[Formerly known as 'Trinkets']
Mahika and Amoli can't stand each other, but that's not the only thing they have in common.
Mahika treats Amoli like she's childish. Amoli thinks Mahika is a stuck-up prude. But Mahika's best friend and Amoli's brother...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The house is quiet, but not the kind that hurts.
It is heavy, though. Unsure. Like the walls are still trying to catch up.
Mahika sits at the kitchen table, fingers curled around a ceramic mug that's long gone cold. Her hands won't stop trembling, and she hates that. Hates how small it makes her feel. Even now. Even here.
The lights overhead are dim. Her mother's slippers make soft, even sounds on the tile as she moves between the counter and the sink, like it's just another Tuesday. Like she didn't find out today — in the most awful, humiliating way — that her daughter's in love with another girl.
Mahika stares down at the mug, eyes burning. There's a crack in the glaze near the handle. She follows it with her thumb like it might open up and swallow her whole; presses the pad against it and holds her breath.
Her mother still moves in and out of her periphery: rinsing a spoon, drying a plate, wiping down the counter in small, slow circles. Nothing loud. Nothing sharp. If it weren't for the knot in Mahika's throat, this could be any other night.
But it's not.
She hasn't said anything in twenty minutes. Her mother hasn't pushed. That might be the scariest part of all.
Finally: "I didn't want you to find out like that."
The words leave her mouth flat and heavy. A dull thud on the table between them.
Her mother doesn't respond immediately. She turns off the tap. Wipes her hands on a dishtowel. Then she walks over and stands across from her daughter, hands folded, face open but unreadable in the half-light. Her chair makes the softest scrape on the tile as she sits.
Mahika looks down again.
She can't look at her.
"I was going to tell you," she says, quieter now. "I just..." Her throat tightens. "I didn't want you to hate me."
There's a pause. Then, without hesitation, her mother reaches across the table and gently takes her hands. And Mahika's hands are wrapped in warmth.
"I don't hate you." Her mother's voice is calm. Clear. Like she's trying to steady them both. "I could never hate you. I'm not angry with you. I'm sad. That you felt like you had to carry this alone. And I'm sad that I may have made you afraid to tell me."
Mahika swallows, but it doesn't help. Her whole body feels wound up, like it's still bracing for something.
"You didn't make me—"
"I know I did," her mother says, softly, but without apology. "Not on purpose. But I see it now. And I'm not going to pretend that doesn't matter."
She gives Mahika's hands the smallest squeeze.
"You don't have to lie to me, baccha. You never did. And I'm sorry I made you believe otherwise. But listen to me." Her voice is firmer now, not louder, just full of something that can't be shaken. "Loving someone — really loving someone — isn't something you have to apologize for. Not to me."
