You standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running as she rinses off dishes one by one. She’s humming under her breath, a little out of breath because the baby has been sitting high in her ribs all day. Her lower back aches, but she brushes it off — she’s stubborn like that.
Viola pushed open the apartment door with the last bit of energy she had left. Her dance bag slipped from her shoulder and thudded onto the floor. She let out one long, exhausted breath.
She leaves the party a little after midnight, the cold air hitting her cheeks and sobering her tired brain. Her friends call out goodbyes, but she’s already sliding into the driver’s seat, turning the key, exhaling.
The club was warm with golden lights and cigarette smoke curling through the air. A brass band played upbeat swing while soldiers on leave crowded the tables, laughing louder than they probably felt.
Brooklyn’s sunset painted the rooftops gold as Viola and Bucky climbed up to their spot. She leaned into him, laughing softly at whatever half-joke he told, and Bucky kept touching the pocket where the velvet ring box sat like it was burning him.
She was fourteen and a walking storm. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way—no. Ordinary days became disasters simply because she existed. Every rule became a suggestion, every boundary a personal insult, every reminder something to dodge, ignore, or test. Shoes half-on, bag dragging behind her, dishes abandoned, assignments forgotten—she moved through the apartment like the world would just bend around her chaos.
