Not Ready To...

JASMINE'S POV

The morning sun slipped through the slats of Sophia's kitchen blinds, painting golden stripes across the countertop like a crime scene I hadn't cleaned up yet.

I cracked an egg.

Too hard.

The shell shattered in my hand, the yolk oozing over my fingers and dripping to the counter. I stared at it like it might spell out answers, like the mess could give me something… anything—to hold onto.

Then I wiped it away and reached for another.

Sophia stood at the stove in a tank top that said "Tired But Sassy" and plaid pajama pants, flipping pancakes with more aggression than finesse.

She was humming off-key, some '90s pop ballad she probably hadn't thought about since college.

The melody was clumsy, but it filled the silence—something I couldn't quite do myself.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.