The 18th Shade Of Summer (Fractured Script Series #1)

CHAPTER 15

I wandered into the kitchen, letting the cold floor wake me fully. I wanted to do something—anything—that didn’t remind me of how helpless I’d felt for the past two days. Maybe I couldn’t repay Akiro for everything, but at least I could try.

That’s when I saw it, a pack of pasta tucked in the corner of the cabinet.

My fingers hesitated before picking it up, tracing the crinkled plastic as if it were a memory in my hands. I started pulling out what ingredients I could find.

It had been years since I last made spaghetti—the kind my mother once taught me. Back when things weren’t broken. Back when we still laughed in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, tomato stains on our aprons. She told me it wasn’t really hers, that the recipe came from her best friend’s mother. A dish passed down to her then to me.

It was my father’s favorite. I used to think maybe that’s how he fell for her—through the warmth of that sauce, through the way she looked when she stirred the pot, humming something under her breath.

But that kind of love… it faded.

The thought made my hands slow, just for a moment, before I picked up the pace again. I wasn’t cooking to save anything. I was just trying to hold onto a piece of who I used to be.

I boiled the water and watched the steam rise, curling around me like a veil. As I stirred the sauce, I begged it to turn out right—not perfect, just right enough.

Maybe feeding someone was another way of saying, thank you for staying.

I stirred the sauce slowly, squinting at the simmer, trying to remember if it needed more sugar or salt. The scent filled the kitchen, thick and a little too nostalgic. I remembered my mother saying the trick was in letting it sit—let the flavors talk to each other, she used to say. I smiled a little at that.

I turned off the stove and exhaled, realizing I hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes. The sauce looked okay. Maybe a bit runny. But okay. I set the pasta aside, not bothering with plating it all fancy—I just poured the noodles and sauce together in a bowl and placed it carefully on a tray with a fork.

Akiro still hadn’t come out of his unit.

I stood in the middle of my kitchen for a few seconds, gripping the tray with both hands. I didn’t even know if he’d like it. If he could even eat spaghetti this early. But I hoped he would.

I took off the apron and folded it over the back of a chair. My shirt was damp around the collar, and my hands still smelled faintly of garlic and tomato. I walked toward the mirror by the door and looked at myself. My face looked less pale now, a little tired, but better than yesterday. My hair was messy near the ears—I pressed it down quickly.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The air outside felt cooler. Still, the silence clung to the walls like the morning hadn't fully started yet.

I stopped in front of Akiro’s door. My hand was halfway to knock when I noticed a sticky note on the wood. Pale green. Crookedly placed.

I peeled it off and read the short line in blue ink.

“I’m just downstairs.”

From the stairwell at the end of the hallway, I heard a few uneven guitar strums. They were short and sharp, like someone playing a chord, stopping, then trying again.

I folded the note and slid it into my pocket. Then I walked toward the sound.

At the middle landing of the stairs, Akiro sat with his back turned. He had one leg up, the guitar resting on it. There was a small notebook open beside him, a pencil on top of the page. He strummed once, shook his head, then tried a different chord. It was off again. He sighed quietly and adjusted his fingers. His shoulders were stiff. Focused, but frustrated.