The heavy silence inside the living room felt less like an absence of sound and more like a physical weight pressing down on the floorboards. Outside, the Atlanta evening air was thick and humid, but inside, the temperature had plummeted to something freezing.
Yaya sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, staring intently at the scuffed toes of his sneakers. His hands were clasped so tightly together that his knuckles had turned stark white. Every time he tried to take a breath, the memory of what he had said—the exact tone of his voice, the sharp, jagged edge of his words—played on an endless, agonizing loop in his head.
“Just leave me alone, Piarry! Stop hovering, for once in your life, will you? It’s not that deep!”
The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
He could still picture the exact moment they left his lips. Piarry hadn’t yelled back. She hadn’t rolled her eyes or thrown her hands up in the dramatic fashion everyone in their circle expected. Instead, she had just gone completely still. Her eyes—usually bright, expressive, and fiercely loyal—had widened slightly, stung by a cruelty that came entirely unprovoked. She had set the glass of iced tea she was bringing him down on the side table, murmured a quiet "My bad," and walked out without another word.
That quiet withdrawal hurt infinitely worse than any shouting match ever could.
Yaya dragged a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes until stars danced behind his eyelids. Shame burned hot and sharp beneath his skin, radiating straight from his chest down to his stomach. How could he have been so callous? Piarry had spent the entire week running errands for him, helping him organize the chaotic backlog of paperwork for the community center, and checking in on him when everyone else was too busy with their own lives. She was the one constant, the rock of the whole group, and he had snapped at her like a cornered animal just because he was stressed about a deadline.
"Stupid. Man, you are an absolute idiot," Yaya whispered to himself, his voice cracking in the empty room.
He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the rug. The digital clock on the microwave glared at him: 1:15 AM. It was late, but the guilt was a living thing inside him, refusing to let him sleep. He couldn't just wait until morning. Every minute that passed with Piarry thinking he actually meant those words felt like an eternity.
Grabbing his keys from the counter, Yaya stepped out into the quiet night. The drive to Piarry’s place was a blur of neon streetlights and blurring shadows. His mind raced with a thousand different ways to apologize, none of them sounding quite good enough. How do you take back a verbal dagger? How do you look someone in the eye when you’ve let your worst impulses win?
When he finally pulled up outside her apartment building, a single warm light was still glowing from her second-story window.
Yaya killed the engine, sat in the dark for a moment, and took a deep, steadying breath. He climbed out of the car, walked up the steps, and raised his hand to knock. For a second, hesitation paralyzed him—what if she didn’t want to talk to him? What if she told him to go away?
He knocked anyway. Softly at first, then a little more firmly.
A few moments passed, the soft shuffle of slippers against the floor, and the door clicked open. Piarry stood in the doorway, wearing an oversized hoodie, her hair tied up in a loose clip. She looked surprised, her gaze shifting from Yaya’s anxious face down to his posture, which was practically screaming an apology.
"Yaya? What are you doing here at this hour? Is everything okay?" Her voice was laced with concern, despite everything. That kindness—that unearned, stubborn grace—broke whatever defenses he had left.
Yaya swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Can I... can I come in?"
Piarry stepped back, holding the door open for him. He walked into the familiar warmth of her living room, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he turned to face her immediately, hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide how badly they were shaking.
"I didn't come with an excuse, Piarry," Yaya started, his voice barely above a whisper, raw and entirely stripped of pride. "There isn't one. What I said earlier... the way I spoke to you... it was ugly. And it was completely unfair. You’ve been holding things down for me, looking out for me when I’ve been an absolute mess, and I took all my frustration out on the one person who didn't deserve it."
He looked up, meeting her gaze, his eyes shining with a vulnerability he rarely showed anyone. "I'm sitting at home right now, and I honestly can't even stand myself. I am so deeply ashamed of how I treated you. If you’re mad at me, or if you don't want to talk to me for a while, I completely understand. But I couldn't sleep another minute without telling you how sorry I am."
Piarry stood listening, her arms loosely crossed over her chest. The tension that had lived between them all evening slowly began to uncoil, replaced by a quiet, heavy understanding. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the genuine remorse carved into every line of his face.
She let out a long breath, a faint, wry smile touching the corners of her lips, though her eyes remained soft.
"You really know how to ruin a peaceful night, Yaya," she murmured, though the bite was entirely gone from her tone. She walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up two mugs, and motioned toward the kettle. "You want some tea? Because if we’re going to sit here processing your existential crisis at one in the morning, I’m going to need caffeine."
Yaya let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours, a mixture of immense relief and lingering humility washing over him. He nodded, stepping forward to help.
"Yeah," Yaya said softly, his shoulders finally dropping. "Yeah, I'd like that
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