Anastasia
Weekends are the best days.
A small holiday, a break from glowing computer screens and endless reports. Normally, my weekends are sacred, sleeping until the sun is overhead, there is no sun mostly, but yeah, ordering takeout that my mom would scold me for, and binging the latest TV series until I doze off.
If my mother ever found out I've been living off take outs instead of her home-cooked meals, she'd probably march across the city with her rolling pin in hand. Luckily, she can't. My family's house is hours away, and I've been renting an apartment near Blackwell Corp for three years now.
It's not just any apartment; it's in the Blackwell Community. The buildings are modern, with twenty-four-hour security and a kind of hushed prestige. Safe. Comfortable. Expensive. The only reason I can afford it is the employee discount and the fact that I rarely splurge on anything else.
Sometimes, when my deadlines ease, my mother and the twins visit me. Sophia and Sebastian, my younger siblings, fill the place with noise and laughter. On calmer weekends, I take the train back home, eat at my mom's restaurant, and let her smother me with food until I'm too full to breathe. But on weekends like today, I savor these low-key, private moments.
At least, that was the plan.
The sudden, relentless hammering at the door ruptured the tranquility. It was a frantic, insistent noise that allowed no delay.
I dragged myself up with a groan, tying my hair into a messy bun as I shuffled across the floor. When I swung the door open, the last person I expected stood there, grinning like a cat who just caught a mouse.
"Talia," I muttered, narrowing my eyes. "Do you enjoy assaulting people's doors early in the morning?"
Talia Martin, my best friend since toddler, leaned against the doorframe. Her auburn curls bounced as she tilted her head, mischief practically radiating from her.
"Morning? You can't be serious, what is it now?" she said
"Yeah, it kind of slips my mind."
"You're welcome," she said sweetly.
"For what?"
"For saving you from your tragic, celibate, hermit lifestyle." She pushed past me into the apartment, tossing her oversized sunglasses onto my couch like she owned the place. "God knows how long it's been, Ana. Years. Plural. It's time. Tonight, you're going to be ravished."
I choked on air. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me, Darling." She spun around dramatically. "A handsome guy, a dimly lit bar, maybe a little dancing"
I cut her off, crossing my arms. "Hello to you too, Talia. And no, thank you. I am not going anywhere."
"Yes, you are." She winked, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it like she hadn't just barged in. "But not to be ravished. Not this time, anyway. Tonight is just a normal girls' outing. Drinks. Music. Fun. A reminder that life exists beyond that computer of yours."
I opened my mouth to argue, but her grin disarmed me. I sighed. "Fine. Breakfast first."
By the time I showered and dressed in something casual but acceptable, Talia was already bouncing on her heels near the door. We ate a light breakfast, toast and eggs, before heading out. I didn't ask where we were going. With Talia, it was easier not to know until we got there.
But the moment I realized the direction she was driving, my chest tightened. I recognized the streets, the landmarks blurring by the window. My fingers curled into my lap.
"Talia," I said slowly, "Turn around."
She kept her eyes on the road, lips pressed together.
"Talia." My voice sharpened. "Turn around. Now."
She flicked me a quick glance. "Ana, stop. It's been years. You can't keep letting the past own you."
My breathing grew shallow, my pulse racing as familiar dread clawed at me. A jolt of known terror seized me, and my heart began to pound.
"Please," I whispered, barely audible.
When she finally saw my face, flushed red, hands trembling, chest heaving, her playful smirk vanished. With a muttered curse, she jerked the wheel, pulling into a side street before stopping the car.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Talia reached into her bag, pulled out a bottle of water, and handed it to me. "Here. Drink." I took it with shaking hands, gulping greedily until my throat cooled.
Her voice softened, guilt lacing her words. "He wouldn't want this for you, Ana."
I stared at the bottle, my reflection warped in the plastic. Her words stabbed at something deep, something I tried so hard to bury.
How I wished it were as easy as she said, to forget, to move on, to breathe without the weight of memory pressing down on me.
But scars don't vanish just because someone tells you they should. And some wounds never heal.
I closed my eyes, gripping the water bottle like a lifeline.