𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 | 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧

The oven dinged softly as the timer ran out, the smell of freshly baked pastries filling the empty house. You ran to get the oven mitt, shoving it into your hand and you pulled open the oven door, basking in the wave of heat. The metal pan screeched as you pulled out the pastries, setting them down onto the stovetop. They had risen during their short vacation to the oven, soft and flaky, with the edges especially crisp.

Just like how your mom made them.

You gripped the counter, overtaken by the sudden wave of grief. Spots danced over your eyes as you shut the tight, trying to keep the tears from falling. All it would take was a single tear to drip over your nose to open the floodgates; you would end up on the kitchen floor in sobs, crumpling the apron up in your hands and wanting to make it stop.

You opened your eyes and took a deep breath. The pastries would go cold if you didn't plate them in time.

It had been four months since your mother's death, and you couldn't remember half of them. It all came in sudden bursts and waves- of Yates gingerly wrapping you up in a blanket, spoon feeding you when you were too exhausted to even think about moving. And then, the crystal clear clarity of those empty days: when all you were, again, was a shell of girl, this time sitting alone in a million dollar mansion with nothing of yours to claim but the literal flesh lining your bones. There was no ocean to roar with you, to spit salt into your face and dance around your ankles. There was no cafe. No house by the beachside. There was only you and that ever-gnawing grief, eating away at your insides so harshly, you could practically feel yourself dissipating, thinning out and drifting into nothingness. Things carried out that way for a while. Sometimes, when you were rendered immobile, you would even forget Yates's face. It was awful and tiring and made you want to fling yourself off a balcony.

Maybe you would have, if you had the strength to get there.

But you were getting better, slowly. Grief was non-linear. Yates had gotten you a therapist, and he would sit by your side every session, pulling your body onto his and keeping his hands clamped onto yours, warm and solid. They had helped, and you still thought of your therapist- a sweet blonde woman with smile lines and a darling dog named Joy who would try to lick her camera- when the grief became too hard and you felt like you were drowning on land. The last month and a half had consisted of moving, first to Yates's bedroom, cuddling in front of a fire, to the staircase, feeling the slick wood under your feet as you slowly made your way down, gripping the banister. And then: the living room, then the kitchen. You had even gone outside, wrapped in a custom made robe, as you watched Yates shovel some snow off of the shed where he kept his instruments. He would play them for you on the nights it got especially hard, his voice like liquid love. You hoped the strings didn't get too tight in the frigid winter air.

You were grateful for Yates. He was patient; and loving; The band members didn't even come around anymore, though once you thought you saw Dafne giving you a pitying look from the second floor window. God, you had gotten so bad, you were even hallucinating Dafne? Their success was skyrocketing though, in fact, Yates wasn't home with you as much as he'd like. They were signing record deals and for the past week, you had been face timing him in the recording studio, a big headset strapped up to his thick skull. He made you laugh, and his kisses still made you go weak at the knees.

You were making dinner today, as a thank you. You had ordered a few of his favorite foods: sambusas, vietnamese summer rolls, and you were making others. A big pot full of lightly steaming pasta stood nobly on a heat pad, while another bowl of salad stood at attention next to it. For dessert, you had baked your mom's signature pasty, a serenity slices's classic: like a chocolate croissant, but better. There was an ornamental plate sitting to the side. You quickly transferred the pastries over and covered it up with the metal pan they were previously resting on, putting the platter onto the table. Yates should be home soon.