Untitled chapter 1
Chapter One
The old red Ford Capri rolled slowly toward the traffic light, groaning and rattling with everything it had.
Reyna glanced at the dashboard.
“You can’t do this to me,” she said quietly. “You just got out of the shop.”
The engine grumbled in protest but, thankfully, didn’t stall.
“Proud of you, my iron hero.”
Reyna smiled to herself and pulled away when the light turned green.
She had long since stopped paying attention to people who were surprised to learn how old her car was. It had never particularly bothered her. She didn’t think of the Capri as old, exactly. More like elderly—the kind of age where you were allowed to complain about life a little and stop caring what other people thought.
Besides, she had chosen it herself.
At nineteen, she’d walked into a used-car dealership with her own money in the bank and a firm determination not to ask her parents for either help or advice. She hadn’t even intended to buy anything special until she saw it.
The Capri was parked in the back row among several other used cars, and for some reason it immediately stood out. The once-bright red paint still had a deep shine, and the car’s distinctive lines seemed far too beautiful to Reyna for something that had already spent so many years on the road.
There was something old-fashioned and stubborn about it.
She liked that.
She walked around the car several times, looked inside, opened the hood even though she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to be looking for, and eventually realized she had already fallen in love with it.
Three hours later, she was sitting behind the wheel of her Capri, taking pictures of it in the parking lot outside her house, looking exactly like someone who had just won the lottery.
The car was far from new and wasn’t particularly practical, but Reyna had never cared.
She loved it exactly the way she’d seen it that day.
She also loved the feeling that came with knowing something belonged to her not because someone had given it to her or helped her buy it, but because she had decided she wanted it and had managed to afford it herself.
She had always been used to relying on herself first.
Over the past few years, Reyna had turned web development from a college side job into a respectable career. It paid her rent, let her put money aside, and occasionally gave her enough financial freedom to turn down clients when they started getting on her nerves.
She built websites and online stores, took on smaller projects directly, and spent most of her time working from home.
One of her regular clients was Mr. Chen, the owner of a clothing and home-goods store that sold products both in person and online.
Working with her remotely was his favorite arrangement.
An office, a desk, electricity, water—all of it, in his opinion, was completely unnecessary overhead if he could simply send a programmer an email and get a finished website without having to pay for her workspace.
Reyna didn’t complain.
The work was steady, he paid on time, and whatever hours he didn’t spend tormenting her could be filled with smaller projects.
She was actually driving home from one of his visits now.
For the past three days, Chen had been sending her messages asking her to make “a few small changes” to the website.
Reyna had learned a long time ago that when Chen said a few small changes, he usually meant several days of work.
Sometimes a week.
The phone mounted beside the dashboard chimed.
A new message.
Reyna glanced at the screen, saw the client’s name, and decided not to open it yet.
“If that’s another ‘small adjustment,’ I’m blocking him,” she told the phone.
The phone remained silent.
Reyna smirked and returned her attention to the road.
Her laptop bag sat on the passenger seat, with a hoodie and a crumpled coffee-shop receipt beside it. She had meant to throw the receipt away that morning.
Outside, the city stretched past the windows, still wet from the recent rain. Everything looked familiar down to the smallest detail.
Reyna liked days like this.
Nothing happened.
And that was exactly what made them good.
Work. A few messages from Chen. Coffee with a friend that she’d once again forgotten to finish. The drive home.
An ordinary life she’d spent a long time stubbornly putting together piece by piece until everything in it belonged to her.
She turned onto a familiar street. The traffic thinned, and for a few minutes her phone stopped demanding her attention.
Reyna even allowed herself to think that maybe she’d make it through the day without another request to rebuild half the website.
The thought was premature.
Her phone chimed again.
She glanced at the screen.
Chen: We have a small problem.
“Of course,” she muttered, closing her eyes for half a second.
“Small.”
She didn’t open the message. Instead, she dropped the phone into her bag.
A few minutes later, a familiar building came into view.
There was nothing remarkable about it. A few floors of gray brick, glass doors, a neat sign beside the entrance.
Reyna always thought medical buildings were supposed to look exactly like this: respectable enough to inspire confidence, and bland enough to make you want to leave as quickly as possible.
She turned into the parking lot, killed the engine, and sat there for a few seconds, staring at the building through the windshield.
Then she sighed, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, and got out.
Going to see her psychiatrist had long since stopped being a matter of choice.
Without regular appointments, her prescriptions weren’t renewed, so she had learned to treat the visits as another unavoidable part of life, like paying the mortgage or getting the car inspected.
