STRINGS BETWEEN US

CHAPTER ONE: OF DINNER TABLES, UNSAID GOODBYES, AND THE NAME THAT STAYED

CHAPTER ONE: OF DINNER TABLES, UNSAID GOODBYES, AND THE NAME THAT STAYED

Arielle Rylance Del Rio's POV

The room smelled like wood polish and old notebooks.

That kind of scent that carried weight. Like the walls had memories, and they were still trying to remember something that once mattered. I lay on the bed, arms folded under my head, staring up at the ceiling like it owed me answers.

Blank. White. Too clean.

Exactly the opposite of how I felt.

I was exhausted. Not from the long trip. But from pretending. From years of silence. From Dana Del Rio-my mother.

She still had my photo. Still called me her daughter. Still smiled like nothing had ever shattered. She even made adobo-like she used to-except now, it wasn't for me anymore.

I closed my eyes and whispered, "What the hell."

A soft knock broke through the fog.

I didn't answer.

The door creaked open anyway.

"Dinner's ready," a voice said. Low. Calm.

Of course it was him.

I cracked one eye open, barely turning my head. There he was, leaning against the doorframe like the lead in some indie coming-of-age film. Messy black hair. Hazel eyes that looked like they could see through skin and bone. Silver hoop catching the light against pale skin.

Ugh. Even now, he looked like he stepped straight out of a magazine.

"How do you still look like that after a whole day?" I muttered.

"Genetics, probably," he replied, voice deadpan.

"Cocky."

"Honest."

I rolled to my side. "I'm not hungry."

He walked in anyway, setting a glass of water on the nightstand.

"Tita Dana said she made adobo. Said it used to be your favorite."

"How nostalgic," I said, sarcasm thick. "I wonder if she remembers I hate it now."

Silence followed. Not heavy. Just... there. Sitting between us like an overstayed ghost.

"You don't have to talk to me," I added. "I'm not one of the kids."

"I noticed."

I sat up, squinting at him. "Want a medal, Mr. Observant?"

"Not really," he shrugged. "But if you're offering..."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you always talk like you're auditioning for a silent film?"

He smirked, for real this time. Not the polite kind. The smug kind, with a little bit of bite.

"Do you always talk like you're trying to scare people away?"

Touché.

"I like peace," I said. "I just happen to look like I've been through a war."

"Same," he said, walking back to the door. "I like chaos. I just wear a blazer over it."

Then, just before he left, he glanced back.

"You don't have to come down. But... I think Tita Dana would like it if you did."

And then he was gone.

I stared at the empty doorway. Every part of me screamed to stay where I was. But another part, the more dangerous, reckless one, I wanted to follow.

Thirty minutes later, I was walking down the hall. Not because I was ready. I wasn't. And I didn't know if I ever would be. But I didn't want anyone thinking I was still that same helpless little girl who waited by the window every day for a mother who never came back.