Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 12

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.
Because I knew that weight. The weight of being a performance Of being strength in a skirt, in lipstick, in laughter Of hiding your breakdownd under smiles and polite nods.

He went on, “I envy James sometimes.”

That caught me off guard. “James?”

Matt nodded, jogging lightly in place as we paused at the corner. “Yeah. He’s reckless. Messy. But free. He can mess up and still be liked. Still be forgiven. If I did half the things he does, I'd be crucified.”

He looked off into the distance as if trying to outrun something even now. We stood in silence for a few more seconds before I offered a soft smile.

“Maybe we’re all just faking it differently.”

He looked at me. The corners of his mouth lifted. And then I waved. “See you later, Matt.”

“Yeah. See you, Betty.”

I turned the corner back to my street, the morning breeze slipping through my fingers like thread. When I walked into the house, the scent of something... off greeted me. Flour danced in the air like powdered snow. There was Dad. Standing at the counter, wearing his old college shirt, now dusted in white. A bowl in front of him. Pancake batter clinging stubbornly to a whisk. A trail of chaos behind him.

“Trying something new?” I asked gently.

He looked up, flour smudged on his cheek. “Trying to make breakfast. Your mom used to say it was easy, but... I think the batter's rebelling.”

I chuckled, walking over to him and gently taking the whisk from his hand. “Let me help.”

He stepped aside.
No words. Just watching.

When I walked beside him, I had to pause.

I walked closer, peering into the bowl. “That’s pancake batter?”

“Why? You don’t believe me?”

“I believe something happened here. I’m just not sure it was pancakes.”

He chuckled. “Most men don’t belong in the kitchen.”

“That’s misogynist, Dad.”

He smirked. “I’m quoting your grandmother.”

“Tell her I said she’s cancelled.”

We both laughed. It felt easy and rare lately. The neighbor’s never-ending budots playlist was blaring again outside, and Dad did this awkward little dance move while flipping a half-formed pancake. I rolled my eyes and laughed harder than I meant to. We sat down to eat, chewing our way through the “pancakes,” which were… not good, but good enough. We talked about small things---the talyer down the street finally fixing that noisy motorbike, the neighbor who kept rearranging her plants like she was running a museum exhibit, the weeds in our front yard that were clearly winning the war. For a second, it was like everything was okay.

Then, while pouring more syrup than necessary on his pancake, he asked, “Who was that boy who dropped you off the other night?”

“Just a friend,” I said, careful, but not too careful. “We’re going to the theme park later. With some classmates.”

He nodded. Smiled, even. “Your mom would’ve loved that.”

And just like that, the room tilted. Not literally. The lights didn’t flicker. The sounds didn’t stop. But something inside me tightened. Like a cord pulled too far. He must’ve realized it too, because he looked down at his plate and didn’t say another word. I wanted to tell him it was okay. That I understood. That I missed her too. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. We were only just starting to laugh again. I didn’t want to ruin it. So instead, I picked up my fork, smiled the way I’ve been learning to, and asked if he wanted to go to the market later for garden soil. He said sure.