milk and piles of Tupperware at the right day and time.

"Maybe." If I said yes, I won't be getting a morsel of whatever the bowl contained, because that meant I had already had some. And I was certain saying no wouldn't increase my chances, that would just sound like "I'm not interested" to my mother---which was false, because I was more than curious to find out what treat she had been hiding at the very back of the fridge. "What was in it?"

Her eyebrows turned down and her lip twitched slightly in a sneer. "Like you don't know already."

"I don't, seriously," I said as I let out a small laugh. "Maybe if you tell me what was in it, I'd be able to help you find it."

She didn't respond, and I knew why. If she responded, she would admit to intentionally hiding deserts from everyone in that bowl. Lines appeared on her forehead as she shook her head. The creases made her caramel-coloured skin look a shade darker.

I helped her find her desert-stashing bowl. It didn't take long.

"Ah, here it is," I told her as I lifted the dark bowl off the counter and approached the dining table. "It was by the microwave. Dad took it, I guess."

"God, so help me," she muttered. "The day you start place things back where you took them will be the day the Lord descends."

As my mother began to complain about all the things I had done wrong since the first breath I took---even though I obviously wasn't the one who took the bowl---I pried off the cover and peeked inside the round sanctuary for sweetness.

I hit gold. It shone off the honey, which was drizzled with sugar on top of crescent sopapilla rolls. These were like the ones my grandma always made during Christmas at her place, except the rolls were baked instead of fried, and cheesecake was tucked inbetween them. She would flip if she saw the tweaks my mom put in her recipe.

Tentatively, I picked up one of the cheesecake bars while I watched my mother from the corner of my eye.

Nibbling on the corners of the creamy pastry, I reached for two more bars before I stood as quietly as I could. I could have left unnoticed if not for the chair falling over and the sound scaring me into dropping one bar on the floor.

I picked it up and tossed it in the trash before my mother could see it. But I wasn't quick enough to hide the remaining bars. Or clean the stain. Or pick up the chair.

"The only thing you always finish is my last nerve, mijo," my mother started as her eyes moved from the chair to the smear of honey on the tiles. "That's the one thing."

I had to play this carefully. My mother had her hands pushing her long dark curls back. That always meant she was going to explode with the slightest trigger. Her feet were already tapping a rhythm on the floor, alongside her flaring nostrils.

"I finish other things too," I said as a joke, hoping to have her laugh the tension off. "Like that assign--- " I cut myself off as I realized I deleted everything I had under the project.

Not just that, I also had that negotiation with Parker. And it had been what---twenty minutes or more since we agreed on the reward? Even with that time gone, I was still going to use a ridiculously long while to type up a hundred words, let alone four hundred.

Before I could think better of things, I dropped the bars into the bowl---or tried to---and ran out of the kitchen, wiping the crumbs and honey off my hands on the first napkin I found. My actions were a 'worst.'

I tuned out my mother's yell as I headed up to my room---ignoring the threats she swore she'd carry out if I didn't come right back. I would, as soon as I finished.