Kella's Steadfastness

The afternoon sun, usually a cheerful guest in Rihanna’s room, felt muted today, its rays diffused by the lingering dampness in the air after a brief, unexpected shower. Rihanna sat by the window, her worn notebook open on her lap, but the words refused to coalesce. A familiar tightness, a dull ache that had become a constant companion, settled in her chest, making each inhale a conscious effort. She traced the delicate veins on the back of her hand, a map of a life lived on borrowed time.

A soft rap at the door, hesitant yet familiar, broke the quiet. “Rihanna? It’s Kella.”

Rihanna managed a weak smile, the effort sending a flutter of unease through her. “Come in, Kella.”