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It had never been difficult for her to make friends. Her first real friend came at age four, when she went to preschool for the first time—a young Black girl who was studious and proper but needed a partner in crime to get her out of her comfort zone.
Granted, they were four.
But the moment she met Aisha, they became the best of friends. Playdates at the park or at each other's houses were routine. Their mums’ bonded as well, both being relatively young parents compared to the rest of their classmates' families. Their fathers shared beers over a grill while they watched the girls play with Barbies.
It was just as easy when they met Terra and her cousin Flora. The two young girls were polar opposites. The free-spirited Flora always led their imaginative play in class or by the lake. Terra, a rule-follower, was caring and kind, opting to join in their antics while trying to be the voice of reason.
At four years old, her attempts at reason were always delivered in the most hilariously serious voices.
It wasn’t until she was seven that she met the first person who didn’t want to be her friend. And it irked her little seven-year-old brain to high heaven.
Her first day of class was exciting. She got her cubby, just as her dad and she had excitedly discussed the night before. Sitting next to Terra made her feel even better. Flora was across the room but quickly made new friends, while Aisha had also found someone to talk to, though she kept glancing over to make sure everyone else was okay.
Her mum packed the best lunch she could dream of: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into a butterfly, her favorite bag of crisps, and a fudge brownie she split with a boy named Craig. In return, he divided his rice crispy treat and gave her a piece.
For her, it was turning out to be a good day—until recess.
Everything was going according to plan. Her friends were playing with a larger group of kids from several year-three classes. They were having a ton of fun until she heard a cry filled with anger.
Turning to the commotion, she saw a taller seven-year-old standing over a smaller boy. The taller boy's brown hair was messy and unkempt, but you’d think it was the smaller one who started it, given the rage in his eyes.
“Fuck off,” the small boy said confidently, brushing his hands on his shorts.
Her mum told her never to say words like that. Repeating them could mean consequences. Her dad once said it while batting away a bee in the garden. She and her mum had been flabbergasted. But she was always a bit suspicious of her mum’s reaction—the woman only seemed shocked after catching her daughter’s horrified expression. In reality, she had to be the one to reprimand her dad.
“Daddy,” she cried, “that’s a bad word.”
Her mum laughed. “Yeah, Walt. No bad words.”
How could her mum find this funny?
“Sorry, darling, the little bastar—”
“Daddy!” she screeched, while her mum laughed even harder from her lawn chair, basking in the rare warmth of late summer.
That’s how she knew it was a word you didn’t use. But it came out of the little boy so easily.
She marched over to the group of boys, sensing the edge of a confrontation. A blonde boy stepped up to the taller kid and his friend.
“Hey,” she called out. Her mum always said she was braver than most. “Leave them alone.”
“Oh. Need a girl to come and save you?” the taller boy teased, eliciting a snicker from his friend, who stood guard just behind him.
“I’ll go tell Mrs. Daniels you’re bullying others.”
“’Course you would,” the boy sneered. His friend tugged on his sleeve, murmuring something, and the two eventually left.
The blonde boy helped the brunette up, concern evident in his blue eyes.
“We don’t need your help,” the smaller boy squeaked confidently.
“Not what it looked like from over there.” She pointed to where she had been standing. Why did she point?
“Fuck off,” he retorted. Her mouth fell open in shock. How rude could this kid be? She was just trying to be kind and help.
“That’s a bad word.”
“What are you going to do? Tattle?” His blonde friend elbowed him, but the brunette kept glaring.
She shook her head. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good,” he spat. “Keep it that way.” He pushed his friend to move, shooting her another glare until they were far enough away.
Guess she wouldn’t warn him about the dirt on the back of his shorts. He didn’t deserve her kindness. Luckily, that terrible boy wasn’t in her class—at least not that year.
~~
Who did she think she was? He didn’t need help from a girl. He could fight his own battles.
Like his dad always said, girls were weaker than boys. They shouldn’t get involved in things that didn’t concern them. His mum always listened.
“Riven,” his best friend Sky said, “you should go to the nurse.”
It was then he noticed the gravel embedded in his scraped palms, raw and red.
“I’m fine,” he declared. But now the burning sensation was starting to get annoying.
“Sean is only going to keep bothering you if you don’t tell someone.”
“I can handle it, Sky.” The same words his mum always told him. “I don’t need help.”
Sky stared at him, unconvinced, but relented. Sky always did.
—————————
When she is eight, in her fourth year, she finds herself seated next to that boy. His name, as she learns on the first day of class, is Riven. And he’s still terrible to her.
“Let me have that marker,” his squeaky voice grates on her ears.
“No,” she scoffs. “I’m using it.”
“You don’t need it anymore.”
“Says who?” she retorts.
He taps her picture with the colored pencil he’s hoarding. “Your drawing isn’t even good.”
Her anger flares. She pulls her picture away from him, accidentally ripping the edge.
“Look what you did!” she whines.
Riven just laughs, that infuriating sound making her fists clench. She swears she hears a cartoonish muahahaha buried in there. She almost grabs a colored pencil to scribble across his perfectly-in-the-lines artwork. But her mum’s voice echoes in her mind: “Treat others with kindness, and you’ll get kindness in return.”
She’s not sure that applies to this kid.
Her frustration grows with every petty act. The final straw comes one lunchtime when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees wet paper balls flying across the table, pelting another classmate. The boy being hit doesn’t even realize it, but Riven laughs, along with Sky, who seems to be a quieter accomplice.
If no one else is going to stop this, she will.
……
“Riven,” she calls sharply down the lunch table.
He’s mid-launch with another soggy paper ball, his water bottle beside him. He finally looks up. Her glare mirrors the one her dad uses when she’s misbehaved.
“What?” he hollers back, a few classmates exchanging knowing glances.
“Stop throwing things.”
“Mind your own beeswax,” he snaps.
She stands, stalking toward him, her patience gone. If Sky, who is perfectly nice when Riven isn’t around, won’t stop him, then she will.
“You’re annoying, and no one thinks this is funny.”
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“And I’m supposed to care?”
“You really are the worst, Riven.” She stomps her foot, the other kids watching them like a tennis match.
“Well, if I’m the worst…” His smirk widens. “Then you should expect this.”
He grabs a carrot drenched in ranch and tosses it. It lands square on her shirt, sliding down onto her shoe before rolling away.
“Riven!” she shouts, shoving his hand aside as he laughs. Her hand twitches toward his tray, but she thinks better of it. She doesn’t want more ranch on her.
“What are you going to do?” he taunts, but his eyes say he knows she won’t do anything.
“You know what, Riven?” she sighs. “You’re not worth my time.”
With that, she turns on her heel. One of her friends follows her, but Riven just shrugs and resumes talking with his tablemates, already forgetting her.
—————————
"Mum," she whisper-yells, "No."
"Honey," her mum reprimands softly, "the poor kid is waiting in the rain."
"Mum, he's not nice."
"How many times have you actually interacted with this boy?" Her mother glances back over her seat.
"Too many times to count."
"Musa." Her mother narrows her eyes, "We lead with kindness, and we get?"
"Kindness in return," she responds halfheartedly.
Musa’s eyes drift to the window. Rain streams hypnotically down the glass, blurring the figure of the brown-headed boy trying to shield himself against the wind.
Her mother puts the car into park and readies her umbrella. "Scooch over so I can get him in quickly, please."
With a reluctant sigh, Musa unbuckles and slides over. The door opens moments later, her mum guiding a damp and sullen Riven into the car before shutting it quickly behind them.
Riven looks up, his confusion freezing him in place as his eyes meet hers. She returns his gaze, struggling to mask the disdain bubbling beneath her surface.
Her mum turns to smile warmly. "Hi. I'm Martha, Musa's mum. You know Musa, right?"
Riven nods hesitantly.
"And what's your name?"
