Dear No One,
I'm writing this because if I don't, my brain might start plotting a coup, and frankly, I'm not prepared to negotiate with my own gray matter. Life, in its unending quest to keep things interesting, threw me a curveball named Orion—or possibly Rio, I'm still sorting that out. Our paths collided in the cosmic dance of fate a fortnight ago, and ever since, he's been gleefully stirring up chaos in the otherwise orderly universe of my life.
As I scribble these words, I can't help but wonder where this unexpected detour in my life will lead. Will it be a brief flirtation with chaos, destined to fizzle out as quickly as it began? Or could it possibly turn into something more— well, I hope none of those will happen. I just hope I can erase this encounter.
For now, all I can do is buckle up and enjoy the ride, wherever this tide decides to take me next.
Going crazy,
Saff
***
After that cringe-inducing encounter with Orion—or Rio, as Bree fondly calls him—Bree decided it was prime time for a sleepover at my place. Cue the dramatic retelling of their epic romance, which left me feeling like I'd unwittingly stumbled into a rom-com subplot where I'm playing the role of the unwitting best friend caught in a love triangle.
"But what we had was ages ago and just a short summer fling. You're free to date him if you want to," Bree said nonchalantly, her focus on her phone as she obliterated candy clusters with ruthless precision. It was almost insulting how casual she was about it. I mean, here I was having a minor existential crisis, and she was playing Candy Crush.
I shook my head as politely as I could manage, feeling the weight of her words. "No, thank you," I replied, my tone firm but tinged with a hint of disbelief. As if dating her ex was even a remote possibility I would entertain. I got up and made my way to the fridge, the cool air a welcome relief against the warmth of my cheeks.
Standing there, I grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap with unnecessary force. The idea of dating Orion—no matter how charming or unexpectedly charismatic he was—felt like venturing into a forbidden territory. Plus, the whole 'ex-boyfriend of your best friend' scenario was just screaming trouble. It was like asking for a one-way ticket to Drama Town, and I was quite content avoiding that particular destination.
As I took a sip of water, I could still hear the relentless ping of Bree's game. Her words echoed in my mind, though. "Free to date him." Sure, Bree might have moved on, but that didn't mean the invisible boundaries of girl code had vanished. Besides, with the way my luck was going, getting involved with Orion would probably end with me tangled in another awkward mess.
Nope. Not happening.
Now, let me make this crystal clear: we adhere strictly to the sacred commandments of the girl code around here. Thou shalt not covet thy best friend's ex, no matter how charming or adorably dimpled he may be. Any smidge of attraction I may have felt initially dissolved quicker than a sugar cube in hot tea the moment Bree started recounting their short summertime love story.
This encounter at my doorstep reaffirmed my suspicion that maybe I'm just not cut out for love. It's like life waits for the perfect moment to slap me squarely across the face, and opening my damn door was evidently the cue. Sure, Bree sweetly mentioned she wouldn't mind if Rio and I hit it off—she even coined a cutesy nickname for him, for crying out loud—but deep down, I know the unspoken rules of the girl code are etched in stone for a reason.
They say there are plenty of fish in the sea, but finding a friend who's truly there through thick and thin? That's a rare catch indeed. Bree's more than a friend; she's a lifeline, a confidante, and someone I'd rather not test the waters of friendship with just to explore the murky depths of romance. Because let's face it, risking that bond for a shot at something uncertain isn't a gamble I'm willing to take.
Two days later, Bree and I decided it was time for our study date at our favorite café. Although, let's be honest, I highly doubted we were actually going to get any work done. It was more about the spirit of wanting to do something productive, with the added bonus of indulging in our favorite overpriced lattes.
We settled into our usual corner, the one by the window where sunlight bathed us in a golden glow, making everything seem a tad more glamorous than it really was. Bree, ever the optimist, opened her laptop with a flourish, as if the screen was about to reveal the secrets of the universe. I, on the other hand, just plopped down with my coffee and a half-hearted attempt to look like I was studying.
"Doll, can you clear your schedule on Sunday, please?" Bree's interruption punctuated the air, pulling me out of a mental tug-of-war with my study materials.
I glanced up from my laptop, where PowerPoint slides and unread PDFs mocked my scholarly intentions. "Sure, what's up?" I replied, attempting to feign academic focus.
"It's my brother's homecoming party, remember?" Bree announced casually, taking a contemplative sip of her iced coffee.
"Ah, the legendary brother I've yet to cross paths with," I teased, leaning back in my chair. "You know, fate always seems to schedule his visits when I'm at peak hermit mode."
Bree chuckled knowingly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yes, you and your impeccable timing."
