Page 12 of Isaia

It was like watching a Greek god get knocked down to human level, and I had a front-row seat to the comedy.

But the way he looked at me—those melted chocolate eyes, there was something under all that seriousness, something that made me feel like I’d brushed against a live wire. His gaze was so intense, as if searching for something, like he didn’t trust any of it.

I shake off the thoughts and shuffle into the kitchen, Luna’s paws tapping behind me to her short-legged rhythm.

Coffee first. Always.

I fill the kettle, grab my favorite mug, and while the water heats, I scoop some kibble into Luna’s bowl. She’s already sitting there, her eyes wide and hopeful. At least someone is easy to please in the mornings.

Once my coffee’s brewed, I take a sip, glancing around the living room.

Half-packed boxes are scattered everywhere—my life summed up in cardboard and bubble wrap.

No pictures on the walls, save for that one cheap painting of a sunset I picked up somewhere. It’s temporary—just like me.

Always in transit. Always moving. Never staying too long.

My life feels like a series of half-packed boxes and half-hearted goodbyes, and I’m used to it. I tell myself it’s easier that way—no roots, no ties, no complications. Just me and Luna, bouncing from one place to the next.

Not because I have to, because I choose to.

My mom always said I was a free spirit—a shifting wind that couldn’t be held down. Or maybe I was just trying to not be her by settling. People make wrong choices when they search for stability too desperately, become complacent as freedom fades.

Isn’t it ironic? A rolling stone like me, bouncing from place to place, came from a woman so rooted that she let herself wither in the very soil she clings to.

Maybe that’s why I’ve made a habit of never staying too long. Every time I unpack fully, it feels like a piece of me is getting buried, like I’m inching closer to becoming her.

I won’t become her.

I won’t settle and sell my soul in the process.

My phone vibrates with a message from Molly. She’s the new friend, the one I work with at a local coffee shop, the one I’ll swap stories with, laugh with, drink with, and cry with the day I leave. It’s a familiar cycle, one that can be equal parts bitter and freeing.

I smile as I read her message.

Coffee?

It’s my last day off.

Stop kidding yourself. We both know you’ll show up sooner or later for a fix.

She’s right.

There’s a reason I chose to work at quaint little coffeeshops. I’m a total coffee addict, but I have standards. The stuff they sell at the supermarket doesn’t come close to a perfectly brewed java.

I push myself off the worn-out couch, deciding that a fresh cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt charcoal dipped in aloe is worth the effort.

That rich caffeine boost may be my only real addiction, but its force is strong enough to stir my otherwise wanderlust-infused existence into motion.

I send a short reply.

Be there in a few.

I tug the white dress down over my hips, the fabric light and airy against my skin. As I shift, it catches the air just enough to sway, grazing mid-thigh. The long sleeves drape loosely, adding a subtle flair with every movement.

I drape the rust-colored scarf softly around my neck, its texture a comforting contrast to the lightness of the dress. The warm, earthy tone breaks the monotony of white, pulling the whole look together.

The suede of my boots brushes my legs as I step, the fringe at my knees swishing with a soft rhythm. There’s something satisfying in the way they move—free, relaxed, like the day I’m dressing for.

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