Maya's Concern

The aroma of burnt toast, a familiar morning casualty of my distracted attempts at breakfast, still clung faintly to the air as Maya arrived. She’d let herself in, a ritual born of years of shared living spaces and emergency pizza runs. Today, though, her presence felt less like a casual drop-in and more like an official inspection. She stood in my small kitchen, arms crossed, her brow furrowed with a familiar blend of affection and exasperation.

“Anya,” she began, her voice a low rumble that always managed to cut through my daydreaming. “Are you even listening to me?”

I blinked, pulling myself back from the hazy recollection of Elias’s laugh, a sound like wind chimes made of moonlight. “Sorry, Maya. What were you saying?”