I chuckled along, grateful for our shared understanding that my dodging of some of their family gatherings wasn't personal—it was just a strategic avoidance maneuver to maintain the delicate balance of our study-dates-turned-social-therapy-sessions.
As we resumed our futile attempts to absorb academic wisdom from our screens, I couldn't help but wonder if Bree's brother—a mysterious figure known only by name and family lore—would finally reveal himself as a harbinger of chaos or a surprisingly normal addition to our caffeine-fueled routines. Either way, Sunday's schedule adjustment promised to be an adventure in awkward small talk and strategic coffee consumption.
As we continued our study-date-slash-coffee-therapy session, I couldn't shake the feeling that Bree's brother's impending homecoming would inject a dose of unpredictability into our usually structured weekends. It wasn't that I dreaded meeting him per se, but rather the uncertainty of how our dynamic trio—Bree, her brother, and I—would navigate the inevitable small talk and familial scrutiny.
"So, what should I expect from this shindig?" I asked, attempting to muster enthusiasm while scrolling through yet another dense textbook chapter. "Is it a formal affair or more of a chaotic family reunion?"
Bree paused, considering her response as she twirled a strand of hair absentmindedly. "Oh, it's a mix, really," she began, her eyes lighting up with reminiscence. "Think grandma's vintage china on the table next to beer pong in the backyard."
I raised an eyebrow, trying to picture the eclectic scene. "Sounds like a cultural experience. Do I need to prepare a survival kit?"
Bree laughed, her laughter carrying the warmth of familiarity and shared history. "Just your charm and maybe a tolerance for cheesy family stories," she teased, nudging my shoulder playfully.
"Got it," I replied with a mock salute. "Charm and tolerance—my secret weapons." I playfully winked.
As the afternoon progressed, the cafe filled with the comforting sounds of espresso machines and snippets of conversation. Between four coffee refills and an indulgent stack of waffles, Bree and I managed to transform our study date into a caffeinated feast of distraction.
I couldn't deny that this coffee-fueled escapade was a welcome diversion from venturing into uncharted territory, especially after the surprises—or rather, awkward encounters—I'd had with Orion. The memory of bumping into him at the diner still lingered, like an unexpected ingredient in an otherwise perfectly brewed day.
I spent the rest of my week buried in textbooks and lecture notes, gearing up for the impending finals, while Bree luxuriated on a fancy vacation in the Bahamas with her boisterous family.
Bree and I couldn't have come from more different backgrounds if we tried, yet we connected like minions to Gru. She thrived in a household teeming with laughter and chaos, while I navigated life with just myself and the occasional wise words from my late mom. Thankfully, Bree's family had practically adopted me, unofficial paperwork notwithstanding.
Lost in my musings about our divergent paths, I completely missed the incessant ringing of my phone. When I finally noticed, the caller ID flashed "Dad," a title I hadn't associated with anyone since that one Christmas in sixth grade.
"Hello?" I answered tentatively, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
"Mija," he greeted warmly.
I cringed inwardly at the term of endearment. If there were a way to filter out only genuine sentiments from spoken words, I'd be deaf to everything my father said. "Hey." I replied.
"Mija," he repeated, his voice tentative yet warm, like he was treading carefully across a fragile bridge. It had been years since I last heard from him, and the unexpected call stirred up a whirlwind of emotions that I wasn't quite prepared to confront.
Yes, the financial support he provides is practical and necessary, but the absence of emotional connection and guidance leaves a lingering emptiness. It's a reminder that fatherhood encompasses more than just material provisions—it's about shared moments, guidance through life's challenges, and the intangible bond that grows through mutual understanding and presence. His absence in those aspects leaves a void that no amount of financial support can fill, highlighting the deeper yearning for a connection that goes beyond monetary transactions.
"Dad," I replied, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I added, unable to mask the edge in my voice. Years of missed birthdays, unanswered letters, and silent holidays had built up a fortress around my heart, and I wasn't about to let it crumble at the sound of his voice.
There was a long pause on the other end, filled with the weight of unspoken words and missed opportunities. "I... I wanted to see how you're doing," he finally ventured, his voice tinged with sadness and regret.
I sighed inwardly, my fingers nervously tapping against the edge of my desk. "I'm fine," I replied curtly, unsure of how much I wanted to reveal. "Busy with finals and all."
"I see. I'm sure you're gonna do well." he murmured softly, the sound barely audible over the crackling line. I didn't answer and waited for him to add something or to even end the call at this point.
After a long pause, he spoke again. "Look, I know I haven't been there for you. And I'm not expecting you to forgive me just like that. But I want you to know that I'm here now, if you'll let me."
His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. A part of me wanted to push him away, to guard myself against further disappointment. But another part, buried deep beneath layers of hurt and resentment, longed for connection, for closure, for a glimpse of the father I had once hoped to know.
