Page 83 of Cruel Obsession

My old room remains exactly as I left it when I moved out—posters of bands I no longer listen to, science awards from high school, photos of Debra and me throughout childhood stuck to the mirror. A time capsule of who I was before life took its sharp turns.

I curl up in the twin bed, the mattress lumpy in familiar places. Sleep comes quickly after the emotional day, but it’s not restful. In my dream, Debra stands before me, but slightly wrong—her hair too lank, her eyes too wary. Her wrists bear marks like rope burns, and her skin is too pale.

“Find me, Mira,” she says, her voice echoing oddly. “I’m closer than you think. Please find me.”

Behind her looms a shadowy figure—male, broad-shouldered, with what looks like a tattoo crawling up his neck. Something about him seems familiar, but before I can focus, Debra speaks again.

“You know what to look for,” she whispers. “I know you do.”

I try to reach for her, but my arms move through empty air. She fades, the shadow behind her growing larger, consuming the space where she stood.

I jolt awake, my nightshirt damp with sweat, heart racing in my chest. The digital clock reads 3:17 AM, its red digits the only light in the darkness.

The dream clings to me like a second skin, more vivid and disturbing than my usual nightmares about Debra.

Six years.

Six long years since I’ve seen my sister, held her hand, heard her laugh. There isn’t a single second I don’t miss her.

Could she be out there somewhere? Could she be alive? It seems impossible after so long. But the dream felt different—clearer, urgent somehow.

The tears come without warning, hot tracks down my face that I can’t stop. I curl into myself, clutching the pillow to my mouth to muffle the sobs that wrack my body.

I cry for Debra, lost in ways I can’t fathom. For Dad, fighting a battle that’s draining him day by day. For myself, for the lines I’ve crossed, the person I’m becoming in Arkady’s orbit.

Eventually, exhaustion claims me, and I drift back into uneasy sleep.

It’s still not restful.

Hours later, the buzz of my phone wakes me. Morning light filters through the blinds as I reach groggily for the device, expecting to see Arkady’s name on the screen. Instead, it’s just my regular morning alarm.

The smell of coffee drifts under the door, and I can hear Dad moving around the kitchen, the familiar sounds of home anchoring me. I stretch, feeling oddly queasy despite the hours of sleep. Probably because I slept so badly. My dream about Debra lingers at the edges of my mind, leaving an unexpected sense of anticipation I can’t explain.

Pulling on sweatpants and a T-shirt, I pad barefoot to the kitchen. Dad stands at the counter, pouring coffee into his favorite mug—chipped at the handle but never replaced.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, his smile warming his tired eyes. “Coffee?”

He extends the pot toward me, and the rich scent hits me full force. My stomach turns violently, saliva flooding my mouth in that unmistakable precursor to nausea. I back away quickly.

“No,” I say, pressing a hand to my middle. “I think I’ll have orange juice today.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise slightly—he knows my usual morning desperation for caffeine—but he reaches for the juice without comment. His gaze lingers on me, too perceptive for comfort.

I take the glass, the cold, sweet liquid soothing after the unexpected wave of nausea. The sensation passes quickly, leaving me puzzled but increasingly suspicious. I’ve never turned down coffee before.

Dad watches me over the rim of his mug. “You okay? You look strung out.”

“Yeah,” I answer automatically. “Just didn’t sleep well.” Then, moved by some impulse I don’t understand, I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around his middle. “I love you, Dad. And I think everything’s gonna be okay.”

He returns the hug, his chest solid against my cheek. “From your lips to God’s ears, kiddo.”

We eat breakfast together, avoiding the heavy topics of yesterday. Dad tells me about a neighbor’s annoying dog, I share sanitized stories about the work I’ve been doing. The normalcy is a balm, even built on lies.

When it’s time to leave, I find myself reluctant to go.

“Call me tomorrow?” Dad asks at the door.

“Promise.” I hug him once more, memorizing the feel of his embrace, the safety I only find here.