Officially, it was called medical monitoring.
Reyna preferred to think of it as a necessary evil.
Eventually, she’d gotten used to it—the way people get used to rules they can’t argue with but can learn to follow without allowing them to take up too much space in their lives.
Dr. Sellers’s office was quiet.
Reyna took off her coat, placed her bag on the empty chair, and settled into the armchair that had become familiar over the course of several visits, almost irritatingly neutral.
Naomi Sellers sat across from her, reviewing the notes from their previous appointment.
She was a tall, elegant woman with warm chocolate-brown skin and long, carefully styled curls. There was nothing particularly imposing about her appearance, but something about her calm, attentive gaze always made Reyna feel as though the woman had already figured her out from every possible angle.
The doctor looked up from her notebook and smiled.
“How was your week?”
Reyna shifted her shoulders.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Perfectly fine.”
Naomi didn’t argue.
She made a brief note and looked at her again.
Reyna knew that look.
It wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t judgmental.
Just patient.
For some reason, that irritated her more than anything.
Her previous doctors had been easier. They asked questions that required answers and waited for specific formulations in return.
Naomi didn’t seem interested in forcing words out of her.
And perhaps that was exactly why, for the first time in a long while, Reyna caught herself thinking that she might someday actually be able to tell this woman about the things she usually preferred to keep outside the walls of the office.
The corners of her mouth twitched—a familiar, almost automatic reaction that never quite became a smile.
“Reyna,” Dr. Sellers said gently, her voice filling the quiet room, “tell me what happened that day. I’m glad you’re coming in, but I need to understand what triggers this reaction and why you don’t want to make any changes to your treatment.”
Reyna lowered her eyes.
Her fingers found the bracelet around her wrist without thinking.
Not for comfort.
Just habit.
She knew this moment.
The wording of the question. The pause. The expectation of an answer that somehow changed every time.
Nothing new appeared in her chest.
Only the same steady tension she’d carried for so long that it had become background noise.
Talking was easier than explaining.
And explaining was easier than staying silent.
She opened her mouth, then didn’t speak immediately, searching not for an emotion but for the right words.
“I…”
She exhaled.
“Sometimes it feels like if I start remembering everything in too much detail, it’ll take up more space than it should.”
The doctor didn’t rush her.
She simply made another short note.
Reyna looked away.
“Can we just renew the prescription?”
It wasn’t a request so much as a predetermined step in a procedure.
There was a pause.
Dr. Sellers held her gaze a little longer than usual, then nodded.
“All right. But we’ll come back to this.”
Reyna stood too quickly, as though she were afraid that if she stayed another second, she’d say more than she’d intended.
“Of course. Next time.”
She gave her the familiar, practiced smile and walked out.
The air outside the office felt different.
Too ordinary.
Too loud after the silence inside.
Reyna went downstairs, stepped outside, and only then allowed herself to take a deeper breath.
The appointment was behind her, but the feeling of it still sat beneath her skin.
She got back into her old Ford and turned the key.
The engine coughed on the third try.
“Come on,” she muttered.
The car jerked, then finally settled.
“At least you’re cooperating today.”
She pulled out of the parking lot.
The pharmacy on the first floor of her building greeted her with its familiar smell of herbs and medicinal tinctures.
The bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside, like a signal that she’d returned to ordinary reality.
She hadn’t lived upstairs for very long, but she’d already stopped thinking of the pharmacy as a separate place.
She could stop by on her way home, stay for a few minutes, or simply drop in to see Edward if he was still working.
Today, he was behind the counter.
He had the most concentrated expression imaginable, which somehow made him look like a man who could genuinely become irritated by misplaced punctuation.
The bell caught his attention.
He looked up, saw Reyna, and gave her the faintest smile before returning his attention to the computer.
“Hey.”
Then, without looking up:
“You’re late.”
Reyna pulled down her hood and gave him an exaggeratedly serious look.
“I went to see Dr. Sellers. She almost cured me.”
“Good for you.”
Edward scanned the screen.
“So it’s one of those days. Don’t touch her until she starts talking on her own.”
“Pretty much.”
She gave a short laugh and leaned against the counter.
“Then what do you need? Medication? Survival mode?”
“Let’s call it the economy version of my personality.”
Edward snorted quietly and reached for a paper bag.
“You’re surprisingly good at it.”
He handed her the bag.
“That’s because I have years of experience.”
“That’s it?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Do you have anything else?”
He looked at her over his glasses.
“A little leftover spaghetti and half an apple.”
Reyna considered it for a second.
“I don’t think I’m hungry.”
