Clocked Heart

Chapter 3- June

As the clock struck six-thirty, I began my drive back home, following a familiar routine. Every time I visited my parents after moving out, it was always a Friday afternoon departure and a Sunday morning return, a timing that allowed me to dodge traffic and avoid the panic of crowded roads. With the soothing melody of Taylor Swift's "All Too Well" filling the car, I leaned back, my hands loosely gripping the steering wheel, eyes catching the sunrise as I left the city behind.

Pulling up onto my street, I parked the car in front of my house, intending to return it to Stella after a few hours of rest. I grabbed my bag and the food my mom had packed the night before from the backseat, balancing everything in my hands as I shut the car door with my hip. Fumbling through my purse for the keys, I finally unlocked the door and stepped inside, heading straight to the kitchen to store the food. Dropping my backpack and purse, I headed upstairs, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and collapsed into bed, craving a couple more hours of sleep.

Two hours later, noises from outside broke through my slumber. Reluctantly, I threw off the blankets and got up to check where all these noises were coming from. Peeking out my window, I spotted a moving truck outside my house, men unloading furniture into the house next door. It seemed Stella was right about the house being sold, though I doubted anyone would choose to live here permanently, especially as November approached, bringing rain and a damp chill.

Yawning, I scratched my head and made my way to the bathroom, freshening up in a long shower. I dressed in a pair of washed-out jeans, a white tank top, and an oversized green button-up blouse. My hair, braided by my mom to last longer, saved me the trouble of styling it every morning—a blessing since daily curling was taking its toll.

In the kitchen, I decided to make pita bread with fried eggs and cheese, a nostalgic meal reminiscent of my mom's cooking. I whisked the ingredients, kneaded the dough until it smoothed out, and let it rest while I prepared the filling: tomatoes, chili peppers, and onions, with a dash of fresh coriander from my backyard.

As I stepped outside to gather the coriander, I noticed movement from the neighbor's house. Someone was trying to open the window shutters and panic inexplicably set in. I hurried back inside, clutching the coriander, and breathed a sigh of relief in the kitchen. The idea of meeting the new neighbors was oddly daunting, and I wasn't sure how to make them feel welcome. A greeting? A tour of the area? My hunger was more pressing, so I decided to ask my mom later.

I returned to my pita bread, rolling the dough into circles and cooking each piece on a heated skillet. The smell of the frying onions, tomatoes, and peppers filled the kitchen as I cracked two eggs into the mix, finishing with a generous sprinkle of cheese. This, I thought, was the essence of home—dancing in the kitchen, making breakfast as the world continued outside.

Carrying my pita sandwich and a cup of coffee to the living room, I let the morning sunlight spill through the open window, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue. Music played softly, and I savored the meal, feeling unexpectedly content despite the early morning disruption. Moments like these, I mused, were what made this house feel like a home, a place I could imagine growing old in.

After finishing my meal, I cleaned up the kitchen and then vacuumed the living areas as music shuffled through different songs. The air felt fresh and new, and the space revitalized. I locked the window shutters, grabbed my keys and phone, and headed to Stella's house to return the car.

Arriving at her door, I knocked three times before Stella answered, looking as if she had just rolled out of bed. "I can't believe you were sleeping until now," I teased, shaking my head dramatically at her sleepy state.

Stella rubbed her eyes, her voice raspy, "What are you doing here so early?"

"For your information, it's already eleven. I came to return your car and get my bike," I replied, handing her the keys.