Narrator: Aria Clarke. Twenty-five. Daughter of politicians.
Raised in power suits and polite lies.
Born into expectations, bred for greatness — or so they keep telling her. But here's the thing: she's tired. Not just sleepy-tired. Soul-tired, and today?
Today is the last day her life pretends to be ordinary.
The soft buzz of my phone cracked through the stillness like a mosquito in a monastery.
Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt.
Without opening my eyes, I groped across the nightstand like a blindfolded zombie, eventually silencing it with the grace of a hungover cat. The buzzing stopped. Blessed silence. But my body was still a hostage to the bed — limbs heavy, brain fogged, blanket tucked like a warm, fuzzy lie.
If alarm clocks were people, mine would be doing time for harassment.
Just as I was slipping back into that half-dream where I was soaring over snow-capped mountains, a shrill beep cut through the air. Again.
I growled into my pillow. The universe had jokes, and I was the punchline.
Then, came the knock. The one I knew by heart — not just because of the rhythm, but because it was always followed by her voice.
"Wakey wakey, lazy gremlin," Lily called, chipper and cruel.
I didn't bother lifting my head.
"Tell the world I died valiantly in my sleep," I mumbled into the sheets. "Heroic. Peaceful. Tragic."
A beat of silence. I could practically hear her smirking.
"Here lies Aria Clarke," she intoned with theatrical sadness, "smothered to death by the weight of her responsibilities and, more tragically, her duvet."
A second later, she appeared in the doorway — holding the holy grail of forgiveness: a steaming mug of coffee and a plate stacked with perfectly browned toast. The smell hit me like a warm hug.
If death included room service, maybe I wouldn't mind going out like this.
"You're a saint," I murmured, sitting up like a sloth coming out of hibernation.
Lily plopped onto the edge of my bed, cross-legged, like she owned the place. "I accept gratitude in chocolate and Spotify privileges."
"You drive a hard bargain," I said, taking the coffee and cradling it like a newborn. "Noted."
There was something comforting about her being there. Maybe it was the way she didn't look at me like a project that needed fixing. With her, I wasn't the politician's daughter or the Clarke legacy. I was just… me.
"You know," I started, nibbling on a corner of toast, "I was dreaming that I could fly."
"Fly?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Better than your usual dream where you're giving a speech naked on live TV."
"This was different," I said, softer now. "I was high above everything. Free. No speeches, no suits, no smiling for cameras."
Lily's smile dimmed into something gentler — a flicker of understanding lighting her face. "That sounds like heaven."
"Honestly, it was," I murmured. "I didn't feel like I was carrying a thousand expectations. Just… flying."
She didn't need to say anything. That was the thing about Lily — she never forced the moment into a therapy session. She just let me be. And that was the kind of love I hadn't realized I'd been starving for.
Then she said, casually, "I found this old hiking spot on the map. Totally off-grid. No cell service. No signal. Just trees, rocks, and squirrels probably judging our fashion choices."
I looked at her, pulse quickening — not with fear, but hope. "A new place?"
She nodded. "A weekend. Just you, me, nature, and a shameful amount of snacks."
"I love everything about this," I said, finally smiling. "Let's do it. You pack the trail mix. I'll dig up the map."
"Deal." She grinned, bumping my shoulder with hers.
I looked at her for a long second. This girl who knew all the versions of me — the quiet, the angry, the tired, the pretending — and never once asked me to be anything other than human.
She wasn't just my sister. She was my escape hatch. My reset button.
"Can we make this a regular thing?" I asked, trying not to sound like I needed it too badly.
Lily just nodded. "One hike at a time."
And for that one perfect second, everything was still. Just two sisters, warm coffee, and a plan that had nothing to do with politics or expectations. Just… life.
I didn't tell her what I felt — that this was the calm before something I could feel coming. Something big, something inevitable. A storm building on the edge of my so-called ordinary life.
But I'd face that when it came.
For now, I was just Aria. And she was just Lily, and that was enough.