Aria didn't move.
The door remained half-open behind her, the early morning light spilling into the apartment like an accusation. Her fingers curled slowly at her sides as her eyes locked onto her mother.
Arabella Bennett sat straight-backed in the chair near the window, her posture calm, composed too composed. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced, her face unreadable in that way only a mother's could be when disappointment outweighed anger.
The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. Arabella had been there for a while.
"How long have you been standing there?" Arabella asked quietly.
Aria swallowed. "Just got back."
"From where?"
The question landed softly, but it carried weight. Aria closed the door behind her, the click echoing louder than it should have.
"I stayed out," she said. "With a friend."
Arabella nodded once, as though she'd expected that answer. "A friend," she repeated. "All night."
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them. It wasn't the explosive kind Aria had braced herself for. It was worse measured, controlled, heavy with things left unsaid.
Arabella finally stood, smoothing the fabric of her blouse. "Sit down."
Aria hesitated before obeying, dropping her bag near the door and perching on the edge of the couch. She felt suddenly sixteen again smaller, uncertain, stripped of the confidence she wore so easily outside these walls.
"I called you," Arabella said. "Twice."
"I didn't hear my phone."
"That's convenient."
Aria flinched, just slightly.
Arabella turned to face her fully now. "Aria, this isn't like you."
Something in her mother's tone less accusatory, more wounded made Aria's chest tighten.
"I know," she said quietly.
"You don't disappear," Arabella continued. "You don't come home in the morning without a word. And you certainly don't let your grades slip the way they have."
That did it.
Aria looked down at her hands. "I'm trying."
Arabella exhaled slowly. "Trying what?"
"Trying to keep everything together."
Her mother studied her then, really looked at her. The dark circles beneath her eyes. The tension she carried even while sitting still. Arabella's expression softened, but only slightly.
"Your professor called," she said. "Langley."
Aria's stomach dropped.
"She's concerned," Arabella went on. "She said you've been distracted. Missing deadlines. That this isn't the Aria Bennett she knows."
Aria laughed once, bitterly. "Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
The words stung, but they weren't cruel. They were honest.
Arabella crossed the room and sat across from her. "Talk to me."
Aria opened her mouth then closed it again.
What was she supposed to say?
That she was tired of being strong?
That she'd spent so long guarding herself she didn't know who she was without the armor?
That every time she let someone close, she felt like she was betraying the version of herself who had survived heartbreak before?
"I don't know how," Aria finally said.
Arabella's gaze softened further. "You don't have to have the right words. Just the truth."
Aria looked up, her eyes glossy. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of losing myself," she admitted. "Of becoming someone I don't recognize just because I let someone in."
Arabella didn't interrupt. She waited.
"There was a time," Aria continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "when I believed love was safe. When I thought if you gave enough, it would give back. That's not how it works."
Arabella stiffened slightly. "This is about a boy."
Aria almost smiled. "It's always about more than that."
Her mother leaned back, absorbing that.
"You raised me to be careful," Aria said. "To protect my future. I listened. I did everything right. And still… things broke."
Arabella reached for her hand before she could stop herself. Aria let her.
"You're allowed to feel," Arabella said softly. "But you're not allowed to disappear."
"I wasn't disappearing," Aria said. "I just needed space."
"From us?"
"No," she said quickly. "From expectations. From being perfect."
That landed.
Arabella looked away, toward the window. Outside, the city moved on as if nothing inside this apartment mattered.
"Your father worries," Arabella said after a moment. "He doesn't say it out loud, but he sees the change too."
Guilt pooled in Aria's chest.
"I don't want to disappoint you," she said. "I just… I don't want to live my life afraid anymore."
Arabella turned back to her. "And this boy does he make you feel brave?"
The question caught Aria off guard.
"Yes," she admitted. "And that scares me more than anything."
Arabella was quiet for a long time.
"When I was your age," she said slowly, "I thought strength meant never needing anyone. I was wrong."
Aria blinked.
"Strength," Arabella continued, "is knowing when to let people in without letting them take you apart."
Aria's throat tightened. "What if I can't tell the difference?"
"Then you learn," Arabella said. "But not at the cost of your future."
"I won't let it," Aria promised. "I swear."
Arabella studied her daughter's face searching, measuring, trusting.
"Then prove it," she said. "Fix your grades. Show up. Be present."
"I will."
Another pause.
"And Aria?" Arabella added.
"Yes?"
"Don't lie to me. Ever."
Aria nodded. "I won't."
The tension didn't vanish, but it loosened just enough for breathing room.
Arabella stood. "Go shower. Rest. We'll talk again later."
As her mother walked toward the door, Aria spoke again.
"Mom?"
Arabella turned.
"I'm not weak," Aria said.
Arabella smiled faintly. "I know."
The door closed softly behind her.
Aria sat there for a long moment, staring at the floor. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Liam: Did you get home safe?
She stared at the screen.
For the first time, she didn't rush to respond.
She wasn't running anymore.
She was thinking.
And that, she realized, was the beginning of something far more dangerous than falling in love.