I wake up reluctantly after spending the last hour trying to fall asleep, but it's too early to get up. I hide under the sheets, leaving only my head out.

As I see the fog covering my window, I frown. Surely the town fair is going to be a challenge today.

I gaze at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a sigh and lazily getting out of bed. I blindly open the drawer of the bedside table, the sound of the pill blister echoing in the room as I take one out. I walk barefoot on the cold floor to the bathroom, turn on the tap, and swallow the pill.

Immersing myself in the hot water, the steam envelops my body, easing my muscle tension. As I lather myself, I carefully inspect my body, noticing with concern that there's only a small bruise on my forearm, like the only trace of what happened. I swallow hard and stop looking at it. Despite the images that come to my mind, I continue washing, suppressing my anger and confusion not to ruin my day.

Once I step out of the shower, I prepare for the rainy weather, dressing in my rain pants, boots, scarf, and waterproof jacket. Then, I open my bedside table drawer to look for my glasses.

At some unavoidable moment, I'll have to organize all this to avoid these delays.

With fatigue, I meticulously search every corner, every object, but my gaze stops at a box hidden in the back. By the name, I know it's the medicine I should take daily, but I don't understand why it looks different. Suddenly, I feel uneasy. I gather the other old boxes to compare, and to my surprise, I can't help but roll my eyes. Could they have made a mistake again? Have I been taking the wrong medication all of last week?

"I'll grow older waiting!"

"I'm coming!" I shout back to Dad. I take one last look at the pills and, leaving my glasses behind, I put them back in their place and close the drawer. The girl at the pharmacy will have a long conversation with me.

As I step into the backyard, the dense fog and fine rain envelop me, gently caressing my cheeks like tiny splinters.

"Good morning, young lady," my father says with a raspy voice while holding a pot with his hands resembling oak branches.

"Good morning," I reply.

I don't understand why Mom insisted so much on helping him. Perhaps it's a consequence of being grounded, as I find myself standing in the rain watching Dad take care of everything. My presence seems to be more of a burden than a help. I rub my nose. Finally, when he's done, we get into the truck together.

"Daughter, do you know what saudable means?"

Until he finally speaks to me. He steps on the accelerator to drive us into the street.

"No," I reply honestly. "What is it?"

"A feeling caused by distance, like the longing for something loved that makes you melancholic. It is a word in Spanish." he says attentively, and I process the new information.

"Oohh," I nod slowly.

Interesting. I pat my pockets for my cellphone, but I can't find it. As I can't write it down immediately, I try to keep it in my mind.

Sauda... Saudae... Sa- What was it?

"Lately, you've been looking like that a lot."

"Like what?"

"Saudable."

Saudable... Saudable... Saudable... Saudable.

"I'm pretty sure I don't feel that way at all," I think and say out loud.

Dad runs his hand through his hair, his fingers sliding through his gray locks. An expression of concern appears on his wrinkled face, his eyes reflecting a mix of fatigue and dilemma. He sighs deeply. That worries me, so I stop looking at him.

"I can't understand what's been happening to you lately, but your attitude has undergone a radical change, and that concerns us."

"Why? If I haven't done anything wrong," I furrow my brow.

"I'm not trying to challenge you, please, stay calm," he softens his voice, "It's not just about taking action, but the intentions behind it and how you treat us in the process."

"Us?"

"Your parents."

I take a deep breath.

"I don't know what to say," I almost stutter because I didn't see this coming.

"Starting with an apology would be fine."

An apology? I furrow my brow again.

"If I don't, will I be grounded for life? That's unfair," I cross my arms and look out the window.

Immediately, my mother's voice saying "don't be rebellious, Ademia" comes to my mind, and I couldn't disagree more. Rebellious? Are they considering me rebellious now? Is that what they think? It confuses me and frustrates me. I've been so compassionate, accommodating to their rules, and for them to say this is to undermine everything I've tried to be for them. It seems like making mistakes is not an option for them, and free expression is a crime.

I close my eyes and tighten my crossed arms. If only they knew that I have truly serious issues, unrelated to sitting around planning to rebel against my family, maybe they would understand. But what am I saying? They never would.

"I won't force you, but please, remain calm," he says, "It's just that something has happened to you in the past week. I don't know what changed, but you've been having more arguments with your mother. Look at how you behave, daughter," he pauses, "You're being grounded. It hasn't happened since you turned eighteen. I mention this hoping you'll reflect on it."

"Eighteen? I turned eighteen a month ago."

"Oh, um, sorry," he clears his throat and adjusts his collar, "Forget what I said, please," he observes my puzzled expression and continues, "It's just that I see you growing up and becoming a young adult, and sometimes, I forget to acknowledge it, that's all."

