Third Person's POV:
"Don't worry. Things will work out just fine like they're meant to. Do not worry. And, I am always here, you know that. It'll be alright. Trust your fate." Angelina, Myra's mother, for some reason, always kept repeating that phrase. Over and over again. Thousand times a day. Because that was her idea of leading an affluent life. Because it had always been reasonable and adequate for her. And because she had always been as fit as a fiddle.
Her words echo in Myra's head like her favorite 2000s country music. However, every word has a divergent ring to it every time she replayed her mixtape. Her best friend, her own mother, lied to her when she said it'll be alright; because it never really gets fine. Un-ironically, it only keeps getting more polluted and unhealthy. She never breathed a word about truth.
She never briefed me that in order to persevere, you have to mutilate everything in sight for things to work out in your favor. There never seems to be a distinction for the lower standards of life when it comes to me. I ponder why? She on no occasion made clear that I would need to be the bravest version of myself to make things tolerable for me— forget competent.
The day was bright. It radiated a warm summer feeling inside of your heart that would instantly set you at peace. The day was very amazingly bright. The sky was clean with only a hint of clouds swarming their way across the west. It was as if it compelled you to get your favourite ice cream and make your way to the beach.
But it didn't compel Myra to do any such thing. With her school bag slinging over her right shoulder, she mindlessly made her way towards the only safe haven she could of think — Amore, her home away from home, often. She made her way towards her favorite shop in this wide town, only to pretend that this day will be different from others. She deserved this treat. This is going to be her day, and it belongs to her and no one else. Not the horrible classmates, not the dreadful school environment who seems to think she was a no-lifer, and not even her own thoughts who could never accept her the way she is. Not to her friends, and not even to the routine her.
This is her day, and she refused to let anyone taint it with their smudges.
Sometimes, it often made Myra sad as she thought about it, a lot. As a child, she wanted to move to a different country and live in a big city and now that she is, none of this is proving to be as hopeful as she'd imagined. She now lives in a big city with no relations, family, and friends. No one knows her and she knows no one. It's the afternoon and she stepped out of the building, the low sun's weak rays hitting her face and reflecting off her eyes as she started to walk aimlessly, embarking on a different road every week, and always getting off on different buses or train stops.
The bakery across the 45th Amptons Street looked as fresh as newly baked croissants. From across the street, she could see Mary wearing her beige apron and Dahlia with a notebook and pen trying to draw something. The sight was engulfing and it instinctively made Myra smile. Happily, she filled the distance between the two of them and catered her way inside. The tingling of the bell made Mary look up from behind the counter table. At the sight of Myra, she smiled warmly.
The strong savor of coffee and vanilla hit Myra's sensors, and she immediately fancied at home. She felt more at home than she could ever anywhere else. She breathed in and breathed out. Ordering a sweet Vanilla Cream Brew, she breathed in and breathed out again. It's as if her body exhaled any stress that she was holding at that point and told her that it will be alright.
Mary was a 37-year-old woman who ran the bakery on her own, accompanied by her 7-year-old daughter, Dahlia. Over the course of the last two years, ever since she moved here, Myra found an odd amount of comfort in Mary. Maybe it was for the fact that Mary reeked of soothing vanilla essence as she mindlessly pranced around the bakery, or was it because of the warm smile that somehow assured her that she was safe for the moment. She found more comfort in Mary than she'd found anywhere else in the last few years. And she was glad that she did.
As for Dhalia, she was another story. Dahlia, though only 7, was wreaking havoc. She matched an energy equivalent to three golden retriever puppies. She was that hyperactive. The little girl smiled and giggled as she played house with her dolls The owner of the bakery admiring the scene from afar. The warm smell of vanilla lingering in the environment, bolstering the warm sunny day.
"Myra! Long time, no see. How are you, sweetie?" While dusting off the traces of flour on her apron, Mary moved to the coffee counter to brew Myra her favourite drink.
"Well, can't say I have been bad. You know, the school year is over, and that means I have all the time in the world to come here as often as I like and annoy you along with Dee."
"Nonsense! You're never a bother. In fact, your presence is always welcomed, and you know it as well," assured Mary, stating as a fact as if Myra didn't already know it. She continued, "well, since school is now over, what do you plan on doing? Oh, and for heaven's sake, don't tell me you'd be reading in your room, please, god! No." Mary, for one, knew about her habits.
"Well, you'd be happy to know that I am actually considering an outdoor activity with Kevin. Our school is arranging it for us, so yes, I am considering that. But it's in two weeks' time so the former plan still remains the same," the reassurance didn't come too well but Mary decided to let go of the subject but not before adding her very special dose of Mary-advice.
"That's good to know. You're at an age where you need to go out as much as possible and make as many friends as possible. Take it from an old woman, you don't want to be regretting your life choices once you're above 30," said Mary, the regret of her own life flashing in front of her own eyes.
Mary handed her her sweet vanilla and topped the dish up with her very special cookies, the cookies that Myra loves. Those cookies taste like a mother's love. They're a physical metaphor for an encompassing hug. Myra smiled sweetly at Mary, feeling overwhelmed.
Myra's moment of courage is not constant. She is afraid. She is extremely afraid. She has an ocean of thoughts, complaints, and sorrows to yell back at the world when people tell me to suck it up. Because they don't know what it feels like to be so helpless that you feel stuck in a loop of bad choices.
With her coffee in her, she made her way opposite Dahlia and her dolls. For a moment she contemplated being part of the game. She stared at the canopy of blue skies above her through the glass frame. The sky can metaphorically overwhelm and envelope you. It is a beautiful shade of cerulean that makes you assess phlegmatic and drops you off at peace around the corners of this street. The white buildings do nothing to comfort her raging heart.
Conversely, this doesn't intrigue her anymore.
A tingling of the entry doorbell pulled her out of her trance thoughts. And in from the doors came in her soon-to-be nemesis.