Amare

Sanctuary

The bus ride home felt uneventful after Sol stepped off, the energy of our conversation fading into the steady hum of the engine. I rested my head against the window, watching the city blur past in a symphony of neon signs, shopfront glows, and rain-slick streets.

The drizzle intensified, tiny droplets streaking the glass and pooling on the asphalt below, catching the reflections of passing headlights.

By the time the bus reached my stop, the sky had deepened into a velvety blue, and the rain had settled into a gentle mist. I pulled my hoodie up, shivering slightly as the cool air greeted me. My footsteps quickened, the comforting pull of home guiding me like a beacon through the quiet, damp streets.

The moment I opened the door, the rich, savory scent of dinner wrapped around me like a warm hug.

"Hey, kiddo!" Dad's voice boomed from the hall, cheerful as ever. He appeared moments later, a mischievous grin on his face. "Did you hear about the new restaurant on the moon?"

I groaned internally, already knowing what was coming. "No, Dad. What about it?"

"Great food, no atmosphere!" His laughter rang out, loud and unapologetic, while I rolled my eyes and pushed past him. Still, I couldn't suppress the smile tugging at my lips.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," Mom called from the kitchen. I peeked in to see her at the stove, stirring something aromatic in a pot. The soft clatter of pans and the gentle sizzle of food filled the air.

"Dinner's almost ready," she added with a warm smile.

"Thanks, Mom," I replied, waving briefly before heading upstairs.

Once inside my room, I closed the door behind me and let out a long breath. My sanctuary welcomed me with its mix of soft hues and comforting clutter. 

Sketchbooks and scattered pencils adorned the desk, and a corkboard on the wall held a collage of pinned drawings and notes.

I dropped my bag onto the chair, shrugging off my damp hoodie in favor of cozy sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. The chill of the evening was quickly replaced by the familiar warmth of home.

Taking a moment to tidy up, I stacked stray books and gathered loose papers into a neat pile. My hand brushed against the journal, still in my bag. Its leather cover was cool under my fingers, and I hesitated before pulling it out.

I traced the edges thoughtfully, running my finger along the spine. The journal had its own weight—not physical, but something deeper, as though it held secrets waiting to unfold.

"Ai! Dinner's ready!" Mom's voice rang out, interrupting my thoughts.

With a small sigh, I set the journal down and headed to the dining room. The table was already set, steam rising from an assortment of dishes that practically glowed in the soft light. Dad was tapping his chopsticks on the edge of his plate in an exaggerated drumroll, earning a playful scolding look from Mom.

"So, how was the first day?" Mom asked, setting down the last dish and taking her seat.

"Not bad," I said, serving myself some rice. "Just the usual awkward introductions and endless syllabi."

Dad leaned forward, his eyes narrowing dramatically. "And...?"

"And... I met someone," I admitted, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, a boy," Mom teased, her eyes lighting up as she passed the vegetables.

"A boy?" Dad's tone shifted to mock severity, his protective instincts clearly in overdrive. "What's his name? What does he want? Does he have a job?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "Relax, Dad. His name's Sol. We're just classmates. We ran into each other at the bus stop. That's it."

Dad leaned back, his skeptical expression still intact. "I'll be watching. Don't think I won't."

"You're too busy binge-watching your detective shows," Mom quipped, earning a dramatic gasp and a playful glare from him.

Dinner passed in a blur of lighthearted banter, the comforting rhythm of family filling the space. It was easy, familiar, and grounding in a way that made the day's little stresses feel distant.

After helping with the dishes, I retreated to my room, grateful for the quiet. The journal still sat on my desk, waiting. Instead of opening it, though, I grabbed my sketchbook and a pencil.

Drawing had always been my way to unwind, and tonight was no exception. My hand moved instinctively, lines and shapes coming together to form a cityscape. In one corner, a faintly glowing bus stop emerged—a memory of the day's fleeting moments.

Satisfied, I set the pencil down and turned my attention to the journal. Flipping it open to a blank page, I picked up a pen and tried to write. The words formed tentatively, uneven in my mind before spilling onto the page:

Golden hues stretch long and fleeting,
whispers of laughter, a rhythm repeating.

I paused, the pen hovering above the paper. The lines felt stilted, like they didn't belong. With a quiet sigh, I closed the journal, setting it aside for another day.

The soft patter of rain against the window filled the room, a soothing cadence that eased my restless thoughts. Turning off the light, I slipped under the covers and let the night take over.

As I drifted off, the faint glow of the city and the hum of distant rain lingered in my mind, blending with the quiet sense of possibility the day had left behind.

4o