Normal. That was what I was going to be today.

No more spiralling. No more obsessing over grey eyes or late-night texts. No more letting a single man take up this much space in my head. I sat at the dining table with my textbooks open, determined to finally catch up. I had a lot to do. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, warm and ordinary, like any other Sunday. I had my highlighter in hand, notebook open to a fresh page, and my phone turned face down so I wouldn’t be tempted to check it.

The bracelet was still on my wrist. I hadn’t taken it off since putting it back on last night. I told myself it was just habit now. That it didn’t mean anything. That I could wear it and still be in control. But every time I moved my arm, I felt it, the soft, familiar weight against my skin, the way it shifted when I turned a page. A quiet, constant reminder. My thumb kept drifting toward it, tracing the edge of the leather without thinking. I would catch myself and pull my hand back, only for it to happen again minutes later.

I stared at the textbook, trying to force the words to make sense. Patient assessment in acute care settings. The sentences blurred together. My mind kept slipping away, pulled toward memories I didn’t want. The low timbre of his voice, the slow stroke of his fingers through my hair, the devastating relief I had felt on my knees. I pressed my pen harder against the paper, leaving a small dent.

Focus.

This was supposed to be my life. Studying, preparing for clinicals and being the daughter my parents could be proud of. Not… whatever this was becoming. But even as I thought it, my fingers found the bracelet again, pressing lightly against the clasp like it was an anchor. The calm it gave me was subtle now, almost invisible until I tried to pull away from it. Then the restlessness returned, sharp and uneasy, like something important was missing.

I hated it. I hated how quickly “just habit” had turned into something I needed.

Dad came home later than usual. It was almost seven-thirty when I heard the front door open. His footsteps were slower, heavier than normal. When he stepped into the dining room, his tie was already loosened, and exhaustion lined his face.

“Long day?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Big week. We may finally be getting somewhere.”

Something in his tone made my stomach tighten, though I couldn’t say why. He said things like that sometimes. It didn’t mean anything specific. He set his briefcase down on the chair beside me. A thick folder slipped slightly, and a single sheet of paper slid halfway out. I caught a quick glimpse. It was the side of a black luxury car and the back of a tall man in a dark suit. It was nothing clear or nothing I could recognize, but Dad still quickly pushed the paper back into the folder.

“Anything interesting?” I asked lightly, slightly curious.

He gave me a tired smile. “Just another case. You know how it is.”

But he looked more worn out than usual. He sat down across from me, loosening his tie further, his eyes distant.

“Mom said we were going to eat for a change of pace.”

It looked like we all needed it.

Dad nodded. “I’ll get changed.” He eyed the table. “You should get ready too. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The moment he left the room, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I quickly picked up my stuff and headed upstairs. In my room, I took a quick shower and changed into something comfortable. I was combing my hair when my mom called asking if I was ready. I put the brush down and looked at my reflection in the mirror, my hair untied.

On the way to the restaurant, I stayed silent in the back with my fingers absentmindedly tracing the bracelet as my mom chatted about the new show she was watching. Dad was quietly listening, distracted. In the restaurant, we quickly got seated. Throughout dinner at our favourite family restaurant, Mom talked about her day at work. I laughed at the right moments, nodding along and asking questions to keep the conversation going. Recently, I felt like I was more and more playing the role of the good daughter, smiling, engaged, and present.

Dad was quieter than usual. He poked at his stir-fried beef and vegetables, answering when spoken to, but his responses were shorter, more distracted. When I asked him about his case like I always did, he gave a vague reply. His shoulders were tense, and there were deeper lines under his eyes. I caught him watching me more than once, quietly, carefully, like he was trying to read something I wasn’t saying. I smiled wider to compensate, reaching for my chopsticks.

“The beef is really good tonight,” I said, trying to steer things back to something light. “You should try it with more chilli sauce, Dad. You too, mom.”

He gave me a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll do that.”

On the way back home, I sat in silence in the back seat, the darkness of the night enveloping me. Mom’s chatter about a book she read filled the car, but I wasn’t really listening. My fingers absentmindedly traced the bracelet on my wrist as I stared at my phone resting on my lap. Eventually, I opened the chat with the unknown number. Dominic’s last message still sat there. My finger hovered over the reply box for a long time. My thumbs moved before I could stop them.

Me: Should I be afraid of you?

The message sat unsent. I stared at it until the letters blurred. Deep, aching need twisted together inside me. My fingers trembled over the send button.

In the end, I deleted it.

But I didn’t close the chat. I just sat there in the dark, clutching the bracelet, wondering how much longer I could keep pretending both worlds could exist at the same time.