Chapter 2: The Fog at Home

Ever since I got back from abroad, it felt like my mind just didn’t work right.

The jet lag never really faded, and I’d drift off at odd hours. I started missing meals, waking up to the echo of voices in the hallway instead of the alarm on my phone.

I spent most days sleeping.

My body felt like it belonged to someone else. The world outside my bedroom window kept moving—kids skateboarding, dogs barking, neighbors mowing their lawns—but I stayed under the covers, cocooned from it all.

I thought maybe I was sick.

But I didn’t say anything. I kept quiet, hoping it would pass.

My mom tried to reassure me.

"You’ve always been a sleepyhead since you were a kid, never as focused as your sister."

Her tone was gentle, the way it got when she wanted me to feel better but was already thinking about the next thing on her to-do list.

"It’s fine, everyone’s different. If you’re tired, just rest."

She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and squeezed my shoulder, as if that could fix anything.

I poured myself a giant mug of black coffee, hoping it would wake me up.

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and lemon cleaner, the kind my mom always bought in bulk at Costco. The only sounds were the drip of the Keurig and the low hum of the fridge. I added two extra scoops of instant coffee, then chugged it while staring out at the maple tree in the backyard.

But it didn’t help at all.

My eyelids stayed heavy, no matter how much caffeine I forced down. I yawned, rubbing my face with both hands.

I tapped my temples, frustrated, when the front door sounded.

A sharp, familiar chime—my dad never did replace that ancient doorbell. I startled, spilling a few drops of coffee onto my sleeve.

The housekeeper called out gently:

"Rachel’s home—and she brought Mr. Grant with her."

The announcement echoed through the hall like a starter pistol. Mrs. Garcia always sounded way too formal for our suburban home, but my mom insisted it kept up appearances.

My parents’ eyes instantly lit up with delight.

It was like someone had flipped a switch—my mom smoothed her hair, my dad’s posture straightened, all their earlier bickering forgotten.

My dad hurried out to greet them.

I heard his footsteps thumping on the hardwood, his voice suddenly bright and cheerful, as if he were meeting royalty.

My mom was about to follow, but suddenly remembered something. She looked at me, troubled.

Her hand hovered near her mouth, and she glanced between the front hallway and me, torn.

"Melissa, you…"

I nodded obediently.

I didn’t wait for her to finish. I got the message loud and clear.

"I know, Mr. Grant doesn’t like me."

I gave her a small, practiced smile and tried to look as harmless as possible.

"Rachel’s relationship is important. I’ll head upstairs, I need to catch up on sleep anyway."

My mom looked at me, yawning, and finally relaxed.

She let out a sigh of relief, patting my arm. "Good girl."

I had only walked a few steps before I remembered I hadn’t taken my coffee mug.

I hesitated at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at the kitchen counter. The mug sat steaming, abandoned beside a box of Frosted Flakes.

Later, I wanted to try drinking another cup.

Maybe if I microwaved what was left, I’d finally shake off the fog in my brain.

As I turned around, I accidentally met a cold, piercing gaze.

Jason Grant stood framed in the doorway, his suit immaculate. He looked at me with a mix of surprise and annoyance, like he’d caught a raccoon rooting through his trash.

Almost instinctively—

My heart leapt to my throat. I froze, then ducked my head and made for the stairs, abandoning the coffee without a second thought.

I forgot all about the coffee mug and hurried away.

As if being even a second late would cost me my life.

I didn’t stop until I was back in my room with the door locked.

My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the chair. I pressed my forehead to the door, counting my breaths until my heart stopped racing.

I even pushed a chair up against it.

Only then did my heart, which had been pounding in my throat, finally settle down.

It took a while for my breathing to slow, and I wiped my sweaty palms on my pajama pants.

I can’t explain why, but whenever I see Jason Grant, an overwhelming emotion rises up inside me—

Fear.

My mom said it was because Jason Grant was born to be above others, and anyone around him would feel crushed by his presence.

She’d say, “He has that air about him, honey—like those CEOs on TV. It’s not personal, he just makes people nervous.”

"Let alone you, honey, you’ve always been a bit too gentle."

My mom told me never to show myself in front of Mr. Grant.

"Mr. Grant doesn’t like girls who look cute but are actually airheads."

She pinched my cheek, trying to make a joke out of it, but the message stung.

"His eyes will only linger on accomplished girls like your sister."

"Do you even get who Jason Grant is? He’s way out of your league. If we can marry into the Grant family, that’s generations of effort saved."

In her eyes, this was the lottery ticket our family needed.

"Melissa, you have to be sensible."

I am very sensible.

So every time Jason Grant came to our house, I made sure to avoid him.

If I heard his voice downstairs, I’d tiptoe to the bathroom and run the faucet, just to drown out the sound.

My mom was very pleased with this and would sometimes pat me on the head.

It was her rare show of affection—a quick ruffle of my hair, and for a second, I felt like I belonged.

That was the greatest reward for me, and I treasured it.

So, I never dared tell my mom—

Even if she didn’t say anything, I would still avoid Jason Grant on my own.

I didn’t need anyone to warn me. Being near him made me want to disappear into the wallpaper.

The aura he carried was just too suffocating.

I felt deeply uncomfortable.

Every muscle in my body tensed up when he was near. I had to remind myself to breathe.

Crushed.

Like my heart was being squeezed tightly in someone’s fist.

Sometimes, I’d press a hand to my chest, just to check it was still beating.

And there was a strange, bitter ache.

It sat heavy, like a bad cold that wouldn’t leave.

Downstairs, the house was full of laughter and happiness.

I could hear their voices drifting up—the clink of glasses, my dad’s booming laugh, Rachel’s perfect giggle.

Amid all that laughter, I fell asleep.

I curled up, hugging a pillow to my chest, and let the noise become a faraway dream.