10 missed calls.
9 new messages.

Jerkface: Please talk to me.
Jerkface: I'm sorry for what happened.

Delete. Delete.

I slouched back in my seat, glaring at my phone. The steady hum of the car's AC was the only thing keeping me from losing it. Two days. It had been two days since I last spoke to him, and now he thought a few desperate texts would fix everything? I swiped through the rest of the messages—each one like a sharp prod to my already bruised heart—before locking my phone and shoving it into my hoodie pocket.

When we left Washington, it was raining—a soft, familiar drizzle that made me want to curl up with a blanket and disappear. Now, I was suffocating in the Arizona heat, the desert stretching endlessly outside the car window. Red rocks, dry brush, and an empty horizon. Nothing but miles of nothing.

I wasn't supposed to be here—not in this car, not on this trip, not spending the summer before my senior year sweating in the backseat with my two annoying little brothers. I was supposed to be in Hawaii. Beaches, sunsets, and everything I'd been dreaming about for months. Instead, I was stuck in a family SUV, driving through the middle of nowhere, my summer plans crushed.

All thanks to him. And her.

My throat tightened just thinking about it. That bonfire last weekend had ruined everything. I'd been so excited to hang out with my best friends, Brianna and Celeste, and kick off the summer with laughter and good vibes. Instead, I found my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—wrapped around a cheerleader like she was the only person in the world. The betrayal felt like a slap, sharp and humiliating.

We'd been together since eighth grade. I thought we were solid, the kind of couple people envied. But no. He couldn't even make it to senior year before throwing it all away. Now, I had nothing—no boyfriend, no fun summer plans, no escape.

"Are we there yet?" Ethan whined from the seat beside me, his face glued to his Nintendo Switch.

"No," Elijah answered flatly, not even looking up from his own game. "Dad just said four more hours, genius."

"Boys," Mom warned from the front seat, her tone sharp and tired. "Enough. Don't start."

I sighed, tugging my earbuds back in, but the car's tight quarters made it impossible to block out their constant bickering. Between their whining, the heat, and the 20-hour drive from Washington, I was already done with this trip.

My phone buzzed again, but I didn't bother checking. Instead, I scrolled through Instagram, where Brianna was twirling under an Italian sunset, and Celeste was lounging on a yacht in Greece. Their captions were all smiles and wanderlust, while I sat here sweating in my hoodie, watching a coyote carcass bake on the side of the highway.

"Bathroom break!" Dad's voice cut through the tension as he steered into the nearest gas station.

"Finally!" Ethan groaned, stretching dramatically like he'd been trapped for days.

"Finally," Elijah echoed, shooting me a smirk.

Twins. I rolled my eyes, unbuckling my seatbelt as Dad pulled into a parking spot.

The heat hit me like a punch as soon as I stepped outside. The dry air wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating, making my skin prickle. The asphalt beneath my sneakers radiated heat, the smell sharp and acrid. I regretted my choice of black yoga pants and an oversized light purple Nike hoodie instantly, but it wasn't like I had packed for a desert vacation.

Inside, the gas station was an assault on the senses—blaring fluorescent lights, humming freezers, rows of brightly colored junk food, and shelves stacked with tacky souvenirs. Miniature cacti, dreamcatchers, and mugs with "I survived the Arizona heat!" screamed at me from every corner.

"Grab snacks if you want," Mom called as she headed toward the restroom.

The twins bolted for the candy aisle, their Switches forgotten for the moment. I lingered by the freezer section, savoring the frosty air as I scanned the options. My eyes landed on Ben & Jerry's edible cookie dough, and my mood lifted just a little. Those things were my weakness, and double win—I'd just gotten paid from my part-time job at the boba tea shop.

I grabbed the pint and turned, but bumped into someone.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," I said, looking up—and froze.

He was my age, with dark brown wavy hair that looked effortlessly tousled. His white T-shirt hugged his athletic frame, his arms toned and tan, and he wore gray sweatpants that somehow looked casual but polished. But it was his eyes that stopped me.

Seafoam green. Bright and striking, like polished emeralds touched by sunlight. They shimmered with silver undertones, radiating energy and calm at the same time. I felt my cheeks heat as I realized I was blatantly checking him out.

"It's all right," he said, his voice smooth and warm as he bent to pick up my ice cream. "Here you go."

"Thanks," I muttered, clutching the pint to my chest as I stepped back, my face burning.

Before I could escape, another voice rang out.