“His name is—" Musa starts.
“Musa." Her mother’s gaze halts her protest. She turns back to Riven. "What’s your name?"
"Riven."
"It's nice to meet you, Riven," her mum says warmly. "Why are you out here alone in the rain?"
"My parents don’t get off work until late," he mutters, shrugging. "I wait for them."
"Don’t you have anyone else to pick you up?"
“Nope," he replies, popping the 'p' defiantly.
"Well, I can’t leave you out here in the cold rain. Do you know your parents' number?"
He shakes his head.
“Let me get in touch with them or leave a message. You can come home with us until they’re available.”
“I’m fine," he tries to argue, but the usual edge in his voice is gone.
"Nonsense, Riven. It would be irresponsible to leave you out here. Number?" Her mum insists as she starts the car and pulls away from the curb.
Reluctantly, he recites the number and clicks his seatbelt. Musa wishes her mother wasn’t so determined to be kind.
……
The drive is quiet, the rain drumming steadily as dark clouds erase any trace of sunlight. Musa glares out the window, resenting her mum for making her share the backseat with him.
They pull into the driveway, and her mum turns. "I’ll call your parents. You two go get some homework done. Musa, please show Riven to the dining room."
She huffs, yanks her backpack from the floor, and storms out of the car, making her displeasure clear with a sharp door slam. She doesn’t bother checking if Riven follows.
"Hey, pumpkin!" Her dad’s warm smile greets her as she stomps past him.
Tall at thirty-eight, his short dark hair is already streaked with silver. His blue eyes crinkle from his constant smiling, a trait her mum always mentions. Today, though, she isn’t in the mood.
"I don’t want to talk," she mutters.
Her dad’s confusion is audible as she hears Riven’s quieter footsteps behind her. The explanation quickly follows, her dad's tone shifting to that of a welcoming host.
"Hello, Riven! Nice to meet you. Are you in Musa’s year?"
"We’re in the same group," Riven answers softly.
"Great!" her dad replies cheerfully.
Her mother’s gentle voice follows. "Riven, why don’t you join Musa and finish your homework while I contact your parents?"
"Okay," he mumbles.
He hovers awkwardly in her doorway, unsure of his place. If it were up to her, he’d stay out, but her mum’s kindness lingers in the air.
"You can sit there," she says, pointing to the bench by her desk. He trudges over, dumps his backpack, and collapses into the seat, avoiding her gaze. Fine by her.
~~
Riven watches Musa breeze through her assignments. Pencil scratches fill the silence. As she nears the end of her maths homework, she glances at him.
"Aren’t you going to do your homework?" she asks without looking up.
“Why?" he shrugs. "It doesn’t matter."
“Don’t you care about your grades?"
“No."
"Why not?"
"It’s not like it’ll get me anywhere." His father’s bitter words echo in his mind. The headmaster pries too much, the teachers expect too much, and the lessons bore him.
"Don’t you want to go to university?"
“You’re ten," he states flatly.
"Still. I want to go one day. You could, too. Homework is good practice."
"School… fun?" He raises an eyebrow.
"You learn things you never knew. Maybe one day you’ll shock someone with a cool fact."
He almost laughs.
……
"Hey, kids," Musa’s mum calls, "dinner’s ready. Riven, have you had pot roast before?"
“On special occasions," he admits, his stomach growling. The last ‘special occasion’ was his grandmother’s birthday four years ago.
"Well, let’s make tonight one of those." Her smile is warm as Musa trudges to the door, gesturing impatiently.
Riven follows them into the dining room. The table overflows with fluffy mashed potatoes, steaming roast, tender carrots, and buttery rolls. The rich aroma makes his stomach twist with longing.
Musa’s dad serves generous portions. Riven forces himself to wait, though his insides scream to devour everything. The first bite melts on his tongue—creamy potatoes, soft carrots, and roast that falls apart perfectly.
When Mr. Browne offers seconds, Riven doesn’t refuse. Afterward, there’s cake—berry-filled and topped with cream. He almost believes he’s in heaven.
"Thank you, Mrs. Browne," he murmurs.
Her smile is gentle. "If you mean the rolls, you’re welcome. For the rest," she pats her husband’s shoulder, "thank him."
Riven’s dad would never cook. Meals at home are usually microwaved or missed entirely, unless his mum sneaks him a treat on rare ‘good’ days.
……
After dinner, they watch football. When it’s time to leave, Riven directs Mrs. Browne to his home, hoping she won’t ask more questions. But maybe, deep down, he wouldn’t mind if she did.
He also doesn’t mind the new routine: the weekly rides, the finished homework, the warm meals, and the wave from Musa as he’s driven back to his bleak home. Her family’s kindness stays with him, a small light in the dark.
—————————
“Mum?” Riven’s voice barely rises above a whisper as he creeps toward his mother’s bedroom door. He hesitates, fingers brushing the chipped wood, before knocking lightly.
No answer.
He tries again, his knuckles pressing harder this time. The silence gnaws at his insides, but he takes a shaky breath and slowly twists the worn brass knob. The door creaks open, the sound like a splintering sigh in the quiet.
He steps inside on the balls of his feet, his breath caught in his throat. The dim morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting thin beams across the unmade bed. His mother is a tangle of limbs and sheets, eyes screwed shut, her face turned away. The faint scent of stale beer clings to the air, mingling with the sourness of unwashed clothes.
Riven maneuvers around the discarded bottles littering the floor, each one a tiny landmine. He kneels by the bed, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, but still a world away.
“Mum,” he whispers, his voice trembling.
She groans, her head shifting slightly on the pillow, but her eyes remain closed.
“Mum,” he tries again, his small, clammy hands gently shaking her shoulder.
“Go away,” she mumbles, voice slurred and buried in the pillow.
“But Mum—”
“She said get out, kid.” The gruff voice comes from the other side of the bed. A man Riven doesn’t recognize pushes himself up on an elbow, his bloodshot eyes narrowing with irritation. He scratches his scruffy jaw, his tone dripping with authority Riven doesn’t believe he deserves.
Riven flinches, his heart hammering. He glances at his mother, silently pleading for her to say something—to defend him, to tell this stranger he has no right. But she just rolls over, her back a wall of indifference.
The man’s glare pins Riven like a butterfly beneath glass. His chest feels tight, the room too hot, too small. He takes one last desperate look at his mother’s turned back, hope wilting in his chest like a flower starved of sunlight.
The door slams harder than he intends as he stumbles out, a muffled curse chasing him down the hallway. He doesn’t stop. He grabs his backpack—his fingers fumbling with the zipper—and barrels out the front door, his sneakers pounding against the cracked pavement as he runs.
He doesn’t know how long he wanders, the cold morning air stinging his cheeks and numbing his fingers. The houses blur together, their neat, tidy exteriors a painful contrast to the chaos he left behind. His breath fogs in front of him, each exhale a ghost of everything he can’t say.
A familiar hum of an engine slows beside him. He barely registers it until a voice, warm and familiar, breaks through the fog of his thoughts.
“Riven,” Martha calls through the open car window, her voice a gentle anchor. “What on earth are you doing, kid?”
He stops, blinking at her. The sun catches on the edges of her curly hair, turning it to gold. He shrugs, the movement small and lost.
She doesn’t push, just smiles knowingly. “Didn’t want to wait at your front door this morning, I see.”
The back door swings open, and Musa pops out with her usual energy, her dark eyes sparkling. She skips toward him, arms open, and wraps him in a hug before he can process it. Her warmth seeps into his cold bones, and he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Happy Birthday, Riv!” she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
He pulls back, blinking at her in confusion. “What?”
“It’s your birthday, right?”
He hesitates. “Yeah,” he mumbles, the word barely there.
Her smile widens. “Then happy birthday, silly!” She grabs his hand, her fingers curling around his, and pulls him toward the car. He follows without resistance, the knot in his chest loosening just a little.
