When the Sun Sets Softly

Rhea POV

I always wake up before the sun does. Not because I’m some super motivated morning person — I just like pretending I have more time than I do. More time to be okay. More time to not think.The ceiling in my apartment is cracked in the corner. I count it every morning. One, two, three lines. Like lightning frozen mid-flash. I stretch my legs out under the sheets, still wrapped in warmth, and I let my eyes blur. Maybe if I keep lying here, today won’t start. Maybe I can stay safe in this nowhere space between sleep and memory.

But Pudding meows like the world is ending, which means her food bowl is empty again.

“Alright, alright,” I groan, dragging myself up. My head is pounding faintly — not a full headache, just a soft throb behind my eyes, like something knocking politely.The kitchen tiles are cold. I wince when I step on them, but it makes me feel alive. That’s good. Feeling alive is good.

I scoop out her food and she dive in, purring like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her. It’s stupid how that small sound — that tiny purring fuzzball — makes my chest tighten. I don’t deserve her love, but here she is, full of it anyway.

I don’t check my phone. I haven’t in two years. Not really. It still has my mom’s number saved as “Mama 🌻” — I could never bring myself to change it.

I know what she would say if she saw me now. You look tired, Rhea. Or worse — What have you done to yourself?

I rinse my face, brush my teeth, slap on some tinted moisturizer to fake health. My reflection smiles too easily. I’ve practiced it enough to fool anyone. Even myself, on good days.But today, when I pull my sweater over my head, I catch a glimpse of something dark on my arm.A bruise.

Big. Ugly. Purple and blue like spilled ink.

I blink.

What...?

I run my fingers over it. It doesn’t even hurt that much. I try to remember if I hit it on something at work — maybe the corner of the counter? One of the heavy trays?

But I don’t remember. I always remember.

I shrug. Not important.

The café smells like cinnamon and burnt espresso. Home, in a strange way. Alex hands me my apron and a smirk.

“You’re five minutes late,” he says.

I stick my tongue out at him and say, “But I bring the sunshine.”

He laughs. “Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that, sunshine.“By nine, I’ve already served twelve cappuccinos, broken the milk once, and made two customers laugh. That’s a win.

But then my knees feel a little wobbly. Not dramatic — just off. Like I’m made of rubber bands stretched too tight.

I ignore it.

Then, during lunch rush, a sharp pain shoots through my lower back. I gasp but turn it into a fake cough. No one notices.

I keep moving.

I always do.

That night, I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling cracks again. Puddings curled up on my chest, warm and purring. I stroke her fur gently.

I think about my sister’s laugh. I haven’t heard it since the day I left. She used to braid my hair while I cried silently, pretending not to notice the tears.

God, I miss her.

I miss them all — even if they’d never forgive me if they knew the truth.

I pull the covers tighter around me. My stomach aches a little. My legs feel heavy. My head still buzzes.

“It’s fine,” I whisper into the dark.

The silence doesn’t argue.

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