𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐂 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐄 - 𝖥𝖢𝟦𝟥

𝟎.𝟎.𝟏 - 𝖭𝖾𝗐 𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖲𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖠𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺

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𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

New Year's Day. The morning was supposed to be quiet, a fresh start for most people. But for Aurelia, it wasn't that simple. She lay on her side, cocooned in Franco's oversized hoodie. The hoodie smelled like him—warm, safe—but her mind wouldn't let her find comfort in it. Instead, the memories she had spent years trying to suppress were dragging her back into a darkness she hadn't anticipated today.

Franco was in the kitchen, moving about softly, trying not to wake her. She could hear the gentle clang of pots and pans, the sizzle of eggs on the stove. Normally, she loved mornings like this—when Franco would make breakfast, knowing how much she hated cooking—but today, nothing could pull her out of her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut, a lump forming in her throat. Her stomach turned, not from hunger, but from a sense of dread. She hadn't expected her mind to go there, back to the times when her parents would make her and her siblings sit at the table, staring at a spread of food they weren't allowed to touch. The way her mother would watch them, arms crossed, waiting for them to break. It was all so vivid today, like a film playing on a loop she couldn't pause.

"Hey," Franco's voice broke through the fog, gentle and unassuming. "I made you some eggs, toast... the way you like it."

Aurelia opened her eyes but kept them trained on the wall, focusing on the paint crack in the corner of the ceiling. She didn't move, didn't respond.

"Aurelia?" Franco's footsteps came closer. "You okay?"

She felt the mattress dip as he sat on the edge of the bed. The smell of food filled the room, but instead of feeling comforted, Aurelia's stomach turned even more.

"I'm not hungry," she mumbled, still not looking at him.

Franco didn't push. He never did. But she knew he was worried. She could feel it in the way he was looking at her, waiting for her to say more.

"You should eat something," he said after a moment, his voice low. "It's been hours since you've eaten."

"I can't." Her voice came out sharper than she intended, and she instantly regretted it. She closed her eyes, trying to shake off the tension. "I just... I can't."

Franco was quiet. He wasn't a talker when things got heavy like this. He preferred to wait for her to come to him, to say what was on her mind when she was ready. It was one of the reasons she loved him, even though she couldn't always say the words out loud. He didn't demand from her the way others had.

But today, she felt trapped in her own skin, and his silence wasn't helping. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The hoodie swallowed her small frame, and she felt small, helpless.

"When I was little..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper. Franco shifted closer, his hand brushing against her leg in a way that told her he was listening. "My parents used to... they'd make me and my siblings sit at the table. Stare at food. Just sit there, for hours sometimes, but we weren't allowed to eat."

She swallowed, the lump in her throat growing thicker. She hadn't talked about this part of her past, not even to Franco. It had always felt too raw, too close to the surface, like if she spoke the words aloud, they'd somehow drag her back there.

"They'd make it this... this game," she continued, her voice trembling. "Like, how long could we go before we broke, before we tried to sneak a bite? And if we did..." Her voice trailed off, but she didn't need to finish. The look on Franco's face told her he understood.