"Babe, hurry up! The gang's waiting."

I glanced over to see her—a girl with fiery auburn hair and golden skin that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. Of course.

"Coming, Ava," he called, tossing snacks into a basket and walking toward her, forgetting I even existed.

I sighed inwardly, disappointment curling in my chest. So much for a summer fling.

Back in the car, I peeled open the ice cream and let the sweet chill soothe my frustration as the twins started arguing about who got to sit in the middle. No surprise there.

Copper Ridge, Arizona, unfolded before us like a bittersweet postcard.

The small town had its charm—hiking trails that wove through golden canyons, cozy cafes where the scent of fresh pastries mingled with roasted espresso, and colorful art galleries tucked into adobe buildings. Normally, I'd be excited to soak it all in. But this year, Copper Ridge felt more like a consolation prize for the summer I'd dreamed of—a summer I'd wanted to spend in Hawaii.

We pulled up to our vacation home, the familiar sight rising out of the sunbaked landscape like a mirage. The house was a modern oasis, striking and bold. Deep red stone walls blended seamlessly with smooth gray concrete, reflecting the rocky terrain around it. Black-framed windows stretched across the front, catching the light of the endless blue sky, while an asymmetrical flat roof gave the house a sleek, contemporary edge.

A winding stone path curved toward the front door, bordered by red sand and resilient desert shrubs that swayed gently in the breeze. The centerpiece of the yard—a circular fire pit filled with shimmering blue glass—sat on a neatly laid stone patio, its wire-frame chairs waiting for starlit nights. Above it all, tall trees stretched their gnarled branches skyward, casting just enough shade to tease relief from the heat.

It was beautiful. It really was. But today, it felt like a trap.

This place held memories. Campfires that glowed into the night, lazy mornings filled with laughter, and last summer... him. My ex. We'd spent hours hiking together, roasting marshmallows by the fire, sneaking moments that had felt effortless and perfect. Now, those memories hung over this house like shadows I couldn't shake.

"Are you two just going to run off, or are you helping with the bags?" I called after my twin brothers, Ethan and Elijah, as they darted toward the house.

Elijah shot me a smug grin and stuck out his tongue. Ethan didn't even look back.

"Okay, Mahlia," Mom said, her voice sharp with exhaustion. "Let it go and just help us unload."

"Fine," I muttered, trudging to the trunk.

That's me—Mahlia. Mahlia Mondragon. My two best friends nicknamed me "M&M," like the candy, because they insist I'm sweet on the outside and even sweeter once you get to know me. My parents, however, thought they were being poetic when they named me, pulling inspiration from mahal kita, which means "I love you" in Tagalog. It's a lovely sentiment—until you're screaming at your brothers to stop hogging the bathroom, and then it just feels ironic.

My parents both speak Tagalog fluently, but I never learned. I didn't grow up in the Philippines, so the language—and its connection to my name—feels like a bridge I've never been able to cross. Sometimes I wonder if I'd feel more at home in my name if I could speak the words that inspired it.

I grabbed the luggage while Dad unlocked the front door. The metallic click of the lock echoed in the quiet evening air, followed by the soft creak of hinges and the cool, inviting whoosh of air conditioning as we stepped inside. The familiar scent of cedar and something faintly floral hit me, like the house was giving me a quiet welcome back.

The living room looked exactly as I remembered it—open, airy, and effortlessly modern. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the desert landscape like an ever-changing piece of art, casting golden light across the room. A sleek fireplace with a metallic finish anchored the space, its sharp lines softened by neutral leather sofas, plush ottomans, and patterned throw pillows that added just the right amount of texture.

Above, white-painted beams stretched across a vaulted ceiling, giving the room an airy, expansive feel. Geometric rugs covered the polished stone floor, while desert plants in ceramic pots brought a touch of life to the otherwise minimalist space.

To one side, the dining area featured a wrought-iron table surrounded by matching chairs, perfectly placed near the fireplace. It was cozy and elegant, like everything else in the house.

"Where do you want these?" I asked, dropping the bags in the middle of the room.

"Just leave them there for now," Dad said, heading toward the kitchen with a grocery bag in hand.

The kitchen was as sleek as the rest of the house, with glossy white cabinets that contrasted sharply with dark countertops. A polished stone tile floor reflected light, while a central island with a built-in sink added extra counter space. Above the island, modern pendant lights hung in a clean row, their soft glow warming the edges of the room. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the light, their surfaces smudge-free and perfect, like no one had ever dared to use them.

