Amy had been buzzing for weeks, counting down the days to that cruise--her family all together, parents, sister, nieces running wild. She could already see it: sun-soaked afternoons by the pool, cocktails in hand (virgin, sure, but still fancy), and laughter spilling over long dinners.
Then the email came. Work. Last-minute. Non-negotiable.
She stared at the screen, willing it to change, but the words stayed stubbornly there. And just like that, the cruise became a slideshow of what-ifs: turquoise waters she wouldn't sail, snapshots she wouldn't be in.
Her sister's voice rang in her head, casual but cutting. "It won't be the same without you, Ames, but we'll send pictures!"
Yeah. Pictures. Great. Amy shut her laptop a little harder than necessary, sat back, and let the silence press in.
It wasn't just the trip--it was them. The moments. The chance to feel like she belonged in the fold again, instead of on the edges, always tethered to some deadline or another. She shoved the thought aside, but it clung, sharp and heavy, right there in her chest.
Honestly, the cruise wasn't just a vacation for Amy--it was supposed to be her reset button. A break from the ache she'd been lugging around ever since that two-year train wreck of a relationship had screeched to a halt. Sun, salt air, family -- it all sounded like just what she needed to patch herself up.
But no. Work had other plans.
And, as if things couldn't get messier, her sister had called the same day with a favor wrapped in guilt. "Hey, so... Adam's starting grad school near you, only 40 miles away. Can he crash with you for a few days? Just while he gets settled?"
Adam. The golden boy. Her perfect nephew, sure, but also a walking whirlwind of energy and noise. Amy pictured her moderate condo, already feeling too small for her own life, now filled with his endless chatter, sneakers kicked off in the wrong corner, and late-night snack raids.
She'd swallowed hard, biting back her first instinct to scream. "Yeah, sure," she'd said instead, the words tasting bitter. Because saying no wasn't an option--not in her family.
Adam had a knack for making it all look easy. Fresh out of school with a civil engineering degree in hand, he spent his days buried in blueprints and equations, piecing together the bones of future skylines. But come evening? That's when he came alive.
You'd find him on any patch of open ground--cracked concrete courts, scruffy fields--with a basketball or soccer ball at his feet. No teams, no refs, no pressure to keep score. Just the slap of the ball on pavement and the clean arc of a perfect shot. That was his sweet spot, where the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm of the game.
But his real love? That was comedy. Every couple of weeks, he'd slip into some dimly lit dive with a bar that stuck to your elbows and a stage barely big enough for a mic stand. His battered notebook--corners curling, pages crammed with scribbles--was always in tow.
Up there, under the heat of the stage lights, Adam wasn't just a guy who could design bridges. He was sharp, relentless, throwing out punchlines like fastballs. The crowd's laughter hit him like fuel, lighting him up from the inside out. Didn't matter if it was a belly laugh or just a chuckle--every sound stitched itself into him, gave him something he couldn't quite put into words.
The thought of crashing at Aunt Amy's place made Adam's stomach knot up. Sure, it was only a couple of days before the big move, but the idea of sitting still, making small talk, and tiptoeing around her space? No thanks. He had this itch, this restless need to dive into his new turf, get a feel for the place before life got hectic.
He pictured a cheap motel room--nothing fancy, just a bed and a bit of breathing room. From there, he could roam. Scope out hole-in-the-wall diners, find a comedy club or two, maybe even kick around a soccer ball with the locals. Just a couple of days to himself, a little adventure to soften the edges of the change ahead.
But then there was Aunt Amy. He could barely remember what she looked like. A blur, really--mom's ypunger sister who showed up now and then at holidays, always looking distracted, like she was about to be late for something. And their relationship? Let's just say it wasn't built to last through houseguests.
Still, his mom had insisted. "She's family, Adam. She'll love having you. And it's just a few days!"
Yeah, just a few days. He couldn't shake the feeling it'd be awkward as hell, tiptoeing around her world like a stranger in a house that was supposed to feel like home.
Amy wasn't exactly jumping for joy at the news of Adam's visit. The memory of him as a nonstop ball of energy -- always moving, always talking--made her wince. She could practically hear the echo of his sneakers squeaking against her floors, feel the chaos he'd drag in like a whirlwind.
The truth was, she didn't want company. Not now. Not ever, really. The thought of slapping on a fake smile, playing the part of the cool aunt, made her stomach turn. Who had the energy for that?
What she wanted--no, needed--was quiet. Just her, the hum of her empty apartment, and the dull comfort of her own brooding thoughts. She'd gotten used to the stillness, even liked it most days. But now? Now she'd have Adam crashing into it, all noise and motion, turning her carefully built solitude into a bad memory she couldn't escape.
Adam rolled up to the condo with a couple of bags slung over his shoulders and a grin so bright it was borderline obnoxious. Amy met him at the door with a tight-lipped smile, skipping the hugs, skipping the fuss. "Guest room's down the hall," she said, already turning on her heel.
The room wasn't half bad, though. Fluffy pillows, a comforter thick enough to smother a grown man--it was clear she'd tried, even if she didn't say much. Adam dropped his stuff, gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror, and wandered into the kitchen.
Amy was there, leaning against the counter, looking like she was trying to figure out how long this visit might drag. They went through the motions -- "How was the drive?"; "Need anything?" -- the kind of chatter that fills the gaps but doesn't stick. She offered him a sandwich and a cold drink, and he took both, more out of politeness than hunger.
