“My neighbor,” she said. “She’s dramatic.”
By the second night, the party had become louder, but Maya had become quieter. Every time the music stopped for a second, she thought she heard crying. She would quickly turn her head, her heart racing, only to realize it was just laughter coming from another room or someone shouting near the water.
And yet she did not go home.
Pride is a strange thing.
Sometimes it keeps people standing.
Sometimes it prevents them from saving what matters.
On the third morning, Maya woke up on a couch with a pounding headache and a terrible weight pressing against her chest. The house smelled of spilled drinks and old smoke. Her friends were asleep. The lake outside looked calm, almost innocent.
She reached for her phone.
Twelve missed calls.
Seven messages.
The last message was from Mrs. Linda.
Maya, please answer me. I’ve knocked and knocked. I can’t hear the baby anymore. Come home right now.
Maya read it once.
Then again.
The phone slipped from her hand.
For the first time in three days, she did not imagine herself trapped.
She imagined her son.
The yellow onesie.
The missing sock.
The tiny fingers near his cheek.
The crib in that silent room.
She drove home without saying anything to anyone. The entire way, she kept whispering that he was sleeping, that everything would be fine, that Mrs. Linda was overreacting, that babies were stronger than people thought.
But the closer she got to the building, the less she believed herself.
When Maya arrived, Mrs. Linda was waiting for her in the hallway. The elderly woman was still wearing her slippers, her face pale, one hand pressed against the wall as if she needed it to keep herself standing.
“Maya,” she said, and her voice broke before she could finish.
Maya walked past her and fumbled with the keys.
The door opened.
The apartment was silent.
