“Oh, you know,” she replied, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “My dad finally figured out how to use his new phone.” She laughed softly before adding, “I was just thinking about you, actually.”

I lowered my mug. “Yeah?”

“You sounded happy last week. In your message.”

“I guess I am,” I said, surprising myself with how easy the words came. “I’m in a good rhythm here. I’m sleeping more. Cooking, sometimes.”

“Cooking?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m just picturing the fire department outside your⁠—”

“No fire,” I chuckled. “Not yet.”

She let out a light laugh. I missed that sound—the way it used to echo off our old kitchen walls before everything cracked.

“You should come visit again,” she murmured. “We could go to that diner you liked. The one with the lemon pancakes.”

“I will,” I promised. “Soon.”

“Don’t wait too long, Blake. The world doesn’t pause just because we do.”

I nodded, my throat tightening a little. “I know.”

We talked for a few more minutes.

She asked about the books I was reading. I lied and said something fiction-based instead of the five dense manuals stacked on my nightstand. She pretended to believe me.

When the conversation started to wind down, she hesitated. “You do seem happy,” she said gently.

“I am, Mom.”

“You’re doing something that matters?”

“Trying to.”

A pause. Then, “And you’re taking care of yourself?”

I exhaled slowly. “I’m trying there, too.”

She didn’t push.

Eventually, she said, “I’m glad you picked up.”

“I’m glad you called.”

We hung up not long after, and I just sat there for a while, the soft hum of the city waking up around me filling the quiet.

I was happy. I had a place of my own. A rhythm to my days.

I went on runs, made my own coffee, and paid for groceries with my own money. Most mornings, I even woke up without dread waiting at the foot of my bed.

But then there were the other days. The ones where I swore I smelled Tommy Girl in the grocery store. Where I passed a girl with blonde wavy hair and forgot how to breathe for a second. Where I heard someone humming Always Be My Sunshine under their breath, and I had to leave the room.

I didn’t know where Beverly was. Or what Beverly was doing. But wherever she was, I hoped she was safe. I hoped she had mornings like this—ones where the air didn’t feel heavy. Ones where she could smile without it hurting. I hoped someone brought her breakfast just the way she liked it.

I hoped she still wore my sweatshirt.

I glanced over at the pink scrunchie still looped around the bottom of my desk lamp. My fingers itched to pick it up.

I didn’t.