She was only 8 years old.
8 years old and she saw her mother get killed by a drive by. From that day poor Nova has been traumatized and has been to foster home to foster home. At the age of 12, Nova has anger and trust issues, never letting anyo...
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NOVA
Sleep never stays.
It drifts in for a while, lets me think I'm okay, then slips right through my fingers like it always does. I wake up sometime after midnight with that dull, hollow ache in my stomach—not hunger exactly, but close enough. The kind that shows up when everything else feels empty too.
The ceiling above me isn't familiar.
That alone almost sends my heart racing before I remember where I am.
Javier's place. The penthouse. Not the mansion. Not their house.
I sit up slowly, listening. The room is dark, quiet in that soft way that means someone else is awake somewhere. The apartment hums—low, steady, alive. I rub my face and swing my legs over the bed.
I tell myself I'll just grab something small. A piece of bread. An apple. Nothing big. I don't want to wake anyone.
I pull my hoodie tighter around myself and pad down the hall, barefoot against cool marble floors. The lights are dimmed low, just enough to guide me into the kitchen.
I almost turn back when I see him.
Ernesto is already there, leaning against the kitchen island. He looks tired—dark circles under his eyes, hair messed up like sleep didn't work for him either. When he notices me, he doesn't jump or ask what I'm doing.
He just gives me a small smile.
"Hey," he says quietly.
I nod once and move past him toward the pantry. I don't trust my voice yet. I grab the bread and set it on the counter, keeping my movements careful, controlled. Two slices. Just enough to quiet the ache.
I can feel him watching me—not in a way that makes my skin crawl. Just... there. Present.
"I heard what happened," he says after a moment.
My hand stills for half a second.
I pretend I didn't hear him and reach for the peanut butter.
"I'm sorry," he continues. "About your brothers. About them not telling you the truth."
The lid twists open with a soft pop. I focus on that sound. Normal things. Grounding things.
I don't answer.
"I know explanations don't really help," Ernesto says gently. "And I'm not here to force you to talk."
I spread the peanut butter onto the bread a little harder than I need to. The scrape of the knife against the crust fills the silence.
"They didn't leave me," I say finally, my voice flat. Detached. "They just didn't bother coming."
