Her
The first sunlight of the new year filters through my bedroom curtains. I trace the dust motes dancing in the golden beam and wonder if this year will be different. January 1st, 2025, another beginning, another promise. I've learned not to expect too much.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the cool floor a reminder that some things remain constant regardless of the date. The clock reads 10:17 AM, late by most standards, but early for us after last night's vigil. Five years since everything changed, and I'm still measuring time by before and after.
The house is quiet when I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. My younger sister's door remains closed; the bar where she works had been packed for New Year's Eve celebrations. My youngest brother is already at the sink, his thin arms submerged in soapy water as he tackles yesterday's dishes.
"Morning," he mumbles, not looking up.
"Morning." I squeeze his shoulder gently. "I'll start on lunch."
Mom appears in the doorway, her face drawn but smiling. "Your father's doing better today. The doctor says we might be able to bring him home soon."
I nod, swallowing the familiar lump in my throat. Another New Year's without Dad at the table. My eldest brother has been with him since dawn, taking the morning shift at the hospital so Mom could rest.
"What are we cooking?" Mom asks, tying her apron strings.
"Fried rice," I say, already pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. "Two kinds; regular and Chinese style with diced meat."
Cooking centers me. After culinary school, I'd imagined working in sleek restaurant kitchens, not standing in our modest family home preparing holiday meals that fewer relatives attend each passing year. But I pour my training into these dishes nonetheless, transforming simple ingredients into something special.
By 1:30 PM, the kitchen is fragrant with spices and sautéed vegetables. My brother returns from the hospital as I'm plating the food.
"Smells amazing in here," he says, washing his hands at the sink.
"How's Dad?" I ask, the question automatic now.
"Better. Asking for your cooking." His tired smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The doctor says maybe next week."
Mom packs a container with the Chinese fried rice, Dad's favorite and prepares to take his place at the hospital. The ritual is familiar now, this rotation of care.
"This is incredible," my brother says later, after Mom has left and we're eating around the small living room table, the ancient television playing a romantic comedy none of us is watching. "Best fried rice you've made yet."
I smile, accepting the compliment. Cooking is the one thing I know I'm good at. The one constant.
After we eat, the afternoon stretches before me, quiet and aimless. The neighborhood is uncharacteristically silent, as though the entire street is sleeping off last night's celebrations. At 4:30 PM, I change into an old black polo and blue silk shorts—nothing special—and step outside, phone pressed to my ear.
"I swear, Juliet, he was completely drunk before midnight," I laugh into the phone, pacing slowly in front of our family's small convenience store. "Professing his love to a potted plant."
Juliet's laughter rings through the speaker. I'm so engrossed in our conversation that I don't notice the three young men approaching from across the street.
Him
New Year's Day stretches before us like an empty canvas. Richard, Jude, and I have been holed up in my apartment since morning, nursing mild hangovers and scrolling mindlessly through social media feeds filled with last night's celebrations.
"I should head home," Richard says finally, checking his watch. "My mom's expecting me for dinner."
"I'll walk you to the main road," I offer, grabbing my jacket. "We could use some air."
The neighborhood is quiet when we step outside, that peculiar hush that falls after a holiday when everyone is resting or visiting family. The three of us walk unhurriedly, talking about nothing in particular, when I see her.
She's standing in front of the corner convenience store, phone pressed to her ear, laughing at something. The sound carries across the empty street, bright and genuine. I recognize her vaguely, a friend of my younger brother, I think, but something about her in this moment catches me off-guard. The afternoon sunlight catches in her hair, and her eyes crinkle with mirth at whatever her friend is saying.
"Let's get something to drink," I suggest, already crossing the street.
As we approach, I notice more details: her worn black polo shirt, blue silk shorts, bare feet in simple sandals. Nothing extraordinary, yet I can't look away. She's not conventionally beautiful in the way of the women who frequently slide into my DMs or comment on my posts, but there's something arresting about her.
I call out to her, and she doesn't respond at first, still absorbed in her conversation. For a moment, I consider retreating. We inhabit different worlds, after all. My life is a carefully curatedonline presence, late nights at exclusive events, and a rotating cast of admirers drawn to the verified blue check beside my name. She appears grounded, authentic.
I call again. This time she turns, confusion flitting across her features as she assesses the three of us. There's no recognition in her eyes, just careful curiosity. She ends her call and approaches, confident despite being outnumbered.
"Happy New Year," she says, her voice melodic. Up close, her eyes are even more expressive, deep brown with flecks of amber, framed by lashes that don't need enhancement.
"Happy New Year," I reply, suddenly aware that I haven't planned what to say beyond this greeting. "Is the store open? We were hoping to grab some drinks."
"Technically we're closed for the holiday," she says, "but I can get you something if you'd like."
"That would be great," Jude interjects. "Just some sodas, if you have them."
She disappears inside, and I feel a strange urge to follow, to see more of her world. When she returns with three cold bottles, our fingers brush during the exchange. A subtle scent of strawberries and something else, vanilla, perhaps, lingers in the air between us.
"I'm Marcus," I say before she can turn away. "What's your name?"
"Zara," she replies, studying me with those perceptive eyes.
"Would you like to have dinner with me sometime, Zara?" The question surprises even me. I don't usually pursue women this directly; they come to me, drawn by the lifestyle I project online.
She considers me for a moment, her head tilted slightly. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, revealing a dimple in her right cheek.
"Sure," she says finally, her easy acceptance catching me off-guard.
We exchange phone numbers, and I can't resist showing her my profile, the one that impresses everyone else, half a million followers, blue verification check, photos with celebrities at exclusive venues.
"Cool," she says simply, and I search her face for the usual signs of being impressed, the widened eyes, the sudden shift in demeanor, but find none. Instead, there's just polite interest, as if I'd told her I work in accounting.
"Friday?" I suggest. "I could pick you up around five?"
"I'd need to be home by six, maybe six-thirty at the latest," she says. "I live with my parents. Their house, their rules."
Her candor is refreshing. No pretense, no performativeindependence.
"I understand," I say, meaning it. "I'll text you later to confirm."
As we hail a taxi for Richard, I glance back at her. She's watching us, arms crossed, a small smile playing on her lips. Something tugs inside my chest, a feeling I haven't experienced in years, not since before the followers and fame, when connections were real rather than curated for maximum engagement.
"See you Friday," I call as we part ways, already looking forward to it more than I should be.