They settle into the backseat, the familiar scent of worn leather and faint lavender filling his nose. As Martha drives, the soft hum of the engine and Musa’s chatter create a bubble of safety. For the first time that morning, he feels like he can breathe.
The world feels a little steadier beneath his feet when they pull up to the school. Musa hops out first, waving to Sky, Flora, and Nabu, who wait by the entrance.
“Riven!” Martha calls gently, and he turns back. She smiles at him, her eyes kind. “Happy birthday.”
He manages a small smile. “Thanks.”
She reaches over the passenger seat and lifts a plastic container, holding it out to him. He takes it hesitantly, the container warm in his hands. Encouraged by her nod, he pops the lid.
Six cupcakes, chocolate with swirls of slightly lopsided frosting, sit inside. The words “Happy Birthday” are scrawled across them in Musa’s unmistakable handwriting.
He stares, his throat tight. “They’re... mine?”
“Of course,” Martha says, her laughter soft. “Don’t get too hyped on sugar, though. I know Musa’s been eyeing them all morning. And I’m sure your friends wouldn’t mind a treat.”
Her smile falters, just for a second, as if she knows more than she’s saying. “You deserve them, Riven.”
He glances back at the cupcakes, the simple gesture warming him from the inside out. A quiet “thank you” slips from his lips and Martha winks.
“Have a good day.”
He closes the container carefully as if it were holding something fragile and precious. As he walks toward his friends, their calls of “Happy Birthday!” ring in his ears. For now, it’s enough to hold on to.
—————————
Primary school had brought many ups and downs for Riven; he’ll forever attest to that. But he made it through—barely. The tightrope walk of surviving each year balanced precariously on his own stubbornness and Musa’s relentless insistence that he turn in at least ninety-five percent of his assignments.
He managed about ninety percent. But standing on that stage, the glossy hardwood beneath his scuffed sneakers, pride fizzes through him. He clasps the principal’s firm hand, the man’s low “Great job” accompanied by a wink that makes Riven’s chest swell. His grubby fingers clutch at the rolled-up diploma, the cheap parchment slightly off-white and printed in plain black ink. Proof. Proof that he made it, and that secondary school is just around the corner, waiting for him and all his friends.
Thank god.
When they shout the cue to toss their hats, he launches his into the air with everything his 4’4” frame can muster. It soars up, spins once, and comes tumbling back down, brushing his cheek as it falls. He laughs, giddy, the excitement making his fingertips tingle.
Everything is almost perfect.
But as his eyes scan the crowd of beaming parents and camera flashes, that giddiness dims just a little. No green eyes and brown hair. No mother’s proud smile or father’s hearty clap on the back like Sky’s. No bouquet of daisies and tears of joy like Aisha’s parents. No joint dinner plans filled with laughter like Terra and Flora’s families.
Just him. Alone.
His fingers tighten around the diploma, the paper crinkling slightly.
“Riven!”
The squeaky, familiar voice slices through his melancholy. He turns just in time to see a blur of messy black hair, a wrinkled dress, and an unstoppable grin. Musa barrels into him, arms flung wide, and wraps him in a hug so fierce it squeezes the air from his lungs.
“Musa, sweet pea,” her father chuckles behind her, “let the poor boy breathe.”
Musa pulls back, her smile unrepentant. “Congratulations, Riven.”
A grin tugs at his lips, and he lifts his diploma. “Looks like you’re stuck with me a bit longer.”
She rolls her eyes, but her laughter is warm, her presence steady.
“Son.”
A hand lands firmly on his shoulder. Riven blinks up at Mr. Browne, whose brown eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Proud of you.”
A strange warmth blooms in his chest, spreading outwards, lightening the heaviness he hadn’t realized he was carrying. For a moment, he lets himself believe that maybe he doesn’t need his own dad here. Maybe this is enough.
“Thank you, Sir,” he manages, his voice rougher than he intended.
Before he can react, Mrs. Browne pulls him into a hug. He freezes, caught off guard, but the scent of lavender and something sweet—sugar, maybe—envelops him. Her arms are strong and soft all at once, and he melts into the embrace.
“We are so proud of you, Riven,” she whispers.
His smile comes easier now, his arms wrapping back around her. He holds onto the warmth, lets it seep into the cracks he tries so hard to hide.
She pulls away, her face shining with a smile that says everything her words can’t. Then, she produces a camera, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Now, I need a photo of my little graduates!” she declares. “Come on, act like you like each other.”
Musa giggles and hooks an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. She grins, and he can’t help but mirror it. He holds his diploma out in front of him, the paper rustling slightly in his grip.
The camera clicks. A flash. A moment frozen in time. Sky sneaks in next to him for a few, his tongue sticking out which make the adults laugh.
Riven’s smile lingers long after the photo is taken.
……
Two weeks later, as he bursts through the front door of the Brownes home, ready to pounce up the stairs to go annoy Musa, his eyes catch on something new in the family room. He pauses at the edge of the stairs, his gaze landing on the mantle.
There, framed in simple wood, a photo: two grinning ten-year-olds, one with haphazard bangs sticking up in every direction—him—and the other in purple glasses too big for her face—Musa. Their smiles are wide, their eyes bright with a happiness that feels almost invincible.
His heart soars, the warmth from that day rushing back.
Maybe , he thinks, this is enough.
—————————
She comes home one day in Year 7 with a skip in her step and a smile on her face. So ready to present her mum with her near-perfect Maths grade. A 97. Part of her has to thank Aisha for explaining the intricacies of probabilities, but the rest was all her. She’s so proud.
The house is quiet when she enters, the usual laughter missing. Riven got picked up by his aunt today for a doctor’s appointment—something his mum couldn’t bother to handle. She needs to ask him about that.
But right now, her test is clutched tightly in her hand. Brown butter cookies feel almost within reach.
“Mum!” she calls into the silence. The car’s in the driveway. The door was unlocked. She didn’t get a text saying she’d be alone.
Nothing.
“Mum!” she tries again, her voice louder.
Still nothing.
Her backpack thuds to the floor by the stairs. Taking them two at a time, she reaches the second floor, her heartbeat quickening. Maybe Mum’s napping. She’s been taking more of those lately.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. She nudges it open, expecting to see a lump under the covers, the soft rise and fall of sleep. But the bed is empty, the blankets tangled.
“Mum?” she whispers.
Deafening silence.
Her eyes sweep the room—and then she sees it. An arm, a hand, the glint of a wedding ring. Limp on the bathroom floor.
She freezes. Her feet feel glued down, her mind blank. But something deep inside her screams, Move!
She stumbles forward, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her mum’s body lies motionless, face down on the cold tiles. Musa’s knees hit the floor.
“Mum?” Her voice cracks. She shakes her mum’s shoulder, gently at first, then harder. “Mum, wake up! Please!”
No response.
Her hands shake as she fumbles for her phone, her dad’s picture blurring through tears. She presses the call button, her heart hammering.
“Dad,” she chokes out, “something’s wrong with Mum.”
He tells her to stay put, to hold on. He’ll be there in ten minutes.
They feel like ten hours.
When he finally arrives, he does what she couldn’t—he wakes her mum. Musa sags against the shower door, trying to breathe, watching her mum’s tired brown eyes flicker open.
……
Her parents sit her down two days later.
Her mum’s voice is gentle but steady. Her dad’s hand grips hers tightly.
Breast cancer.
The words shatter something inside her. The world tilts and nothing feels the same.
—————————
This is childish and lame. Who even finds this fun anymore? It's for grade schoolers without better things to do.
That's what she tries to tell herself to distract herself from the fact she's currently sitting in a circle at a party at thirteen years old, sitting across from the most handsome guy in their year.
