Mia
The buzz of the espresso machine was the only sound in the apartment, steady and low like a heartbeat. Mia leaned against the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone, one hand lazily stirring a spoon through her mug.
Gia still hadn't texted.
She glanced at the clock. 11:47 PM.
"Okay," she muttered, "either the dinner went really well, or she's crying in a gilded bathroom somewhere."
She set her phone down face-up, as if that would make a difference, and padded barefoot into the living room. The TV was on, but she wasn't watching. Some movie she'd seen a hundred times, the volume low enough to feel like company but not enough to fill the silence.
Her eyes drifted to the wall — to the photo of her and Gia at the beach two summers ago. Sand in their hair. Smiles crooked. Sunglasses tilted. No makeup. No pressure. Just sun and salt and freedom.
She missed that version of Gia.
Not that she didn't support the glow-up — the clothes, the confidence, the boy with the private jet — but something about it felt fast. Off. Like a movie scene that cuts mid-sentence.
Her phone lit up.
A message.
Finally.
Gia: Made it through dinner. Still breathing.
Gia: Kind of.
Mia exhaled a laugh and typed back.
Mia: "Still breathing" sounds like a win. Call me when you can. Miss you, superstar.
She didn't expect an instant reply. She didn't need one. She just needed to know Gia was okay.
Mia curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs. The movie kept playing, but her eyes never made it to the screen.
Her mind wandered.
Something about this whole trip didn't sit right.
It wasn't Adrian. Not entirely.
It was the silence.
Gia didn't usually go quiet this long.