"I'll... think about it," I finally managed, my voice softer than before. "But right now, I really have to go."
"Of course," he replied, understanding in his tone. "Take care, mija."
The call ended, leaving me staring at my phone in silence. Emotions churned within me, a storm of conflicting feelings that I wasn't sure how to navigate. As I returned to my textbooks, the weight of his words lingered, a reminder of a chapter in my life that remained unfinished.
Well, let's unpack this family drama.
So, if you're curious about the soap opera that is my parental situation, here's the cliff notes version. Apparently, my folks decided their teenage romance wasn't the lifelong fairy tale they envisioned. Translation: they figured out they weren't each other's lobster, and I'm the living, breathing reminder of their youthful indiscretions. Thanks, guys.
They were born into money, which they conveniently used to outsource the whole parenting gig to some hired help while they gallivanted through their twenties. Oh, but don't worry, they still want credit for my impeccable upbringing—must be all those bedtime stories their checkbook read to me.
As for the mom I mentioned earlier, she wasn't really my blood-related mother. She's more like my nanny who took care of me since forever. She never got the chance to get married and settle down because she had to take care of me and up to this day, I still feel bad.
And then there's my birth mom, off gallivanting somewhere in Europe, probably sipping lattes in Paris or finding herself in Prague. Meanwhile, I'm here finding myself in existential crises. Classic.
So, yeah, that's the tale of my family dynamics. It's like a messed-up sitcom where everyone gets a role except me—just call me the unsung star of "The Real Housemaids of Upscale Suburbia."
I wrapped up my day by raiding my closet in a desperate quest for something halfway decent to wear to Bree's brother's homecoming bash. Spoiler alert: my wardrobe didn't exactly scream "party-ready." In fact, it barely whispered "laundry day chic."
With no time to hit the shops and zero budget for a fashion emergency, I had to get creative. Cue the fashion show of horrors as I unearthed forgotten relics from the back of my closet—sweaters with questionable stains, jeans that hugged in all the wrong places, and shoes that looked like they've seen one too many rainy days.
But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. I settled on an ensemble that, if I squinted hard enough, might pass for casual-cool. As for looking "presentable," well, I was banking on charm and a dazzling smile to distract from any sartorial missteps. Here's hoping Bree's family appreciated the effort—or at least had low expectations.
Just kidding.
Well, turns out my attic stash of "too fashionable for real life" dresses finally got their moment to shine. Who knew that keeping them around would pay off? Bree's parties usually have this casual vibe, like "come as you are, bring your own chaos," but apparently, this one's going for the gold. And let's just say, Bree's got me covered on the fashion front.
I stood there, arms crossed, eyeing the beige corset dress like it held the secret to solving my outfit dilemma. Its fabric shimmered faintly in the soft glow of the room, catching my eye with its smooth texture and subtle sheen. The bodice curved gracefully, promising a fit that could probably pass for tailored. Those laces at the waist seemed inviting yet ominous—like they knew something about perfect fits that I didn't.
The neckline dipped just enough to hint at elegance without plunging into the realm of 'too much.' I could imagine myself trying not to tug at it nervously all evening. And those lace sleeves, delicate as they were, whispered of old-world charm, brushing against my wrists with a gentle reminder that sophistication doesn't always shout—it sometimes just grazes quietly.
In that moment, I wondered if this dress could transform me into someone effortlessly chic or if I'd end up feeling like I was trying too hard to fit in. But hey, parties at Bree's weren't typically this fancy, so maybe it was time to let the corset work its magic.
It was past midnight, and my brain, previously drifting off into dreamland, snapped to attention like a caffeinated squirrel when my phone beeped. Who could possibly be texting me at this ungodly hour?
With one eye squinting against the brightness, I fumbled for my phone, almost knocking over a half-empty glass of water in the process. Finally, I managed to locate it buried under a pile of pillows, where it had conveniently slipped into hibernation mode earlier.
The message preview flashed innocently on my screen: "Hey, Saffron! :)" I blinked at it, feeling a mix of curiosity and dread swirling in my gut. It couldn't be, I thought, resisting the urge to chuck my phone out the window and pretend it never happened. But before I could react, it beeped again, another message popping up like a punchline to a cruel joke: "It's Orion :)"
Oh, fuck my life.
What could he possibly want now? Hadn't our last encounter been awkward enough? My mind raced with questions and scenarios, each more absurd than the last.
I stared at the screen, torn between responding and hurling my phone into oblivion. With a sigh, I tucked it under my pillow, the messages lingering like a cloud of uncertainty. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I would face the consequences of whatever Orion—or Rio, damn it—had to say. Tonight, I needed sleep more than I needed answers.
Little did I know, this unexpected message was about to turn my world upside down once again.