Paul has sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. And, as her friends say, the most kissable lips. She can't deny she's sometimes imagined what they would feel like against hers. Probably pillowy soft. A little chapped, maybe too.
It's almost her turn as she watches the bottle spin.
"Whatcha thinking about?" Riven's voice makes her hair stand for a moment, taking her out of her daydreams.
"Nothing." She doesn't even convince herself.
"You can't fool me," she's met with Riven’s greasy little smirk.
She shoves his shoulder away, "Shut up."
He laughs as the bottle spins again. The kid sitting next to Riven twiddles their thumbs as it slows on a girl on the opposite side of the circle, who blushes at the result. They share an awkward kiss that others either cheer for or grimace at. She's in between.
When the circle finally settles, she can feel the energy coming off of her friend in waves. He smirks as he grasps the bottle and sends it flying in a perfect circle. Hey leans back with an air of nonchalance she wishes she could also adopt.
Her little heart pitter-patters knowing she's next, though.
The bottle starts to slow, the opening becoming more visible as it loses energy until it finally comes to a stop, pointing to the left of her.
Dane.
Riven smirks further as he shakes his head, laughing to himself. Dane wiggles about, slightly uncomfortable, but his eyes shine brightly. She can sense the nerves. However, maybe they're actually hers.
Riven leans forward, edging his way into the circle as Dane apprehensively follows, swallowing as he stares at Riven.
Riven loves a show when in the presence of all of their schoolmates. And he doesn't disappoint. Taking charge and grasping the back of Danes's head and connecting their lips. Making sure to pointedly let everyone know why he's got a reputation for being a great kisser.
And Dane's nerves seem to leave him if only for a short while, falling into Riven's hypnotizing nature. A few cheers ring out. Sky whooping from the couch across the room.
And Riven looks ever proud once he detangled himself from Dane and lets the poor kid off the hook. Dane's darker skin blushes hotly.
Rivens pats her knee happily, signaling to her his moment in the spotlight is over, and now it's her turn.
She can't help but glance up at Paul, who catches her eye. Flora smirks from across the circle at her. Those knowing eyes could start her aflame.
The bottle is slippery to the touch, but she gets a good grip. Saying a quick prayer before cocking it back and letting it do its work. It feels like an eternity watching it spin and spin and spin. Slowly, it starts to lose inertia, and as it does, her anticipation spikes.
And when it stops, she imagines that Paul would lean forward, his deep blue eyes regarding her with attraction, cup her face, then plant those soft-looking lips on hers. Her first kiss.
But as she processes where the tip of the bottle points, she can feel Riven's hand grasp her knee again, squeezing softly.
Fucking hell.
Everyone around them collectively holds their breath, watching her and Riven stare at one another, the tip directing her to her best friend. He rewards her with his signature smirk.
"We don't have to,” he's being kind. He's being protective. But as she feels all the eyes in them, she would be getting special treatment. Which wouldn't be fair since Grace had to kiss Henry, and they were exes.
She shakes her head, "It's fine."
"You sure?"
She nods, giving him a smile that feels more like a grimace.
He nods back. Riven moves his hand up to her cheek, grasping it lightly as he leans over, a few people egging it on as he gets closer. Her lungs scream as his lips get closer and then rage once his lips cover hers.
She's kissing her best friend.
~~
He's kissing his best friend.
Musa’s nerves are almost palpable, almost vibrating his own lips. And he makes sure he's gentle, not wanting to taint her first kiss that somehow he ended up on the receiving end of.
He ignores the jeering in the background, however, not wanting it to influence his ego, which he needs to keep in check. This is his best friend, after all. He's doing her a favor.
He's doing her a favor.
Repeating that in his head helps keep his own heart from racing. A part of him can't help but be slightly jarred by the disappointment that filtered through her eyes when the bottle landed on him.
But why should he care?
What feels like minutes is just seconds, pulling back from her and gauging her reaction is all the ammo he has at this moment. Only thing keeping him sane.
“You okay?” he asks softly, almost drowned out by the laughter and chatter of their peers.
She nods and wipes her lip as if disgusted. Something deflates in him, but he ignores it. Pushes it from his brain and instead breaks out a smug smile for their audience. Two for two.
Musa doesn't move a muscle as the bottle continues around the circle. And his heart plummets into the depths. Hoping and praying she doesn’t hate him. He should’ve never gone in for it. He should’ve realized her grimace was sign enough.
He tried to let the rest of the game take him out of his head. Laughing without mirth when everyone else does. The lamest hoots at people’s match ups. Halfway through, Musa stands and leaves the haphazard circle.
He watches her leave, his stomach twisting into knots. Don’t follow her. Don’t follow her. Flora follows. So his eyes betray him, tracking her across the room as she slips into the corner where Aisha is chatting with Terra. He sees them lean close, whispering. Aisha’s eyes flick toward him, cool and assessing.
His chest tightens. Great. She hates me now. I should have pulled back. I should have known.
For the rest of the game, he laughs too loud, jeers too enthusiastically. But none of it reaches him. His mind keeps circling back to the look on Musa’s face, the way she wiped her lips. He feels like he’s standing on a bridge that’s crumbling beneath him, and there’s no way to stop it.
……
Two days pass, and Riven waits for the fallout. He braces for the cold shoulder, the awkward silences, the slow drift that marks the end of friendships.
But it never comes.
On Monday morning, Musa greets him with a small smile, a flicker of their old rhythm. They walk to class side by side, her shoulder brushing his, and for a moment, everything feels normal.
Maybe it was just a game, he tells himself. Maybe she really doesn’t care.
But in the quiet moments, when they aren’t talking, and the laughter dies down, he catches her glancing at him, her eyes shadowed with something he can’t quite name. And deep down, he knows things aren’t quite the same, even if neither of them is ready to admit it.
—————————
Sitting at the Browne’s kitchen island on a bright, breezy afternoon in Year 11, sunlight pools through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the countertops. He and Musa are supposed to be doing their Maths homework, but in reality, Musa finished hers twenty minutes ago. She’s coaching him through his, her eyes flicking over his scribbled numbers with a patient intensity.
“You carry that remainder, though,” Musa urges, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on his paper with a staccato rhythm.
He smirks, his lips twitching. “Why should I care?” His voice dips playfully, his pencil already skating over to the next problem. He knows he’s pushing her buttons, and the way her fingers curl reflexively, itching to snatch the paper away, makes him chuckle low in his chest.
“Hey, kids!”
Her dad bursts into the kitchen, a grin plastered onto his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He moves with a kind of forced cheer, a skip in his step that feels more like a performance than a habit. As he swings it open, the cabinet door creaks, his hand diving into produce a bag of crisps. It’s something Riven’s noticed lately—Mr. Browne reaches for snacks when he wants to keep his distance. The smile stays, even as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth, chewing mechanically.
“Hey, Pops,” Musa says, the p sound sharp and popping in the air. She leans back in her stool, studying her dad with a gaze that seems to hold more questions than answers. They share a wordless conversation, an exchange in the silence that passes like a breeze too subtle to touch.
“What do you both want for dinner?” he asks, his voice warm but strained around the edges.
Musa lifts her shoulders in a weak shrug, eyes fixed on the countertop. Riven steps in. “What are our options?”
Mr. Browne pauses his hand deep in the chip bag, eyes narrowing at the fridge as if it might suddenly offer a solution. “Great question.” His brow furrows, and he shakes his head after a beat. “I don’t think I’ve been grocery shopping in a bit.”
“Sorry,” a voice drifts in from the living room, soft and thin. “That would be my fault.” The words linger in the air with heavy, unspoken meaning.
Martha enters the kitchen, her presence gentle and fragile as glass. The sunlight catches on her pale skin, giving it a ghostly sheen. Her hair, once thick and rich with dark curls, is now wrapped in a bright scarf, the fabric vibrant where her hair has dulled. She smiles, but the edges of it quiver like it might shatter.
