Chapter Two: Paper Airplanes and Pancakes
The morning sun crept through the curtains, but Alina didn't move. Her room was still half-unpacked, boxes stacked like silent witnesses to everything she'd lost. She stared at the ceiling, headphones in, drowning in a song that reminded her of Mom's humming in the kitchen.
A knock broke the silence.
"Al?" Ethan's voice was gentle. "I made pancakes."
No response.
"…with chocolate chips. And way too much syrup. Mom would've yelled at me."
She sighed, pulling the covers over her head.
A few seconds later, her door creaked open. She peeked out to find Ethan standing there with a plate in one hand and a crooked paper airplane in the other.
"What… are you doing?"
He threw the plane. It nosedived straight into her laundry pile.
"That was supposed to be symbolic," he said, deadpan. "A dramatic gesture of brotherly love. But clearly, I failed math and aerodynamics."
She blinked at him, lips twitching.
He grinned. "There it is. I saw it—half a smile."
"I wasn't smiling."
"Liar."
He walked over and handed her the plate. The pancakes were misshapen, one slightly burnt, but the smell of them somehow felt like a hug. She took a bite, and Ethan sat beside her on the floor.
"I know it's hard," he said after a moment. "And I know you miss them every second. I do too. But if we stay buried in the past, we'll lose the good stuff too. The stuff they'd want us to keep."
Alina looked down, the syrup sticking to her fingers.
"I don't know how to… be okay without them."
"You don't have to be okay yet," he said. "Just… be here. With me. We'll figure it out. One burnt pancake at a time."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, the first real connection they'd had in weeks.
Outside, a breeze blew through the window. The paper airplane shifted on the floor, a tiny reminder that even when things fall apart, there's always a chance to rebuild—piece by fragile piece.