From upstairs, I could hear the twins already bickering over whose room was better. Typical.

I dropped onto the nearest sofa, letting the cool leather press against my overheated skin. The house was stunning—every detail a flawless blend of modern sophistication and rustic charm.

But it wasn't Hawaii.

It wasn't white sand beaches, or sunsets dipping into the ocean, or the getaway I'd spent months looking forward to. Instead, it was Copper Ridge. The town where I was stuck, piecing together a summer I didn't want while trying to forget the shards of a relationship I thought would last.

I stared out the massive windows at the desert beyond. The setting sun bathed the landscape in hues of gold and orange, the light catching on the jagged edges of the rocks, making them glow like fire. It was breathtaking, in its way—untamed and raw, like the desert was daring me to find its beauty.

But as much as I wanted to let it distract me, the ache in my chest wouldn't budge.

This wasn't what I'd planned.

This wasn't the summer I'd wanted.

After we finished putting everything away, I headed upstairs to my room. The hallway smelled faintly of cedar and lavender, and as I opened the door to my space, it felt like stepping into a bubble of familiarity—unchanged and yet somehow different.

The bedroom was a blend of rustic charm and all the quirks that made it mine. The vaulted ceiling, with its exposed wooden beams, stretched high above, lending the space a sense of airy calm. Light wooden planks covered the walls, their natural texture softened by the sunlight spilling through the sheer white curtains.

The bed anchored the room, low to the floor and layered in crisp white sheets that contrasted with textured throws. A plush amethyst blanket lay draped at the foot of the bed, its vibrant hue echoed in the lavender and soft rose-toned pillows propped against the headboard. Beneath it, a bold rug stretched across the floor, its deep purples, oranges, and golds mimicking the dramatic colors of an Arizona sunset.

But the bookshelves were what made this room mine. They spanned nearly the entire wall, overflowing with stories that reflected every facet of my imagination—fantasy romances that made my heart race, gripping YA thrillers that kept me on edge, and the occasional historical fiction that pulled me into other times and places. Fairy lights framed the shelves, casting a soft, magical glow over the rows of spines.

Nestled among the books were my vlogging cameras, Polaroid cameras, and stacks of scrapbooks and photo albums. Tucked into those albums were pieces of my life—snippets of joy, laughter, and friendship. Then there were the items my ex had given me: small, thoughtful tokens I used to treasure. Now, they were just reminders of a relationship that felt too raw to think about.

I ran my hand along the edge of the shelf and sighed. It wasn't just the heartbreak that hurt—it was what those gifts used to mean. What they'd represented. I knew it was time to pack them away, but for now, I let them stay.

Above the bookshelves, framed photos told the story of happier moments: one of me, Brianna, and Celeste grinning wildly on a school trip; another of my family hiking the Copper Ridge trails back when this house still felt like a getaway. The memories in those photos wrapped around me, bittersweet and heavy.

Across the room, my desk sat tucked into its usual cozy corner, the surface cluttered with notebooks, scattered pens, and my favorite lavender-scented candle. Above it, a corkboard was alive with Polaroids and scraps of paper. Polaroids of me and my friends during bonfires and lazy weekends were pinned alongside pictures of my ex and me. My throat tightened as I stared at them, knowing those moments didn't belong here anymore. Maybe it was time to take them down.

The scraps of paper were covered in scribbled quotes—some funny, some poignant, others cheesy in a way that made me smile despite myself. Together, they felt like pieces of me, a map of the things I'd dreamed of and believed in.

As the sun sank lower, the room shifted. The amber glow spilling through the curtains mixed with the fairy lights, bathing the space in soft, golden hues. It was warm and beautiful, almost like a dream.

I let my bag slide to the floor and collapsed onto the bed, the mattress sinking beneath me as I stared up at the ceiling beams. This room had always been my sanctuary, the one place where I could lose myself in books or thoughts or ideas bigger than anything else. But now, it felt smaller. The weight of this summer seemed to press in from every direction, as if even my sanctuary couldn't hold it all.

I reached for a book on the nightstand, its worn cover soft beneath my fingers. The scent of paper and ink was as familiar as an old friend, and the satisfying crack of the spine offered a fleeting comfort.

This room, these stories—they were still mine, no matter how much else had changed.

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A/N: Okay, another book? I know, I know. What the heck am I doing to myself? This idea plot came to mind, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. Also, yep, Mondragon because I love the last name and I know a few people will know where the last name comes from. Hehe!