She steps toward the island but falters, her body swaying as if gravity itself has become unreliable. Her hand shoots out, catching the counter, knuckles white.
“You okay, Martha?” Riven asks, his voice cautious.
She inhales sharply, summoning a smile that feels too large for her face. “I’m doing just wonderfully, Riven. Just a little tired.” She pats his forearm with a feather-light touch. “Don’t you fret.”
But he does. He can’t help it. He’s seen the pill bottles scattered on the dresser through the crack of the slightly open bedroom door. He’s heard the muffled sounds behind the bathroom wall—her retching, her whispered apologies to nobody. He’s watched her grip the countertop until her fingertips turned white.
The signs are there, splintered and sharp. They’re all pretending not to see them. But the truth bleeds through the cracks.
He remembers the last time he brought it up with Musa, the memory jagged:
“Hey. Your mum seems a bit under the weather lately,” he’d said, voice soft as tissue paper. “Everything okay?”
Musa had flinched, her eyes darting to his, wide and unsteady. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure?” he pressed, his brows knitting together.
“Yeah.” Her voice strained. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, for the fact your mum barely ate anything at dinner tonight.”
Her head had snapped up, her eyes like a deer caught in headlights. “Nothing’s wrong.”
The words were clipped, brittle. She dropped her gaze back to her notebook, the pencil in her hand trembling as it pressed too hard, lead biting into the paper.
“Musa,” he tried again, his voice cautious.
“Forget about it, Riven.” The words were a command, sharp as a knife.
He blinked, stunned. That edge—that cold edge—was one he hadn’t heard since they were seven, back when they were still finding their way to friendship.
“No.” He argued back lightly, frustration threading his words. “Is something going on?”
She stiffened, her jaw tight, the shadows under her eyes deepening. And then, she deflated, the fight draining out of her like air from a balloon. “She’s fine,” she whispered.
The lie was paper-thin.
“Is she going to be okay?” His hand slid over hers, his fingers brushing against her knuckles. Her grip loosened around the pencil.
She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the table’s surface. “We don’t know.”
He squeezed her hand, and she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He held her, the quiet buzz of her sadness seeping into him, until the air shifted, the silence heavy with everything left unsaid.
Now, Martha smiles, bright but guarded. “What are we feeling for dinner? We could order some pizza from town!”
She looks at him with hopeful eyes, and he forces a smile to soothe the worry gnawing in his gut.
He glances at Mr. Browne, who nods quickly, crunching on another chip as though his life depends on it. Musa pulls out her phone, her fingers moving stiffly, dialing in their order.
Later, they gather around the coffee table. The glow from the TV flickers across the room, some meaningless show filling the space with canned laughter. Martha takes a few bites of her pizza, her smile still in place, and then sets the slice down. It sits there, growing cold on the side table, forgotten and untouched inevitably until morning.
—————————
The final bell had just rung, and the corridors buzzed with the chaotic energy of freedom. Lockers slammed, laughter echoed, and sneakers squeaked on polished linoleum as students rushed out the double doors, ready to leave school behind for the day.
Riven leaned against his locker, casually sipping from his water bottle. Sky stood next to him, one hand tucked into his backpack strap, while Nabu nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. The air smelled faintly of sweat and whatever concoction they served in the cafeteria that day.
“I’m gonna ask her out,” Nabu announced suddenly, his voice steady but his eyes darting between them.
Sky's eyes widened. Riven, in mid-swallow, nearly choked, sputtering as water went down the wrong pipe. He doubled over, coughing violently, the bottle slipping in his grip. Nabu winced and rubbed his palms on his jeans, worry creasing his brow.
“What?” Nabu asked, his voice urgent, like he was hoping for immediate validation.
Still coughing and wheezing, Riven managed to glare up at Nabu while pounding his chest. Sky, ever the diplomat, recovered first.
“You are— are you sure?” Sky’s voice cracked slightly, his disbelief hanging in the air.
Nabu’s eyebrows scrunched together in frustration. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Sky replied too quickly, eyes darting away like he was avoiding landmines.
Nabu’s face twisted with irritation. “What the fuck, guys? What the hell is that response?”
Sky held up his hands defensively, eyes wide. “Nothing, nothing!”
Nabu turned on Riven, who was finally catching his breath, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s your problem?”
Riven’s voice came out gravelly, “Dude. She’s stu—” He coughed one last time, “—stuck up.”
Nabu’s jaw clenched, his glare sharp. “Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m not!” Riven shot back, shrugging. “It’s a known fact.”
Sky elbowed him hard in the gut. Riven grunted but didn’t lose his smirk. “Don’t listen to Riven,” Sky said, his voice edged with caution. “I think it’s just... she’s—”
“Stuck up,” Riven supplied, deadpan.
Sky sighed. “Not who I thought you’d be into.”
Nabu crossed his arms over his chest, eyes blazing. “And who should I be into then?”
Riven shrugged, his voice calm but unfiltered. “Someone cool.”
“Aisha is cool,” Nabu snapped. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his cheeks flushed.
“We’re not saying she isn’t,” Sky added carefully. “I guess after Grace, we just thought you had a type.”
Nabu’s eyes flashed with determination. He shoved his textbooks into his backpack, the zippers biting shut with finality. “I don’t care what you guys say. I’m gonna ask her out.”
“Your problem,” Riven muttered, leaning back against the locker, arms crossed. Another sharp elbow to his ribs from Sky nearly made him double over. “What?” he grumbled, shooting Sky a glare.
The clack of footsteps broke the tension.
“Hey, boys!”
Musa and Aisha materialized beside them, their arms linked, their presence like a sudden, warm breeze cutting through the tension. Musa’s dark eyes sparkled with curiosity, while Aisha’s expression was reserved, though a hint of a smile played on her lips.
Nabu went stiff, his backpack slipping an inch off his shoulder before he corrected it. Sky managed a casual “Hey,” his eyes flicking to Nabu with barely hidden amusement. Nabu nodded, trying to mask his discomfort.
“What are you boys talking about?” Musa asked, her gaze bouncing between them with interest.
Riven’s smirk widened as he saw Nabu squirm. He decided to throw his friend right into the fire.
“Nabu’s love life,” he announced with feigned nonchalance.
Nabu’s face turned a deep shade of crimson, and he shot Riven a glare so fierce it could have melted steel. Sky’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Musa’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Nabu has a crush?” she teased, leaning in slightly. A grin tugged at the corner of her lips.
Aisha’s smile faltered momentarily, her gaze dropping to the floor before she forced it back up, curiosity tinged with something more hesitant. Her fingers clenched and unclenched around the strap of her bag.
Riven rolled his eyes, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest he couldn’t quite explain. He spotted Beatrix down the hall, her red hair catching the fading sunlight as she laughed with her friends, all perfect and uncomplicated.
“And that’s my cue to leave,” he muttered, pushing off the locker. Musa’s hand shot out, a light slap against his forearm, a silent warning not to be a jerk.
He smirked back at her, his eyes briefly softening before he turned away, heading toward Beatrix — toward distraction, toward something more manageable to handle.
As he walked away, he heard his friends laughter, light and carefree, mingling with the sound of lockers closing and sneakers shuffling.
But he kept walking anyway.
—————————
“The most wonderful time of the year.”
Nabu laughs. “Please don’t break out into song now, Riv.”
“Hey,” he scoffs playfully, “I happen to have a beautifully smooth singing voice.”
“The shower fools you into thinking that,” Musa jests, knocking her shoulder into his before speeding up to link arms with Flora and Dane.
Aisha pipes up, swinging her and Nabu’s hands back and forth, “We should go do Karaoke.”
They were in London with Terra and Flora’s parents’. Their family was having a reunion, and somehow, someway, they convinced their parents to let the rest of them tag along for the long weekend. Flora’s parents were an easy sell; Terra’s, not so much. But when Nabu sweet-talked Terra’s mum, it was all over.
