The cheerful end song of an anime plays as Gemma opens the door to Ashley’s family home. Shoes of every size scatter the floor. Crayon drawings climb the walls. Ashley’s mom works night shifts at the hospital and has been on call all weekend, so we moved our girls’ night here. That way, Ashley can still hang out while keeping her little brothers company when her dad’s out.

We weave through the chaos and find Ashley in the kitchen, crouched in calm command. She’s pressing a bandage over Clayton’s scraped knee, her voice low and soothing. Ashton shouts nearby, toy cars skittering across the floor. Charlie waits next, his own small injury glistening with antiseptic. The twins exchange wide-eyed looks, as if one’s pain echoes through the other. And at the table, baby-faced Andre wails because his toy hit the floor, his fists slapping the tray in protest.

All four boys look like perfect copies of each other—same sandy hair, same gap-toothed grin—but Ashley is different, somehow steadier in the middle of the storm.

She’s in her second year of early-childhood training, planning to teach kindergarten one day. Gemma and I tease that growing up here made her immune to chaos.

When the noise finally softens and dusk slides through the windows, we help herd the boys upstairs. The twins chatter about soccer—they’ll join my youth team soon, already dreaming big.

Once the house quiets and the living room is tidy enough for Ashley’s mom to come home to peace, we sink into the couch surrounded by popcorn bowls and half-empty soda bottles. With the night stretching around us, the energy from the day’s game returns—louder now, playful.

Gemma grins. “Crushed it. We’re going to outshine the men’s team this season.”

Ashley bumps her fist. “But, Freya,” she teases, “you barely reacted when Nathaniel scored. Were you even watching—or pretending not to care again?”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “You two are hopeless. No headline from me tonight.”

Gemma nudges my shoulder. “Oh, please. You’re always the headline.”

Ashley winks. “We live for your drama. It’s the only reason we let you hang out.”

I toss a popcorn kernel at her, laughing. But when the laughter fades, my smile does too. The music hums low in the background. A sudden wave of loneliness hits—sharp, uninvited.

“Yeah, I watched,” I admit. “The goal was good.” I shrug like it means nothing, but inside I’m replaying the perfect curve of his shot—Nathaniel moving sideways to the goal, the ball slicing air and finding the corner clean. The crowd’s roar still lives in my chest, but I keep my face calm. They can’t know it still matters.

As their chatter fills the space again, I drift. Markus leaping onto Nate’s back in celebration flashes through my mind. That old photograph at his parents’ house surfaces—the same unguarded joy, frozen in time.

The laughter around me quiets. Ashley sets down her glass with a small clink. The shift in mood is subtle but deep; the air thickens with what’s unsaid.

I lean back, fingers tracing condensation down my glass. “Honestly?” My voice wavers. “I still care about Nathaniel—more than I should. He hurt me. Every time I see him, I remember Micha’s face. The way he let it happen. It wasn’t just a drunken mistake—they chose it. That’s what stings.” I swallow hard. “Letting go feels impossible.”

Gemma touches my arm gently. “That’s rough, Freya.”

The words crack something open. “Sometimes it feels like everyone’s watching, waiting for me to fail. I’m scared I’ll run—like Mom did—because I can’t meet their expectations.”

Grandma always had her own version of why Mom left Eldermoor. But the truth? Still a mystery that gnaws.

Tears burn as they fall. “I miss her. I need her advice. Without her, I’m… lost.”

Ashley leans forward, voice soft but sure. “We’d never think less of you—no matter what you decide.”

Gemma hands me a tissue. “Honestly? I’d rather see you embarrass yourself chasing what you want than keep pretending you don’t care.”

Their kindness steadies me. When I told them everything, they never judged—just listened. Their silence was loyalty, their restraint love. That trust means everything.

Later, as the night stretches thin, we drift into laughter again—talking about our own romantic disasters. Ashley blames her brothers for scaring off every date. Gemma, ever the rebel, grins. “Why complicate things? Good times are good times.”

By the time I get up to leave, the clock pushes midnight. Tomorrow, Nathaniel’s coming over. I should rest, but my thoughts are anything but still.

By chance, Grandma and I reach the door at the same time. She’s carrying an atrocious vase under one arm, her face bright with victory.

“Fun night at bingo?” I ask, noticing the sparkle of cherry brandy in her eyes.

“Yes, dear,” she laughs. “You missed some wonderful prizes.”

I eye the vase, fighting a smile. “I’ll be there next time.”

She fumbles with her keys, fingers trembling. I cover her hands with mine, guiding them gently to the lock.

Inside, the familiar scent of sandalwood greets me, mingling with ash scattered on the table beneath a photo of Mom—yellow dress, hand on her swollen belly, smiling at a life she never got to finish.

“I’ll make us some tea,” Grandma says, shuffling off. I sink into the couch surrounded by her beloved clutter: trinkets, family photos, faded art, the ghosts of decades.

She returns with a teapot and two mismatched mugs—mine painted with pink lilies. I hold it close, letting the warmth seep through.

“Have fun with your friends?” she asks, dunking a cookie despite the late hour.

“It was nice,” I say, inhaling the tea’s sweet floral scent. I want to ask if Mom ever felt this uncertain, this torn—but the question dies in my throat.

“Nathaniel’s coming over tomorrow,” I say instead, as if the words are safer.

Her smile fades. The mug clinks softly as she sets it down. “I don’t think that’s wise, dear.”

Her voice sharpens. She’s never hidden her dislike for Nathaniel. Once her opinion settles, it might as well be carved in stone.

Regret pricks at me. I wish she’d let it go. But she’ll notice when he comes—she always does.

“Well, he’s coming regardless,” I say quietly, meeting her gaze. “He’s not the boy you remember. He’s changed.”

“Men don’t change, Freya,” she says flatly. “It’s we women who do. We bend. We forgive. We adapt—for them.”

Her words sting, heavy with some memory she never shares. Is that what happened to Mom?

The question lingers like smoke as exhaustion settles over me.

“It’s late,” I murmur, setting my cup aside. “I should sleep.” I kiss her cheek before heading upstairs.

She murmurs something soft—“Sleep well, my dear”—but the comfort doesn’t stick.

That night, I don’t.