“Excellent decision.”
She smiled, slipped the bag into her purse, and took a few steps toward the door.
“You going home?” Edward asked without looking away from the computer.
She turned around.
“No. I think I’ll go have fun with my other friend.”
Edward finally looked up.
“The one I don’t know about, but who is obviously better than me?”
“Yes.”
He slowly raised an eyebrow.
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“I couldn’t keep the secret anymore. I’m sorry. You’ll have to learn to live with it.”
He laughed and turned back to the computer as though he’d heard something completely expected.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Reyna pulled it out.
A message from Chen.
Problems with the website. Urgent.
“Mom?” Edward asked.
“Work.”
She sighed and put the phone away.
“Okay. I’m going.”
“See you.”
“If I survive.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s just work.”
Reyna had already opened the door.
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m a programmer. I’m practically a creative person. I was supposed to conquer the internet, not fix other people’s websites.”
Edward just shook his head.
The bell above the door chimed behind her as she stepped outside.
Home was easier.
Laptop. Spreadsheets. Code.
Familiar tasks she could solve almost automatically.
The world became manageable again, and that feeling always helped level her out a little.
She worked until hunger became louder than her thoughts.
Over dinner, she found herself returning several times to her conversation with Dr. Sellers.
The doctor hadn’t pushed her or pressured her. She had simply suggested making therapy more regular if Reyna decided she wanted to continue.
For some reason, the suggestion had stayed with her.
Her phone, lying beside her plate, vibrated.
Mom.
You didn’t call today. Everything okay? If you’re going to be nearby tomorrow, come see me.
Everything’s fine, Mom. I got completely buried in work today. I’ll try to stop by tomorrow.
The reply came almost immediately.
Okay. I’ll be waiting. Good night, sweetheart.
Reyna smiled and put the phone down.
She tapped her fingers nervously against the table, then picked up the phone again.
She opened her conversation with Dr. Sellers.
I checked my schedule. I can come in Tuesdays and Saturdays after lunch.
She sent it.
For several seconds, she stared at the screen.
Then she gave a quiet laugh.
Reyna worked remotely and had most of the day to herself, but mornings were, as she liked to put it, “not exactly my most productive time.”
In reality, she almost always slept until noon.
She didn’t close her laptop until close to midnight.
The apartment finally went quiet.
And with the silence came the familiar feeling that her brain was far too awake and had no intention of shutting down just because the clock said it should.
Reyna reached for her phone and called Edward.
“If you’re asleep right now,” she said instead of saying hello, “that’s incredibly offensive. I’m suffering over here.”
A quiet laugh came through the speaker.
“It’s eleven-thirty. That’s already nighttime for ordinary, boring people like me. What happened?”
Reyna leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling.
“I’m facing the most important moral dilemma of the evening.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Either I make a tiny attempt at self-destruction involving a cigarette and a very long night watching TV, or I take trazodone and disappear from this world until tomorrow.”
Edward was silent for a few seconds.
“I’m really glad that after all these years, you’ve only gotten more dramatic.”
“I’m developing as a person.”
“Proud of you.”
He paused.
“And take the trazodone. I’m already home, so I’m not keeping you company tonight anyway. I was planning to go to the movies with you tomorrow, but if you’re going to be falling asleep halfway through it, we’ll have to cancel.”
Reyna glanced at the nearly empty pack of cigarettes sitting on the table.
Technically, she hadn’t smoked in over a week.
“That’s manipulation,” she protested.
“That’s common sense.”
She was quiet for a couple of seconds.
Then she reached for the blister pack.
“Fine.”
She pushed out a tablet.
“Chemistry wins.”
“As it usually does.”
“At least it’s legal.”
She swallowed the trazodone.
“My little happy pills.”
“That is an extremely unhealthy thing for a person who sees a psychiatrist to say.”
“That’s exactly why they give me the attendance certificate.”
Edward snorted softly.
Reyna settled deeper into the couch, feeling the tension of the day slowly begin to spread toward the edges of her consciousness.
Sertraline in the morning had long since become as much a part of her routine as coffee and her laptop password.
But without the trazodone, the last few days had started to go sideways again.
Her sleep broke apart.
Her thoughts got louder.
And coffee gradually stopped being something she drank for the taste and became a way to make it through the day.
“All right,” she murmured sleepily. “If I don’t answer tomorrow before noon, assume the medication worked too well.”
“I’ll survive the loss.”
“Liar.”
“A little.”
She smiled, tired and peaceful.
“Good night, Eddie.”
“Good night, Rey.”