So now, they find themselves walking toward Piccadilly Square to see the Christmas decorations, their gaggle of friends scattered up ahead.
Riven’s not even sure his mum knows he’s here. When he asked, she mumbled something about heating up some pizza, and that was that. He packed his stuff into a duffle he borrowed from Sky and was gone the next morning, laughing without a care in the passenger seat of Dane’s new car — a reward for doing well in school and sports.
These are the moments he wants to experience. With his friends, laughter on their minds, awe at the light snow that started falling during dinner, and brilliant lights reflecting in their eyes.
Sky manages to put £300 on his dad’s credit card for a brand-new pair of sneakers from one of the enticing shop windows, decked out in Christmas puns designed to lighten your wallet.
Musa comes and goes in the night, floating from friend to friend, giving everyone her rapt attention, individualized to each person.
Dane and Musa split a warm cinnamon bun from one of the Christmas market vendors. Sky and Terra have a mini photo shoot of silly pictures to make memories. Everyone does their own thing.
It isn’t until almost eleven, on their way back to Terra’s family’s Airbnb, that Musa slips her hand through his arm, gripping softly and smiling tiredly up at him with pure happiness.
He smiles back easily, tucking her hand further into the crook of his elbow, silently appreciating how the snow falls on her eyelashes.
These are the memories Riven wants to make forever.
—————————
Tuesdays were never anyone's favorite day of the week. Not as brutal as Mondays, not as promising as Fridays. But this Tuesday was different. This one was vying for the worst day of Musa’s life.
She should be on her way to school right now, maybe running into Terra and Flora on her walk. Riven would inevitably show up at the last minute, right before the warning bell with a guilty looking Sky in tow. Nabu and Aisha would be wrapped up in their stupid, happy bubble.
But instead, she sat in the cold, sterile confines of a hospital waiting room, the void inside her threatening to swallow her whole. The tears wouldn't come, though she wished they would. Maybe if she cried, she’d feel something other than this hollow ache.
Should and would are not friends of hers right now.
"Musa," her father’s voice was rough, jagged with exhaustion. "You should head home."
Should . The word felt like a slap.
She shook her head, the words she wanted to say trapped somewhere in her throat.
"It might be a few hours," he added, his gaze meeting hers. His brown eyes were wet, the kind of wet that only comes from holding back too much.
A man in a bland, beige shirt appeared, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Browne? I have the paperwork ready. When you’re ready, we can sign the transfer papers."
Her father’s face went blank for a moment. A shutdown, a freeze — like if he didn’t move, maybe this nightmare wouldn’t be real. Maybe they’d wake up, and it would all be a terrible mistake.
"I'm ready," he finally said, his voice barely holding itself together.
The man led him away, leaving Musa alone to confront the reality that felt too large to bear.
Gone.
Her mother’s voice would only exist in memories now. Her hands would never again tuck Musa’s hair behind her ear with a loving smile, never bake her a cake the night before her birthday, waking Musa up at the stroke of midnight to help blow the candles out.
The tears still don't come.
Maybe they never will.
Her mum's voice calls her name. Musa.
Still nothing.
Musa.
Nope.
"Musa."
The whisper was real. She looked up, meeting sorrowful green eyes framed by messy brown hair. Riven.
He wove through the waiting room, a quiet determination in every step. As he knelt beside her, his hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away something warm.
Tears.
And suddenly, everything blurred. The world smudged into colorless shapes, her chest heaving as the sobs finally came. She grabbed onto Riven, clinging to him as if he were the only thing anchoring her to reality. His arms wrapped around her, solid and steady, his low words of comfort barely registering.
Time unraveled. Minutes felt like hours. When her breath steadied, his voice broke through the haze.
"Where's your dad?"
She swallowed hard, the words like glass in her throat. "He’s… signing the papers."
Riven’s jaw tightened. "Come on. Let me take you home."
"I can't leave my dad."
"He’d want you to go home, Muse. Sitting here isn’t going to help."
The words were a muddled blur. She didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore. Riven stood and walked away. The terrazzo floor shimmered with chaotic patterns beneath her unfocused eyes.
"Muse." His voice was soft. He was back, his hand slipping into hers, tugging gently. She let him pull her to her feet, his arm a warm shield around her shoulders.
"I can’t leave," she whispered, a tremor in her voice.
"I talked to your dad. He agreed. It’s okay."
"But—"
"Musa." His voice was firm but kind. "Let’s go home."
She wanted to fight him, to scream that he didn’t understand. That the only thing that would make her feel better was for her mum to be alive. But she didn’t have the strength. So she let him lead her toward the exit.
~~
She’s gone. Forever.
Riven’s mind spun with the cruel finality of it. How could someone be there one day and gone the next?
Her sobs had finally quieted, but she still trembled in his arms. His hand traced slow circles on her back, his heart splintering with every tear that soaked his shoulder.
He blinked hard, willing his own tears to stay put. She needed him to be strong. He wasn’t sure what "strong" meant, but he held on, hoping it was enough.
Musa’s mum had been like a second mother to him. Sky’s mum was his first, but Martha... Martha made him believe that mothers could love their kids without conditions. Even when they weren’t really their kids. That said more about his own mum than he cared to think about.
And now, he’d never hear her voice again. No more blueberry pie slices waiting for him. No more flashcard study sessions with her gentle hints and warm encouragement. She’d never see them graduate.
Life fucking sucks.
He tightened his hold on Musa, letting her grief pour out, knowing it was the only thing he could give her right now. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
……
The sky mirrors his feelings perfectly: overcast, windy, a storm on the verge of breaking, threatening to release a torrential, unrelenting downpour at any moment.
Riven squeezes Musa's hand lightly, a quiet reminder that he’s here. Maybe it’s also a reminder to himself that she’s still here.
Musa stands rigid beside him, having only spoken two words since he woke up this morning.
Thanks and no.
One was for him helping her into her coat before they left for the cemetery. The other was for the granola bar he offered after Walter mentioned she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.
He’s scared she might just float away, disappear into the air. His grip tightens again to ground them both.
The service is beautiful for anyone looking in. Words of comfort, carefully chosen, paint a picture of the woman being honored. Flowers fall into the ground, covering the gleaming surface of Martha’s final resting place.
Musa barely blinks.
She pulls her hand away from his soon after, her fingers slipping from his as she walks with her father to lay the first handful of dirt. Riven stays back, his body stiff, Sky’s hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Flora’s forehead touches his back for just a second before both move forward, offering their condolences.
Riven doesn’t move. He stays rooted, trying with everything he has to hold himself together while the finality of the moment crashes down. The woman who’d driven him home countless times, who refused to let him walk alone after school, is gone.
It hurts more than he can put into words. And he knows it hurts even more for Musa and Walter.
Walter drapes a quiet arm over Riven’s shoulders as they walk back to the car, but neither speaks. Riven does his best to offer whatever comfort he can — his presence, his strength. He’s here for anything. For someone to talk to, for helping with dinner, for just being there when they need it. The same things they’d done for him, for so long, without expecting anything in return.
Walter gives him a brief pat before driving them back to the house, where a few family members have already begun preparing food for the guests.
“Hey, Riven.” Aisha greets him softly as she enters, having already exchanged a few words with Walter, who’s standing by the door, receiving condolences. He looks like he’s holding it together — as much as anyone can.
“Hey,” Riven replies quietly.
“Where’s Muse?” Aisha looks around, scanning the room.
Riven glances around, frowning. He’s been wondering the same thing. She vanished the second they stepped inside, saying she needed the restroom. That was twenty minutes ago.
“I don’t know,” he admits, the knot in his chest tightening. “Haven’t seen her for a bit.”
“How are you?” Aisha asks, her gaze sharp with concern.
