Elliot

I thought I could get news about her sister through Lena, but she's stopped answering my messages. I've been losing my mind a little since Mira took a week off after leaving the hospital.

All I want to know is whether she's getting better. But last night, Lena didn't show up at our usual meeting place, and I ended up eating her pretzel as well as mine. The consequences of my actions hit me like a tsunami.

Because I can't stand her being angry with me, I've decided to resort to harassing her at work. If my mentee were anyone else, I wouldn't care what she thought of me, but I've grown attached to Lena during these past few months in Wondervale.

"Hi," I say, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She stiffens before turning to face me.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you choose some candy?"

"Oh, come on, Lena!"

Tense, I pretend her words and sullen expression don't affect me.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"That's too bad, because I'm your boss."

With a hand on her elbow, I guide her into the candy store's stockroom.

"What do you want?" she says, tapping her foot.

My heart clenches when she glares at me, something I've never seen her do before.

"I thought we were friends?"

Lena and I have bonded over the past few months. I don't want her to push me away. I've become attached to her, and the idea that she no longer wants to speak to me makes me deeply sad.

"That was before you hurt my sister."

"So what? We aren't friends anymore?"

"No."

"You don't really mean that."

Her face darkens.

"Mira is my best friend, and you made her cry!"

I draw a breath, and my eyes burn.

"Your sister and I are…"

"Over. She told me," she says in a trembling voice.

"I didn't mean to hurt you too."

"I helped you hurt her. With the pumpkins, and New York…" she says, tears clouding her eyes.

Fuck. Lena feels responsible for my actions? I never wanted her to bear the weight of my decisions.

"None of this is your fault," I say, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly.

"No. It's yours, because you're a big baby who can't admit his feelings."

A small, sad laugh escapes me.

"If only life were that simple."

"You told me yourself that excuses are for losers."

Damn. I never thought she'd end up turning my mentoring advice against me. I used that phrase when she was considering moving out of her parents' home to become more independent.

I understand how my statement may sound like an excuse to her, but I have my reasons.

"Thank you for your help," she says with a sigh. "You made my move easier."

She's seriously trying to dismiss me.

"Lena…"

"As of today, you're no longer my friend or my mentor."

The rejection hurts. I genuinely enjoyed the time I spent with her. We bonded over many things, including both being the youngest in our families and our love of pistachio ice cream.

Lena won't even look me in the eyes now. My mood darkens further.

"Lena!" someone calls, opening the shop door.

"I have to go. Merry Christmas in advance, Elliot," she says, giving me a small wave goodbye.

I'm left with a hollow feeling that, despite my efforts, I can no longer shake.

---

When I get home, silence greets me. After seeing Lena, my day only got worse. Nothing could stop my thoughts from drifting to Mira. I even ended up sending her a message. I hoped a brief exchange with her might ease the pressure building inside me, but Mira didn't even bother replying to the text asking how she felt.

I put on workout clothes and run around the property. Although my feet pounding the concrete help release some of the tension in my muscles, jogging isn't enough to quiet my mind.

When I reach the paved drive in front of the house, my breathing is ragged and almost painful.

My eyes land on the abandoned porch swing. I never found time to take it down because I was too busy.

Or too cowardly.

I clench my teeth, irritated with myself. I cross the property to the garage where Grandfather kept his tools and old drill, then embark on a mission to get rid of that damned swing.

It was on that swing that my mother read us fairy tales. It was where my parents curled up together while my brothers and I played in the yard. And it was also where she took her last breath, held by my father as he clung to her cancer-ravaged body while we all cried together.

I hate that fucking swing more than anything in the world. I'm itching to remove every screw one by one and then set it on fire.

After plugging in the drill with a trembling hand, I test it to make sure it still works, then find a chair inside so I can reach the upper screws.

I press the bit against the first screw. Every muscle in my arm protests when I press the button. The screw turns and eventually falls onto the swing's seat.

One down, three to go.

When I finish on this side, I move the chair. Taking the same position, I place the drill against the next screw when I suddenly notice letters carved into the wood above my head. I freeze.

My vision blurs as I run a finger over the inscription. It's uneven, as though carved with a pointed knife, but the handwriting is unmistakably my mother's.

My little knights,

Love with all your hearts and show kindness in everything you do.

Mom

It's like taking a punch to the stomach. Many years have passed since I last heard that phrase. My mother lived by those principles in everything she did. She repeated them to us every morning before we left for school and whispered them every night before bed. The words sink their claws into me and tear apart the arguments I used to justify my breakup.

