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𝗟ucas woke up to the sound of birds outside his window, faint and stubborn, cutting through the hush of the morning. for a second he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the familiar weight in his chest pressing down. but it wasn't as heavy as it had been. not today.
he rolled onto his side, the blankets twisted around his legs, and his eyes landed on the dresser across the room. taped to the corner of the mirror was a picture. he hadn't meant to look at it, but he always did.
it was him and frankie at the fair last summer, grinning so wide it almost hurt to see. she had cotton candy stuck to her cheek, laughing so hard she couldn't even wipe it off, and he was looking at her like she'd hung the stars. lucas remembered that night how the rides made her hair a wild mess, how she'd clutched his hand when the ferris wheel reached the top, how the world had felt small and safe because she was there.
his chest tightened, a pulse of grief and love so tangled he couldn't pull them apart. he wanted to rip the picture down, shove it into a drawer where he wouldn't have to see it. but he didn't. he left it there, because pretending she hadn't been everything to him felt worse than hurting.
you have to learn how to breathe without her, he told himself. you have to remember who you are when she's not standing next to you.
the words echoed, heavy but true. he sat up slowly, feet hitting the hardwood floor, and rubbed his eyes. his room smelled faintly of laundry detergent, clean sheets he'd forced himself to change last night. it was the first time in weeks he'd cared enough to do something that simple. maybe that meant something.
the house was still quiet his mom at work, his dad out early. lucas padded into the kitchen, opening cabinets, pulling out the carton of eggs and a loaf of bread. his hands felt steadier cracking the shell against the counter, dropping the yolk into the pan. the sizzle filled the silence, warm and alive.
he used to skip this part. breakfast. lunch. sometimes even dinner. the hollow ache in his stomach had felt deserved somehow, punishment for the things he couldn't fix. but now, he set the plate down at the table and ate. each bite was slow but certain, like proving to himself he was still here.
sunlight crept in through the blinds, stretching across the table in stripes. he watched the dust float in the beams and thought about how still the world could be when you actually stopped long enough to see it.
after the eggs, he poured a glass of orange juice, finishing it in three long gulps. the taste was sharp and bright, almost startling. it made him realize how much his body had missed simple things.
