3. Striking Presence
When I turned away from the balcony railing, the cool night air clinging to my skin, my thoughts spiraled back to why I'd come here. I never thought I'd muster the courage to stand up for myself—not like this. But today, I had no choice. If I hadn't slipped out that window and left my parents behind, they'd have kept believing their cruelty was justified, their impossible expectations a fair price for my existence.
A flicker of pride sparked in my chest—I'd taken a stand. But it was dwarfed by a heavier, gnawing fear. They'd probably hate me now. Maybe they always had. All those years I'd spent bending over backward, chasing a scrap of their approval, a glint of love or pride in their eyes—it was all ash now. Unlike my siblings, Elizabeth and Rogan, I'd never been enough. My younger sister, just fifteen, could stumble a dozen times and still land in their protective embrace. Me? I'd been fending for myself since I could walk, the black sheep who didn't fit their perfect mold—or society's suffocating standards.
I tried to love my body, my curves, and most days, I succeeded. I'd catch myself in the mirror and see strength, not shame. But when the people who're supposed to love you unconditionally—your own flesh and blood—hack away at your confidence like it's a weed in their pristine garden, even the toughest armor starts to crack.
If a stranger had dared comment on my weight, I'd have unleashed a torrent of sharp-edged words, defending not just myself but every soul cornered by society's rigid ideals. I'd have stood tall, unapologetic. But this wasn't about strangers. This was my family. And sometimes, fighting them didn't mean shouting back—it meant walking away, not out of defeat, but out of love for myself.
Right then, standing on that spacious balcony, I made a vow. I was done living for them. Starting tomorrow, I'd carve out a life on my own terms. Not recklessly—I wouldn't drown my sorrows in junk food just to spite them; that'd only hurt me more. And I sure as hell wouldn't blame society for my choices. That'd be the lamest cop-out imaginable. No, this was about me—building something real, something mine.
The balcony stretched out before me, its wrought-iron railing framing the glittering lights of New York below. Maybe this could be my sanctuary—a place to reflect, to plan, to transform. Not for them. Not for anyone else. Just for me. A tear splashed onto the back of my hand, startling me. I blinked hard, wiping it away.
"God, these stupid emotions," I muttered under my breath. No matter how tough I tried to be, sometimes the floodgates burst when no one was around to see.
Then I felt it—a prickling chill, like someone's gaze brushing against my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I froze, my breath catching. Slowly, almost against my will, I turned toward the adjacent balcony.
He was still there.
The man next door stood with his back to me, a plume of cigarette smoke curling into the night air. His posture was casual, oblivious—or maybe pretending to be. Still, something felt wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Before I could shake off the unease, a sound cut through the stillness—a girl's laughter, light and carefree, drifting from somewhere nearby. I whipped my head around, scanning the shadows, and that's when I saw her.
On the far side of the neighboring balcony, a woman stepped into view—slender, blonde, her figure so perfect she could've walked straight off a magazine cover. She tossed her hair back, laughing again, and the man turned toward her. Without a glance my way, he flicked his cigarette over the railing and strode inside after her, the glass door sliding shut behind him with a decisive click. I heard the lock snap into place, a faint echo in the quiet night.
I stood there, rooted, my mind tugging in two directions. Part of me shrugged it off—some pretty girl and her boyfriend, nothing to do with me. But another part twisted with something sharper—envy, maybe, or just a flicker of that old insecurity my parents had drilled into me. She was everything they'd wanted me to be: thin, poised, effortless. I shook my head, shoving the thought down.
"Get over it, Ximara," I whispered to myself. Whatever their story was, it wasn't mine. I slipped back inside, my heart thudding, and slid my own glass door shut, twisting the lock with a sharp click that felt like a small defiance.
But as I turned, a faint shuffle echoed from the hallway beyond my room.
Who'd be up at this hour? It had to be Ali, my grandfather. But he was an early sleeper—always in bed by nine, clockwork-like. Unease coiled tighter in my gut.
I tiptoed out of my room, the hardwood cool against my bare feet, and padded toward the kitchen. There he was, hunched over the table, stirring a spoon in a glass of water with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His face was etched with a somberness I hadn't seen before, not even after Grandma's passing.
"Ali… why're you still awake?" I asked softly, stepping closer.
He flinched, my voice yanking him from some deep reverie. "Oh, Mara… you haven't hit the hay yet?" His tone was warm but distracted. He rose, shuffled to the lavish kitchen cabinet, and returned with a tin of cookies, holding them out to me.
I shook my head, forcing a small smile. "No thanks. Don't wanna pile on more pounds than I already have," I teased, keeping it light.
He opened his mouth to argue, but I raised a hand, cutting him off. "Ali… what supplements are you taking?" My voice turned firm, eyes narrowing as I studied him.
His expression flickered—a crack in his usual calm. Something was up, and he knew I wouldn't let it slide.
He sighed, shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. "You know, since your grandma passed, I can't sleep right. Her memories flood back at night—every laugh, every touch. I miss her so d*mn much, Mara. I just wanna see her again." His voice broke, tears glistening in his eyes.
"Oh, Ali," I whispered, wrapping my arms around him. His frame felt frailer than I remembered. "Why didn't you tell us?"
We'd all been so wrapped up in our own grief, we hadn't stopped to think how hollow it must feel for him—losing his soulmate after decades together. He gave a weak chuckle, pulling back to swipe at his tears. "I will see her again."
"I know you will," I said, squeezing his hand. But his next words iced my veins.
"Soon," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
I wanted to protest, to shake him and demand he stop talking like that, but it was late, and he shifted gears before I could. "So, about that job hunt," he said, his tone lifting. "There's a firm—Rowan Architects. They're top-notch. You've got an interview lined up with 'em tomorrow mornin', right? Early—seven sharp. Could be your big break."
My confidence flickered back to life. Rowan Architects. If I nailed that interview, it'd change everything—a real shot at building the life I'd dreamed of. "Yeah," I said, nodding. "I'm ready for it."
"Good." He grinned, then tilted his head. "So, how'd you like the night view out there?"
I hesitated, the unease from the balcony creeping back. "It was nice… till the neighbor started puffing smoke right next to me."
Ali's brow furrowed. "He's back?"
"Yep. But don't worry—he took off before I could say anything. Didn't wanna stir up trouble."
Ali chuckled, though his eyes stayed thoughtful. "That guy's a ghost. Shows up maybe once every few months. Wonder what's got him back now."
"Beats me," I said with a shrug, brushing off the lingering disquiet. We both laughed, and soon after, he shooed me off to bed.
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That night, I crawled under the covers, pulling them up to my chin. Sleep should've come easy—I was exhausted, emotionally wrung out, and tomorrow was huge. Rowan Architects at seven a.m. A fresh start. But my mind wouldn't settle.
Around midnight, I jolted awake, heart hammering, breath shallow. No dream, no noise—just a gut-deep panic I couldn't place. My eyes adjusted to the dim glow seeping through the sheer curtains. The room felt… off. Heavy, like the air was pressing down on me.
I held my breath, straining to listen. Nothing. Just silence, thick and oppressive. But I couldn't shake it—that bone-deep certainty someone had been here, standing in the shadows, watching me. I rolled onto my side, whispering to myself, "You're imagining things, Ximara. Get a grip."
But just as my eyelids fluttered shut, I swore I caught it—a faint shadow sliding toward the balcony door. I bolted upright, pulse racing, and stared. Nothing. The door was locked, the room empty. Still, I didn't sleep much after that, lying awake, eyes tracing the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was just nerves—exhaustion and the weight of tomorrow's interview playing tricks on me.
Yet deep down, I wasn't so sure.
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