“Me?” Riven repeats, caught off guard.
A flash of something soft crosses Aisha’s face. “Yes, you. Martha adored you. I know it can’t be easy for you, either.”
Riven pauses, his throat tight. “I… I don’t know.” He exhales, wiping a hand over his face. “I feel a little empty. But I’m trying.” He lets the rest hang unsaid.
Aisha nods in understanding. “Well, if you need anything, let me know.”
“I will,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Now I’m going to find my best friend and make sure she’s okay.” Aisha gives him a quick, comforting touch on his forearm before walking off.
Riven stands there, his mind still reeling. He turns back to Aisha, calling out, “Hey, can you try to get her to eat something? Walter said it’s been a while and—“
“I’ll grab us a snack,” Aisha assures him with a soft smile.
He nods, grateful.
A few moments later, Sky, Terra, Flora, and Nabu arrive. The four of them exchange the usual formalities with Walter before their eyes scan the room for Riven. It doesn’t take long for them to start asking about Musa, and soon, Terra and Flora are following Aisha down the hallway, looking for her.
Sky and Nabu do their best to distract him, but Riven can’t help it — each distraction only loops him back to today, to what it represents. To how it changes everything.
So, fuck it.
He’s just fucking sad.
—————————
Musa laughs when he accidentally trips over the jutted stone walkway leading to his worn, wooden front door. They were running by his house to get his maths textbook he forgot this morning to help study before their Year 11 exams.
He has half a mind to push her over into the ragged flower bushes but thinks better of it, laughing mockingly instead.
“I’m not the clumsy one.”
“Has nothing to do with coordination.” He glances back for a moment to glare at the offending concrete. The front door unlocks easily, and the stench of stale beer hits his nostrils immediately. He wants to push Musa back out and shut the door, but she’s already squeezing by him, feigning a look he can’t quite decipher.
The house was clean this morning when he left, having thrown out three bags of trash and scrubbed down the kitchen—all before 7 a.m.
It’s like he never touched a thing.
His mum sits uncomfortably on their stained couch, alerted to their arrival after a short delay.
“Hello, honey,” his mum slurs. She stands and steps forward clumsily, stumbling against the armchair, not too dissimilar to his stumble outside. The only difference is his mum reeks of alcohol.
“Mum. What happened in here?” He’s truly flabbergasted. “You look sick. You should go sleep it off.”
“What?” She smiles the best she can. “I’m fine. How was school?” She glances behind him. “Hello, Musa.”
Musa shifts uncomfortably. “Hey, Mrs. Roberts.”
He shifts in the way, maybe to get his mum’s attention back on him or maybe to protect Musa in some way. “Mum. Give me the bottle and please go sleep it off.” He attempts to pry the bottle out of his mum’s hand as she squints through uneasy lids. When she registers what he’s trying to do, she freaks out.
She yanks the bottle away. “Don’t take my things, Riven.”
“Please. You’re not well.”
“Don’t tell me what I am, young man.” She turns back toward the coffee table where a bottle of liquor sits. She tries to reach for it but stumbles and instead goes face-first into the couch cushion, her knee knocking terribly against the dirty wood floor, alcohol sloshing out of her bottle and causing the coffee table to screech on the floor.
“Mum,” he pleads, rushing to her, picking her up off the floor to her dismay. “I need you to get help.”
“I’m fine,” his mum pushes him off, opting to stumble forward to the kitchen, bottle still easily in hand.
He’s embarrassed. Musa’s seen his mum drunk before. Heck, Sky’s seen it more times than he deserved to in life. But this—this woman who birthed him and kept him alive for his first four years—has never looked so frail and sick.
But unlike how Musa’s mum was, this is his own mother’s doing. He glances back at the door where Musa currently leans against it, blocking any way for his mum to make a grand escape.
God, he’s thankful for her.
He turns back, watching as his mum staggers, taking another swig from her bottle and wiping lazily at the drops that drizzle down her chin.
“Mum, please,” he tries again, trying to appeal to her motherly nature… if she even has that side of her anymore.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Riven. I am the adult.”
His sixteen-year-old brain almost short-circuits. Adult? She’s the adult? He’s been taking care of himself since he was five. He’s been on his own basically since he could use the microwave. Cooking his own meals. Cleaning the house.
“You could’ve fooled me,” he snaps.
Her hand connects with his cheek. Musa’s gasp is heard from afar as his mother steps back, shocked. The sting of his cheek doesn’t even faze him. The shock that his mum would do the one thing she promised she would never do—like his father—seeps into his bones.
“Don’t back-talk me,” his mum shivers to say. Fear in her eyes. As if he would retaliate. As if he would be as terrible as his father.
He regards the woman he’s slowly lost any semblance of for years now. The little light of hope he’s kept somewhere deep down—that she’d realize he needed her—finally slips away.
He’s indifferent now.
Slowly, Riven regards his mum with defeat, shaking his head lowly. He backs away, disappointed. Musa tries to meet his eyes, but he’s too embarrassed, instead opting to turn her attempt to protest around and out the door as quickly as he can.
They’ll find somewhere else to study today.
—————————
Buzz buzz .
She jolts, bleary-eyed and slightly confused, sleep still heavy in her body. Another few light buzzes rattle her nightstand, so low you’d almost miss them if it weren’t dead quiet at… 2:14 a.m. At least that’s what the harsh light of her clock reads.
Something tells her it’s real and that she needs to get up, no matter how sore her body feels or how much her eyes want to close.
She feels around for her phone, squinting when the screen lights up and accosts her eyes. Two missed calls and three texts.
All from Riven.
She sits up and tosses the covers away, quickly unlocking her phone and hitting the call button. It goes to voicemail a minute later, Riven’s quip about leaving him a message greeting her. She quickly hangs up and opens her texts.
Hey.
I need you.
Can you meet me at the lake off Grove?
Something terrible settles in her stomach, and suddenly she’s slipping onto the cold wood floor. The cool winter air invades her, stealing the warmth she once had. Nabbing her sweatshirt from her desk chair, she pads over to grab her keys and wallet, slips on her sneakers, almost trips getting her right foot in, and stumbles quietly to the door. She manages to make it down the stairs without disturbing her dad and gets out to her car in record time.
The drive is quiet and feels like it takes ages. When she finally pulls into the park’s lot and turns off her car, the headlights fade, allowing her eyes to adjust.
A figure sits a few yards away on a bench. Slamming her car door, she speed-walks toward him. Her best friend. Out in the middle of the morning, saying he needed her.
Fuck.
He stands stiffly when she reaches him, a look of awkward guilt for waking her up. A scratch to the back of his neck signals he feels like a bother. And a red welt surrounding his left eye, already bruising, makes her stomach twist.
“Oh my god, Riven,” she says, almost reaching out. “What happened?”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he tries.
“Are you okay?”
“Don’t I look it?” He attempts humor, but it falls flat for both of them. She can’t help staring at his eye, worried it’s not the only wound he may be sporting.
“Riven.”
“Can we not? I just—” he stutters.
“No.” She implores, “What the hell happened, Riven? Who did this?”
He swallows. “I got mad at my mum. She got mad at me. Her new boyfriend decided I was being disrespectful.”
“He hit you?”
Riven’s silence is enough for her. Her eyes water with anger. Her fists clench and unclench as she fights the urge to march over to his house and deck a stranger in the face. Multiple times.
Instead, she pushes forward, pulling him down into an embrace. She holds him tight, trying to take away the hurt she knows he’s feeling but trying to hide. His arms wrap around her.
She doesn’t know exactly what to do. The only other time she saw Riven get hurt was when he got into a fight with a kid who called Aisha stuck up back in Year 10.
He got a busted lip from that, just slight bruising. This one is already molting terribly, his eye red and lid puffed.
She pulls back, holding him at arm’s length, assessing him.
