My Sweet Chaos

Ayla Rivero’s life was so ordinary that even her alarm seemed resigned to ringing each morning without enthusiasm. At 7:15, right on schedule, she felt the faint vibration of her phone on the nightstand before it let out a soft, half-hearted beep. Ayla hated waking up to loud sounds; her sleep was so light that even the smallest noise woke her. So her alarm was always set to something gentle, something pleasant.

From under the blankets, she reached out and silenced it with a practiced swipe, without even opening her eyes. Years of training.

She was not a morning person.

In fact, she wasn’t a person at all before nine. She hated waking up early—one would think that after so many years of getting up at 7:15 (as her phone so lovingly reminded her), she’d be used to it. But no. Not happening.

“Some people wake up even before the alarm just because they’re used to it…”

She immediately pictured her ex-boyfriend—one of those people.

“I WILL NEVER BE PART OF THAT CULT.”

She dragged herself into a sitting position, hair sticking out in every direction as if she had battled an army of pillows all night. Still, she forced herself out of bed; adulthood had no mercy on those who were late, even when working from home.

MIAU. MIAU.

She looked down at her cat, who sat at the foot of the bed staring at her.

—Luna, you can keep sleeping. Lucky you —she said with a soft smile, running a hand over her. That cat was the only emotional bond she allowed herself to have. She had adopted her two years earlier with her ex-boyfriend. When they broke up, he tried to take Luna with him—Ayla was blunt: “LUNA STAYS WITH ME.”

And he had no choice but to surrender (after she cried desperately, threw a tantrum, threatened to kill him, and then threatened to kill herself—but nothing too dramatic, of course).

She turned on the coffee maker.

That sound was her real “good morning.”

She grabbed her mug—the one that read DON’T TALK TO ME, I HAVEN’T HAD MY COFFEE YET—and stared into the void, thinking about absolutely nothing until the coffee maker beeped.

Ayla worked as a freelance proofreader for small publishers and indie authors. She spent hours in front of her computer reading manuscripts, crossing out misplaced commas, and battling writers obsessed with adverbs ending in “-ly.” Sometimes she dreamed of writing her own book, but between editing deadlines and bills to pay, that dream collected dust in a mental folder titled “Someday” or “Probably Never.”

While waiting for the caffeine to hit and activate the few brain cells she had awake, she checked her handwritten to-do list in an old notebook:

— Two chapters of the romance novel (boring and overly sweet).

— Review the Norse mythology book (that one she actually liked).

— Answer emails (pure joy).

— Send invoices (this human needs to pay bills).

— Remember to eat (she regularly forgot when she got absorbed in reading).

She opened her laptop and began her day. She loved her apartment—small but cozy, with plants barely surviving (NOTE TO SELF: buy more fake plants), and a window that let in just enough light to avoid feeling like she lived in a cave.

Ayla had that functional-introvert vibe: she could talk to people, she just didn’t enjoy it. She loved her peace, her routine, her order… her predictability. And she was proud of the stable life she had built, even if it was sometimes too predictable.

By midmorning she went out to buy bread and a few things for lunch. The bakery was three blocks away and always smelled amazing. She nodded at the baker, who greeted her with the familiar smile of someone who saw her at the exact same time every day.

She walked home slowly, enjoying the fresh air and thinking about the Norse mythology book she’d been reviewing. She had always been fascinated by mythology; she’d read the same stories so many times she could recite them. She especially liked the chaotic parts—the gods who broke rules… maybe because she followed them a little too much.

“YOU’RE BORING, AYLA,” her friend Mary (her only friend) always told her. “YOU NEED TO LIVE A LITTLE. IN TWENTY YEARS YOUR LIFE WILL BE EXACTLY THE SAME.”

As if that were a bad thing. Was it so terrible to like routine and predictability?

She returned to her desk, had a light lunch, and kept working until midafternoon. When her brain needed a break, she watched videos of artisans restoring old objects. She loved seeing something worn out brought back to life by skilled hands.

“EVEN THE VIDEOS YOU WATCH ARE BORING, AYLA,” Mary’s voice echoed in her head again.

When she finished her workday, she closed her laptop with a satisfied sigh.

Normalcy had something comforting about it: the certainty of knowing what to expect. No surprises, nothing off-schedule—everything neatly in place, under her control.

Later, after a quick dinner, she lay on the couch reading a book about ancient runes—for her future NOT-a-book, she always said, even though it was truly one of her favorite hobbies. She underlined sentences, wrote notes, and invented stories in her head.

And then, like a fleeting thought disguised as nothing, she imagined what it would be like if one of those mythical objects fell into her hands. She laughed to herself.

—Yeah, right —she muttered— Like something magical would ever happen to me…

She secretly wished she were the protagonist of that book.

She stretched, put the book away, and turned off the lights.

A completely normal day had ended.

One among many.

A calm one.

The last calm one for a very, very long time.

Because the next day, without looking for it, Ayla would find the rune that would change everything.