Still not understanding, I don't bother to hide the confusion expressed on my face. Why is he suddenly getting nervous?

"I see..." I shake my head, "But I'm fine," I hasten to add, "And I won't let this go unnoticed, I'll reflect, don't worry."

Dad nods thoughtfully. Although his expectations might differ from what I just said, in this strange context, it's the only thing I can formulate in my mind. An awkward moment hangs between us, as if the weight of the unspoken words resonates in the air. However, our arrival at our destination marks the end of that conversation, and it slowly fades into oblivion.

The road to the fair is covered with puddles, so I avoid tripping, jumping, and dodging carefully, while my confident father goes through them without hesitation. The smell of fresh fish permeates the air, and the spectacle of fishermen unloading their daily catch at the nearby pier can be observed. As we pass by them, they greet my father with smiles and a friendly "good morning, Lorenzo," completely ignoring my presence, as if I were just a shadow on the path.

"I'm the glassblower's daughter now," I fake complain, and my father laughs.

"It was a general greeting," he tries to convince me, but I don't believe him.

"As you say~"

Finally, we arrive at my father's spot where he has been situated for years. The plants, under the protection of a tarp, look lush and green. My father quickly shows me how to care for them to make them more appealing and how to label the pots. As we work, I notice that the other vendors also seek refuge from the cold and adapt to the weather, but despite everything, they seem to be in good spirits. This town relies on fishing; most of the inhabitants are fishermen, so the fair is an opportunity to share and sell their seafood products.

Here, it smells like fish and sardines, except for me, as I'm allergic. Ironical and timely of me.

But my morning becomes tedious as the minutes pass. I'm just here, watching everyone buy and laugh. But I, sitting with my hands in my jacket pockets, can only observe them and think that I'd rather be in my warm bed, sleeping. It's not until a familiar and youthful face occupies my entire field of vision.

"Earth to Chlorine," she approaches me with a smile. My face immediately lights up.

"Camila, great to see you," I say honestly and hug her without thinking.

My friend didn't expect me to take this action. I know she's not my family, and this kind of contact may put us both in an awkward situation, but I feel a strong need for comfort that I don't care if I get scolded later. I need to feel someone else's consolation, and the need is so intense that I don't mind the consequences. I know it might seem selfish, but I'm sure my friend understands.

"What brings this on? Are you going to break the rules now?" she doesn't push me away, but she doesn't hug me back either, and I don't let go of her.

"Take me away from here, let's go for a walk," I plead, and she finally separates from my side and looks at me with a half-smile.

"Mr. Leigton," she says and walks past Camila and me, "How are you doing?"

"But look who we have here," he wrinkles the corner of his eyes in joy, "What brings you here?"

"I have a question for you, Mr. Leigton, how do you see it?"

Dad, sitting on an old metal basket, lets out a short laugh at my friend's response, and she rushes to speak again:

"Is Chlorine on her lunch break?" he switches glances between Camila and me, "The weather calls for a trip to the pier; the waves are quite a spectacle."

I almost beg her with my eyes to get his permission, and his countenance writes the words of my mother forbidding me to go to the pier. In the end, he lets me go. I thank him and intertwine my arm with Camila's to start walking. I had no idea I needed to do this; my friend insisted that I tell her what's happening, but I'm not even sure myself, so I don't tell her anything for now.

...

Today's lunch promises to be different, that's for sure. My father invited Camila, and he seemed more excited about her company than I am. As we arrive home, Dad orders me to put away the groceries. As I do so, I hear their voices in the background:

"How do you curse a tomato?"

"Ketchup be!" she replies, and they both burst into laughter.

It can't be, but still, a smile escapes me because of her bad joke. I take the paper bags filled with tomatoes and cheese and close the truck's door. As I enter the house, I call my mother.

"We're here!"

She doesn't hear me because she has her headphones on, so I wait for her to finish what she's doing before approaching her. She's humming a song and swiftly marks something on the calendar, as she does every day. When she puts the marker in her pocket, she steps away to go out the back door. I shake my head, smiling a half-smile; after all, they see me as the forgetful one in the family.

I lower the bag and approach to start putting everything away. As I'm about to open the refrigerator, I accidentally glance at the calendar that's stuck to its door. I read something that furrows my brow. But...

A shiver runs down my spine, as if a cold breeze had entered through the open window. I feel the hairs on my arms stand up as my body tenses in alert. A foreboding of something wrong overtakes me, even though I have no apparent reason to feel this way. It must be a mistake.

Why has she crossed out up to Wednesday and put tomorrow's tasks if today is supposedly Sunday?

My mind starts to wander, almost stammering, thinking illogically about the "kidnapping."

🖤
Don't forget to leave your vote ✨