Would my mother be proud of the man I am at this moment? I sincerely hope so, but deep down, I know I've made many terrible mistakes in my life because I know no other way. After her death, I wasn't raised with the values she held dear.

I understand that I'm not supposed to make everyone happy, but there's still a difference between having good business sense and being needlessly cruel. And I chose the latter many times without feeling any remorse because it was the easier path. Cutting health-insurance contributions was a rotten tactic to get my father to let me attend board meetings. He wanted me to prove myself before allowing me a seat, and I decided to pull out all the stops. Voting against raising the minimum wage to increase our profit margin was just as easy for me. I was willing to put the company first while proving to my father that I had what it took to grow my own streaming company.

I chose myself every time because it was easy.

Show kindness in everything you do.

Those words fill me with shame. Everything I did was at other people's expense, while every one of my mother's actions was rooted in love and compassion. I forgot that side of her. I forced myself to forget, I think, because deep down I didn't want to remember the woman she was. I knew she would have been disappointed in me. Over the years, I let greed and anger guide my actions. I showed little compassion and even less love.

The son my mother raised died with her, and I feel nothing but guilt.

Suddenly struck by a wave of regret, I set the drill aside and sit on the chair. Then I allow myself to face the monster I've become by sacrificing my mother's most important values.

---

I walk through the creators' warehouse hoping to run into Mira on her first day back from sick leave. When I reach her desk, I find her drawing something on a… tablet? It's the same brand as mine. Her work is mirrored on her computer screen and, honestly, her illustration isn't bad.

"Is that a wheelchair?"

Mira jumps, and the stylus falls at her feet. I bend to pick it up, except she has the same reflex. We bump heads, and I wince as she lets out a small cry of pain.

Our eyes meet. My hand brushes hers before I let her take the stylus. She gives a tiny hiccup that makes me smile inwardly.

I'm glad to see some color back in her face, even though she looks as if she's lost weight. Her cheeks are hollow.

"What do you want, Mr. Vale?" she asks with a scowl.

I bite my tongue to keep from saying something stupid. She raises one suspicious eyebrow.

"I needed to talk to you."

She remains silent.

I see she isn't going to make this easy for me…

"I came to…"

To do what? Confess my feelings in the middle of the workday?

"Yes?"

"To ask if you'd come over to my place tonight."

"Are you kidding me?"

Oh no, she thinks I'm trying to get her into bed? This is exactly why I don't like talking about feelings.

"No… Shit. I'm not expressing myself well. What I'd like is to talk to you."

"Well, I don't feel like talking to you."

Mira turns back to her small tablet to make changes to her illustration.

Suddenly, I realize she's creating her own image instead of working with me.

She doesn't need you anymore. The thought ties my throat in a knot. I feel replaced, even forgotten, by the only person who has ever seen the real me. The only one who believed in me and supported me when she had every reason to despise me for what I represented.

"Mira, listen. I don't sleep anymore. I don't eat. I'm constantly nauseous and have heartburn…"

"Sounds like you're capable of feeling emotions after all."

"Yes! Are you happy? I've felt like shit ever since I left you in that damned hospital room knowing perfectly well you were crying because of me."

"No. I'm not happy you're upset. On the contrary, I want you to be happy with your decisions."

Her tone is neutral, as though I hadn't broken her heart.

"Why?"

Why do you always have to be so selfless?

"Because I want you to be satisfied with them when you look back on your choices later."

Except many of my decisions don't feel satisfying at all, despite seeming necessary at the time. I'd like to tell her that, and many other things, if she'll give me a chance.

"Let me explain. I've thought it through, and I think I made a mistake. I shouldn't have given up on our relationship because I was afraid. You were right. I want to try again with you."

My little speech is stiff and awkward, but sincere. Mira lets out a resigned sigh.

"No. I won't be fooled a second time. You had your chance, and you blew it."

"But,"

"No buts. What happens if you change your mind again? I won't take that risk. I've suffered enough and, frankly, I deserve better than what you're offering."

I stare at her, mouth agape.

"Now, I need to work. I have a deadline to meet."

"I could give you a hand, if you want."

I glance at her image again.

Please say yes…

"I think you've already done enough."

With that, she swivels her chair to turn her back on me.

She's rejecting me. I've rarely felt as awful as I do at this moment.

She's truly done with me, and it's entirely my fault.