Kiara
I didn't say a word for the rest of the drive. We'd run out of things to fight about, and honestly, my thoughts were swirling too fast for me to come up with anything else to throw at him.
We reached my building quicker than I'd guessed. Alfred parked, angled toward me a little.
"I guess this is where I let you loose again," he said, trying to keep it light.
"Yah." It slipped out too fast. One hand on my bag, the other on the door. "Thanks."
I climbed out before he could add anything, refusing to glance back. Not that it helped—his eyes burned into my back the whole way to the porch.
Then I just stopped.
No.
No, no, no.
My stuff was everywhere. Shredded boxes. Clothes falling out. My old kitchen stool was tipped on its side, and my mattress leaned against the wall like trash.
"No…" I barely heard myself say it.
I ran up, panic prickling through me. The lock didn't even feel like mine anymore. A notice flapped on the door.
Evicted.
But it wasn't even the notice that made my chest cave in. It was the mess. My things weren't just set out—they'd been tossed. My landlady didn't even try to care.
My rice cooker was cracked open, ceramic pieces from a bowl sprinkled down the steps, and my mother's watch—her old watch—was lying there. The strap was ripped right in half.
Somehow I lowered myself to the concrete. My hands shook as I picked up the one photo I owned of both my parents. My dad smiling at my mom like she was the sun and the glass split a cold line over both their faces.
I felt the tear on my cheek before I even realized I was crying. Not just because I had nowhere to sleep. Stuff is just stuff, until it isn't. That photo—nothing can replace that.
"At least she could've called," I muttered. "I would've left." It didn't have to be this way.
I wiped my eyes and then—oh, right—Alfred.
I spun around. He was still there, propped against his car, watching every second.
Was this some cruel TV episode now? Why wouldn't he just leave? Anger flooded in, easy and sharp. I stomped over, broken frame in my grip.
"You did this, didn't you?" I shot at him.
His eyebrows nearly jumped off his face. "Excuse me?"
"Don't act surprised. You did this!" I waved at the mess.
He stared, really looked at me, then let out a short, stunned laugh. "You never run out of blame, do you?"
"I'm exhausted, actually!" I snapped. "But look at my life—ever since you showed up, everything's falling apart."
"You got hit with a basketball."
"Yeah."
"You got evicted."
"Yes!"
"And this is my fault?"
"You keep showing up! It's suspicious."
He shrugged. "That's just really bad timing, not sabotage."
I let out a frustrated sigh. He pushed off the car, eyes flicking toward my ruined porch. His face got serious.
"Didn't they notify you about this?"
"I needed more time."
He watched me, quiet.
"So… where are you going?"
That question landed like a punch. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Nothing.
After a moment, he said, "Stay with me."
I just blinked. "What?"
"Temporarily," he said, like that would make it more logical, "until you have something else lined up."
"You can't be serious."
"I am. You don't seem to have a lot of options."
I glared. "Bold."
"You're very homeless."
I stared, offended. "Wow. Uncalled for."
He just nodded. "True, though."
He let his breath out slowly. "Kiara, I'm just… trying to help."
"As what, exactly? We're not friends."
He put his hand to his chest, fake wounded. "Ouch."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm being decent. That should count for something."
I snorted. "You were awful when we met."
He actually paused—surprised himself. "Fair enough."
I narrowed my eyes. "Really?"
"I was in a bad mood, alright?"
"That's your excuse?"
He nodded. "It is."
"That's… a terrible excuse."
"I'm improving, okay?"
I almost laughed. Almost. The tiniest crack in all the mess.
Then his voice shifted. "If it helps," he said, "consider it a job."
I frowned. "A job?"
"Yeah. You're a nurse. You trained at Brighton, got your license, your clinicals were all solid."
Hearing him say all that—my body went rigid. I stared at him. "How do you know all that?"
He didn't even bluster or back down. "I looked you up."
I crossed my arms. "So you're just openly confessing you've been stalking me."
He stood his ground. "To be any person's therapist, I need to know them."
"That's not a reason to dig up my past."
He didn't get harsh. He almost looked sorry.
"When I treat someone, I need the big picture. Hobbies, habits, history—those things matter. It's how I help people."
I hesitated. He had that calm therapist tone, levelheaded but gentle.
"It's still over the line," I said.
"It's being thorough," he countered.
I studied him. "Who exactly needs my nursing?"
He went silent, not dodging, just… waiting. Then, soft as I'd ever heard him,
"My mother."
This time, his words didn't sound clever or powerful. They sounded heavy.
I blinked, surprised at the shift in him. All the teasing gone.
"She's… not well," he forced out. Trying to stay calm, but I heard the strain.
Suddenly, it wasn't about pride or banter anymore. It was about something real and breakable.
"You want me to take care of her?"
He nodded.
"I need someone good. Someone I can trust. And you're the only one I think of."
We just stood there, both quiet. I still held the broken frame.
Everything I owned was in pieces on the sidewalk, and here he was—just as complicated as ever—asking for help, offering me help at the same time. I wondered, not for the first time, how my life turned into this tangle.