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Evening. Outside the window, dusk was slowly settling in, blending the last orange streaks of sunset behind gray clouds. A light vanilla scent lingered in the air — a candle on the kitchen table was burning out, releasing a sweet aroma. Emma entered the apartment, hearing laughter from the kitchen.
— Emm? Is that you? — Her mom's voice was soft, even cheerful, but something about it felt strained.
— Yeah, — Emma replied shortly, swinging her backpack over her shoulder and closing the door with her foot.
Monica peeked out from the kitchen. Her hair was neatly styled, lips brightly painted, and her face wore a radiant smile. Sitting at the table next to her was James. That James. Emma glanced at him — still just as perfectly groomed, overly confident.
— Hi, Emma, — James turned to her, the same smile — perfectly rehearsed, too polite. — You look lovely tonight.
Emma raised a brow, her gaze lingering on him for a second. Right. Same old him.
— Hi, — her voice was even, almost detached, but without its previous sharpness.
Yeah, she still didn't like him. That whole "perfect man" image — the pressed shirt, the manicured nails, the sugary compliments with nothing real behind them. The first time she saw him in this body — in Emma's body — it had felt like a slap in the face. A wave of rage had crashed over her: how dare he? This poser, now in her — even if she thought then it was temporary — home, next to Monica? His Monica?
Emma had been ready to tear him apart. If only not for that book she had found back then... Still, despite her mom's reassurances, she kept seeing James.
But now, Emma could no longer look at Monica as just the woman Mark used to be with. Over time, she had become her mom. The one who, despite everything, stayed close, protected, cared, and supported her. And a different kind of love had grown... from a whole different place.
And now, as Emma watched Monica smile at that table, the way her eyes glowed softly, the way she laughed with that warm, almost forgotten sound Mark had heard at the start of their relationship... something shifted.
She still didn't like him. But Monica was happy. And Emma decided she wouldn't play these games anymore.
If Mom chose him — so be it.
Glancing at him once more, she kicked off her shoes while her mom, rising slightly with a smile, added:
— I thought you wouldn't come back. Did you check the time? Well, at least you sent a text — good job, — she noted with a slight frown but quickly softened. — How was school, sweetheart?
— Fine, — Emma smirked, tossing her backpack in the corner. — Admired my greatness again.
— Ha-ha, — Monica's smile wavered for a moment, but then she nodded. — Well, I'm glad you're... more confident. You've changed a lot, Emm. In a good way. Really.
Emma felt a sharp sting in her chest. But her mask didn’t slip. She played along:
— Yeah. Guess someone has to take the queen bee spot, right? — And, smirking, she added, glancing at James and noticing the expensive silver watch on his wrist: — By the way, Mom, my birthday's coming up soon... — She paused briefly, tilting her head slightly, the corners of her lips curling into a soft, almost innocent smile. Her gaze flicked toward his watch — subtle, but enough for James to catch it.
He raised a brow, holding her gaze for a moment before smirking knowingly.
— Maybe James could give you some tips on surprises? Seems like he’s good at it, — Emma added a bit more playfully, fiddling with the strap of her backpack.
James didn’t flinch, just leaned back lazily in his chair, swirling his glass by the stem.
— Well, if you ever need help, I’m always happy to assist, — he replied with the same perfectly measured calm.
Monica noticed the brief exchange. Her lips curved into a light, restrained smile, almost approving — her daughter knew how to get what she wanted, and if James could afford such gestures, why not?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Emma pulled it out, glancing at the screen. A message.
— Another one of your admirers? — Her mom crossed her arms, her smile warm but teasing.
— Yeah, — Emma replied with sarcasm, smirking. — Hard being this popular.
But it wasn’t another text from Jack or Steve, who usually sent something basic like, "How's it going?" or "You looked hot today," or dumb memes hoping for a reply.
The screen showed something entirely different:
"Em, please. Let’s talk. I’m really worried. We were best friends..."
Jessica.
The words cut deeper than Emma wanted to admit, and she quickly locked the screen.
— Alright, I'm going to my room, — she muttered, shoving the phone back into her pocket.
— Wait, — Monica stood, her voice softer. — Emma... I’m really proud of you. You’ve become... different. Strong. Confident.
Emma's gaze flicked over her mom. For just a split second, something twisted inside, her chest tightening slightly.
— Yeah. Sure. — She turned quickly and left for her room.