Setting Sun
Michael stared at me with that familiar, unyielding expression as the waiter placed our orders between us. The hiss of the coffee machine filled the café, blending with the low murmur of conversation and the faint clatter of spoons against porcelain. I exhaled slowly, the weight in my chest pressing down harder with every second of silence between us.
He didn't speak at first. Just watched me — calm, patient, as if waiting for my storm to pass. Then, after a quiet sip of his caramel latte, he finally said, "Who was the girl?"
I didn't need to ask who he meant. "Just a random girl," I replied, feigning ease.
Michael's brow arched, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A random girl?" His tone carried disbelief — and amusement. "You don't talk to random girls, Aubrey. So, what's her name?"
He knew me too well. My silence told him enough. I hadn't asked her name. All I could remember were her hazel eyes and the faint trace of her smile when she'd said goodbye. The sound of her voice still echoed somewhere in the back of my mind, tangled with the image of that imperfect snowflake she'd left behind.
"Snowflake," I muttered under my breath.
"Her name is Snowflake?" Michael asked, eyebrows lifting higher.
I didn't bother clarifying. Instead, I leaned back in my chair, focusing on the bitter sting of the coffee sliding down my throat.
"So," I said, changing the subject, "what's your decision? Am I in?"
He looked at me carefully, setting his cup down with a soft clink. The hesitation in his movements gave away his answer before his mouth did.
"Aubrey…" He sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. "I think it's best if you participate."
The words hit me harder than they should have. I laughed quietly, without humour. "And why's that? So my father can have another trophy to polish?"
Michael's gaze softened, but his voice was steady. "You're too good to let it go. This competition isn't about your father. It's about you."
I shook my head. "No, Michael. If I compete, I'll never escape this life. You know that. You know what comes next — the deals, the contracts, the stage lights that never turn off."
He looked around the café, making sure no one was listening, and leaned closer. "Aubrey," he said quietly, "seeing you with a paintbrush again… it was like watching a dream that's already learned how to die."
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. His words were soft — but they cut deeper than any insult. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that the dream wasn't dead, just buried. But I couldn't. Because he was right.
Her voice flickered in my memory — gentle, full of conviction. You should be a painter. Your hands… they're gifted.
I looked down at my trembling hands, the faint veins visible under my skin, the same hands that once held both music and art — and lost both. "Do you really think my hands are gifted, Michael?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Aubrey, I didn't mean—"
"Then why are you pushing me to compete?" I interrupted, my tone sharp.
He hesitated, tapping his fingers against the table. "Because chasing dreams you can't reach only leads to disappointment," he said quietly. "And I don't want that for you."
I let out a low, bitter laugh. "Do you think I'm like Alex?"
His jaw tightened. The name hung between us like a knife. He set his cup down, eyes hardening. "No," he said firmly. "You're nothing like Alex."
Silence fell over the table. Heavy. Thick. He stood abruptly, pulling out his wallet and signalling for the bill. "Let's go," he said, his voice clipped.
He paid without another word and held the door open for me. The sunlight outside hit his frame, turning his outline into shadow. I stepped past him, the air outside colder than I remembered.
We drove in silence. Only the hum of the engine and the faint sound of jazz from the radio filled the space. I stared out the window, watching the city shift into coastline — the horizon melting into gold and violet. The world outside looked peaceful, like it had forgiven everything I hadn't.
Michael's eyes flicked toward me through the rearview mirror, quiet but watchful. I pretended not to notice. I just watched the sun dip lower, its reflection stretching across the water until it looked like the sky itself was bleeding.
This car had once been full of laughter. Alex and I used to fight over the front seat. Michael would drive, pretending not to hear our bickering, humming along to the radio. The world back then was simple — small enough to fit inside the sound of our laughter.
I remembered how we used to sneak away to the beach. Just the three of us. We'd convince the chauffeur to keep it secret, and when the car door opened, the ocean breeze would hit us like freedom. We'd run barefoot on the sand, screaming nonsense into the wind, and sit until the stars came out.
Those nights felt infinite.
But infinity doesn't last. Parents find out. Secrets crumble. And childhood fades into consequence.
I can still see it clearly — the fountain in our garden, the shimmer of water under the afternoon sun, the way my reflection blurred when I cried into it. Alex had found me there. He was thirteen, but already calmer, wiser. He knelt beside me, his shadow falling over mine.
"What's wrong, Aubrey?" he'd asked gently, wiping my tears.
"Dad fired Uncle Gren," I choked out.
He smiled faintly, brushing my hair away from my eyes. "Don't worry, little brother. I'll talk to Dad."
"Do you think he'll listen?"
He thought for a moment, then smiled again — that kind of smile that made you believe anything was possible. "Even if he doesn't, Mom will."
Back then, we believed in love. In family. In forever.
Until the day Mom handed Dad the divorce papers.
That was the day everything cracked — the day our home turned into a house full of echoes. And somewhere in the silence that followed… we lost Alex.