Chapter 2 One Good Day

Jayda's fingers were stiff from the cold as she turned the key in the lock. The door stuck - it always did - but she shouldered it open with the ease of muscle memory. The apartment was dim, lit only by the flickering bulb over the stove and the pink light from the TV, which was now playing infomercials to no one.

She stepped inside and paused.

The air smelled like sour sweat and smoke. No new damage. No broken glass. That counted as a win.

Mya came running from the bedroom barefoot, her little face lighting up like fireworks at the sight of her.

"You're back!" she said, grabbing the grocery bag like it was treasure.

Jayda laughed softly and crouched down. "Of course I'm back. You thought I'd leave you with Miss Rosa forever?"

Mya grinned. "Miss Rosa smells like onions and talks to her cat."

Jayda ruffled her hair. "Well, she's a lifesaver, even if she smells like dinner."

She watched Mya pull out the small wins - the rice, the beans, a tiny box of cookies Jayda splurged on because she knew what joy looked like on her sister's face. It was worth the extra dollar. Always was.

Her mother didn't stir from the couch. She hadn't moved since that morning.

Jayda set the kettle on to boil. Her body ached from the shift - wrists sore from carrying trays, knees tired from standing. But the ache was familiar. She welcomed it. It reminded her she was doing something. Keeping something alive.

Mya sat on the floor with a notebook, drawing. Her tongue poked out in concentration.

"What're you working on?"

"A new house," Mya said. "It's got stairs and two bathrooms. One's just for you."

Jayda felt something sharp twist behind her ribs. "You gonna draw me a bed too?"

Mya nodded. "A big one. And a fridge that talks."

Jayda laughed. "What does it say?"

"It says, 'Good job, Jayda. You're doing amazing.'"

Jayda turned away quickly so her sister wouldn't see the tears threaten.

She cooked the rice, added the beans, made it taste like love even though it was barely enough. They ate on the couch - their mother still unconscious behind them. Jayda tried not to look. Tried not to wonder if one day she'd come home and find something worse than silence.

Later, after dishes, after brushing Mya's teeth and checking her math homework, Jayda tucked her into bed. Mya yawned, curled into the blanket like it was a fortress.

"Do you think Daddy knows about us?" she asked suddenly.

Jayda froze. That question again.

"I don't know, baby," she said honestly. "Maybe."

"Do you think he'd come if he did?"

Jayda kissed her forehead. "You should sleep now."

But Mya wasn't done. "I don't think he's real."

Jayda felt that twist again - the one that never left. "He was real once. That's all I know."

She turned off the light and closed the door halfway. The hallway was cold, and the carpet scratched her bare feet, but she didn't go to sleep. Not yet.

She stood by the window and watched the street below. Lights flickered in the distance, people shouting, music thumping from some car crawling by. The city didn't sleep. Neither did Jayda - not really.

She took out a notebook from beneath the couch cushion. Inside, pages were filled with numbers - rent, electricity, groceries, bus fare. But on the back pages, there were dreams.

"Open a bakery."

"Get GED."

"Move out by 22."

"Take Mya to the ocean."

Jayda ran her fingers over those words like a prayer. She didn't know how she'd get there. But writing them down made them feel real.

Her phone buzzed.

Text from: Ty

U good? Need help?

She stared at the message for a long time. Ty was... complicated. A friend. Maybe more, if her life had space for that kind of thing. He always showed up when things were bad. Which meant he was around a lot.

Jayda typed back: I'm okay. Just tired.

He responded fast: Come through if you want. Just talk. No pressure.

She almost said yes. But she looked at her sister's bedroom door, then at her mother still passed out, and knew she couldn't leave. Not tonight.

Instead, she sat at the kitchen table and opened the notebook again.

She wrote a new line:

"Don't break."

It wasn't poetic, but it was honest.

She stared at it for a while, then closed the book and leaned her head on the table. The hum of the fridge, the ticking of the stove, the faint snore from the couch - it all blended into the kind of quiet that had grown familiar.

Jayda didn't cry. Not tonight.

But she whispered to the dark, "Please... just let tomorrow be gentle."