“You’re not going back there. So where are you gonna go?”
He shrugs, quiet and downcast. Usually, he’d try a quip to ease the tension, but he doesn’t even muster the energy. So she decides for them.
He’s coming with her.
She pulls him to her car, makes sure he’s settled, then makes the easy drive back to her house. The lights are still off when they arrive, the street pitch black and quiet.
She urges him into her house quietly and cringes when his step on the stairs causes a squeak. She prays her dad sleeps hard through it all. Once she gets him in her room, she rushes as quietly as she can to retrieve a bag of frozen green beans.
Her dad’s not a fan of peas.
Riven is still where she left him, sitting solemnly at her desk, hands wringing between his knees. He looks so small. Almost fragile.
She sheds her sweatshirt, then brings the bag up to his eye. The moment the cold plastic touches his skin, he flinches back. She grabs the back of his head and almost forces the makeshift ice pack to his eye to try to get ahead of the eventual swelling. Maybe they can at least reduce how bad it will get.
“Musa, I—” he starts.
“Ahh,” she interrupts, his voice coming out louder than she hoped.
He rolls his eyes—or good eye—at her antics before continuing. “Thank you for answering.”
“Always, Riv.”
They sit in silence for a bit longer, unspoken words passing between their eyes. She tries to extend sympathy as best she can. Riven’s trust issues sometimes get the better of him, but she’s glad he knew he could count on her. He always can.
“I should head home,” he whispers.
“What?” She doesn’t mean to, but she pulls the green beans away, causing him to grimace at the loss of pressure.
“You’ll get in trouble,” he implores softly.
“You’re not going back.” She argues, “I won’t let you.”
“Then I’ll text Sky—”
“No,” she interrupts.
“—and see if I can crash with him. Or Nabu.”
She shakes her head, final. “You can sleep here. It’s fine.”
“Musa—” he tries again.
“It’s fine. You’re already here, and I can make you a comfortable makeshift bed.” She stands, letting him take over the ice pack duties. His gaze follows her as she starts to gather blankets, laying them out. “Look. There. All good.”
She checks him for confirmation. The ghost of a smile graces the corner of his mouth as he glances between her haphazard masterpiece and her.
It’s settled, and he doesn’t argue with her. Good.
……
Four days later, her dad finds Riven sleeping on her floor, the welt around his eye back to normal size but still a little black and blue. Her dad worries, and they lie, telling him Riven got into another fight at school. Luckily, her dad believes it—or rather, accepts it as the truth. But instead of allowing Riven to sleep on her floor, he makes up the sofa bed in his office and tells her best friend he can sleep there for the rest of the year.
—————————
“Morning, sweetheart.”
Her dad’s voice drifted into her room as she stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the dress beneath her academic gown. The black fabric hung neatly over her shoulders, the crimson dress underneath catching the morning light.
“Morning,” Musa called back, glancing over her shoulder. “Flora and Terra are coming by in a bit to get ready.”
“Oh, lovely,” he said, stepping farther inside. “I imagine their families are just as excited as I am about today.”
“Ecstatic,” she replied, smoothing her gown again.
“As they should be,” he chuckled, moving closer, his hands tucked behind his back in a way that caught her attention.
“Dad,” Musa said, turning to face him fully. “What’s going on? You’re acting weird.”
“I just…” He hesitated, then pulled out a delicate chain with a pendant she immediately recognized. Her breath caught as he held it out to her. “I wanted to give you this.”
Her fingers brushed against the pendant—a simple, elegant design inset with tiny gems that glimmered softly in the light. It was her mum’s, the one she always wore. Musa could still remember playing with it as a child, twirling it between her fingers when her mum held her close. After her mum passed, she’d searched everywhere for it, desperate to hold on to some part of her.
“I thought this was lost,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked up at her dad.
“Your mum wanted to surprise you for graduation. So she said she lost it.”
Musa’s fingers the necklace for a moment before picking it up delicately, the sun reflecting off the inset gems for a moment as it swung gently around.
Her dad sighs, “After her funeral I thought for a moment to just give it to you. But she was so happy years ago thinking her plan would be amazing. And she would give to you the morning you passed your exams or got your university acceptance letter.” He gently takes it from her fingers as she glances back at him. He shifts around her, arms coming over her head and then back around to claps the chain while she held it in place. “So I waited.”
“Dad…” Musa’s voice cracked as tears welled in her eyes.
He gently took the necklace from her hands and stepped behind her, draping it around her neck. She held the pendant in place as he clasped the chain, his hands steady despite the emotion in the room.
“She’d be so proud of you, Muse,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Musa turned and hugged him tightly, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as if she could anchor herself in his strength. He held her just as firmly, neither of them willing to let go for a long moment.
When they finally pulled apart, they exchanged watery smiles. “Right,” her dad said, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure Flora and Terra will be here soon to cause their usual chaos.”
Musa laughed, wiping her eyes. “Thanks, Dad. For everything.”
……
The school courtyard was alive with excitement as students and families milled about, their voices a mix of pride, nervousness, and joy. Musa stood with Flora and Terra, all of them adjusting their gowns and caps as the brisk morning air fluttered around them. Flora fussed over Musa’s cap, pinning it in place with expert precision, while Terra kept checking the time.
“Relax, Terra,” Musa teased. “We’re not going to miss it.”
“I just want to make sure we’re in the right order for the procession,” Terra muttered, scanning the list on her phone.
“Everyone looks amazing,” Flora said, stepping back to admire their outfits under the gowns. “And these robes? Very academic chic.”
“Chic, right,” Musa says dryly, an exaggerated eye roll thrown in, fidgeting with the pendant at her neck. She glanced toward the main gates and spotted Riven walking in with Dane, Sky, and Nabu.
Riven’s robe was slightly askew, his cap tilted at a jaunty angle, and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. But when his eyes landed on her, he broke into a genuine smile.
“Look at you lot,” he called as he approached. “Future world leaders or what?”
“Or what,” Musa shot back, rolling her eyes. But there was warmth in her tone.
Riven adjusted his cap as he came to stand beside her. “You ready for this?”
She nodded, then nudged him with her elbow. “And you? I can’t believe you pulled it off. You actually graduated.”
“Surprised?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not surprised,” Musa said, her voice softening. “Proud.”
Riven’s grin faltered for a moment, replaced by something quieter, more sincere. “Thanks, Muse. Means a lot.”
Nearby, Aisha arrived with her parents, greeting the group with her usual confident energy. Nabu joined her, carrying a bouquet of flowers he handed to her with a sheepish smile.
“For after,” he said, earning a wide grin from Aisha.
“You’re such a sap,” Riven muttered, but there was no real bite in his voice.
“Everyone deserves flowers on a big day,” Nabu replied easily, clapping him on the shoulder.
The ceremony began soon after, the students lining up in neat rows as the faculty ushered them toward their seats. As the headmaster’s voice echoed across the courtyard, Musa’s mind drifted. She thought of her mum, of all the sacrifices her dad had made, of the friends who stood beside her now. The pendant around her neck felt warm against her skin, a quiet reminder of everything that had brought her to this moment.
As the ceremony ended and the students tossed their caps into the air, Musa turned to find her friends. Riven was already pulling her into a one-armed hug, his grin as lopsided as his cap.
“You did it, Muse,” he said.
“So did you,” she replied, bumping her forehead lightly against his on accident. They both giggle rather awkwardly but pull away altogether.
Around them, Flora and Terra were hugging their parents, Aisha was laughing as Nabu tried to retrieve her cap from the hedge, and Dane and Sky were already planning where to meet for dinner.
The courtyard buzzed with celebration, the future bright and uncertain, but for now, Musa felt at peace. This was what mattered—the people who had been there every step of the way. Her friends, her family, her mum’s memory.
It was everything she could have hoped for.