jules & mika

Jules gritted her teeth, her hands sinking into the sticky mass of rice dough in front of her. Mochi was supposed to be simple. It was rice, pounded into submission, and then shaped into perfect little orbs of chewy delight. Easy. Except, somehow, she was in a culinary warzone.

The women around her, a formidable circle of elderly Japanese grannies, worked in absolute silence. Their movements were precise, efficient, and seamless. Jules, on the other hand, was struggling. Her dough stuck to her hands, her sleeves, even the counter, despite the generous dusting of cornflour she’d thrown everywhere.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, pulling at a piece of dough that had somehow glued itself to her wrist. “Why is it so sticky?”

One of the women glanced her way, expressionless, before returning to her perfect mochi spheres. Jules sighed and tried again, this time attempting to shape the dough into a ball. It ended up looking more like a lumpy rock.

“I’m hopeless,” she grumbled, slamming her palms into the dough.

It’s hard, isn’t it? When you can’t rely on language to give you an answer. Like when you’re trying to make mochi in a room full of Japanese grannies.

Jules paused, the notebook resting open on the counter beside her. She scowled at the words, brushing a stray hair out of her face with a flour-dusted hand.

You could ask for help, you know.

“NEVER!” Jules barked, her voice ringing out louder than intended.

All the women froze and turned to look at her, their stares impassive but sharp, like a quiet judgement that made Jules feel about two inches tall.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, waving a sticky hand in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Totally fine.”

They turned back to their work without a word, leaving Jules alone with her increasingly stubborn dough.

But they wouldn’t answer you anyway.

“Sadist,” Jules muttered under her breath, glaring at the notebook. “Just you wait until you see what I have in store for you.”

Jules slammed her hands down on the counter, her arms covered in sticky rice paste. The consistency was all wrong, more like glue than dough. She glanced at the older women around her, all of them working in silence, their movements practiced and efficient. Their perfectly formed mochi lined their trays like tiny edible pearls.

She tried again, scooping up a clump of paste and rolling it between her palms. It stuck to her fingers, refusing to form a smooth ball. Gritting her teeth, she forced it into a vaguely round shape and held it up triumphantly.

“Okay,” she muttered, turning to the nearest woman. “Look at that one. Pretty good, huh?”

The woman took one look at the lumpy, misshapen mochi. Without a word, she plucked it from Jules’s hand, walked to the trash bin, and dropped it in.

Jules froze, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration. She looked back at her station, at the sticky chaos she’d created, and wanted to scream.

This is impossible. They’re impossible. And Mika? She’s probably laughing her head off right now, imagining me suffering through this.

And focusing on something as precise and difficult as… making mochi, it wasn’t easy. Not when fifty percent of her mind was full of Benson. And with great timing, that’s when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

I know you’re still in Seattle.

Speak of the devil, and he shall show.

Jules’ relationship with Benson was… complicated. He broke her heart, and that is an understatement. So the idea of seeing him after all this time, it was hard for her to say whether she wanted that or not.

Nonetheless, she shouldn’t be thinking of Benson. She should be thinking of mochi. She tried again, muttering under her breath. “Focus, Jules. Focus.” She grabbed another piece of dough, but her hands were trembling now. It stuck to her palms, tearing apart before she could shape it.

She glanced at the notebook on the counter. Mika’s words stared back at her like a challenge.

Look, if you don’t want to get tossed, you need to listen to your mochi.

“Listen to my mochi?”

I know you have a lot of big, loud ideas in your head on how things should be, but if your mind is quiet, sometimes the best answer to a problem makes itself heard. I guess this is me saying... “Go with the flow.”

You cringed, didn’t you? But that is exactly why I sent you here. Give it a try.

Listen to your mochi.

Jules furrowed her brows, leaning over the sticky mass of rice dough like it held the secrets of the universe. Her hands, coated in a thin layer of cornflour, moved with uncharacteristic delicacy as she folded, pressed, and rolled the mochi. She muttered to herself under her breath, “Listen to the mochi, Jules. Become the mochi.”

The room was silent except for the rhythmic sounds of pounding from the other women, their practiced movements making her feel like a clumsy amateur in the middle of an elite performance. She tried not to look at them—tried not to notice the quiet judgement lingering in their sideways glances. Instead, she focused entirely on the dough in her hands.

She thought about everything Mika had said in the notebook, the cryptic advice about "extreme focus." Was that what she had been lacking? Not just here, but everywhere? Her thoughts wandered for a moment to Benson’s message—his stupid, unwanted message—and she shook it off, forcing her attention back to the pliable dough in her hands.

Her fingers worked carefully now, folding the dough just so, shaping it into a soft, rounded form. She pressed her palms together gently, feeling the weight of it, listening for some unspoken signal that it was ready. Finally, she placed the mochi in front of her on the table, holding her breath.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, one by one, the Japanese grannies turned to her. Their sharp, hawk-like eyes focused on the mochi as if assessing its very soul. Jules swallowed, bracing herself for another silent dismissal. But then, something miraculous happened.

One woman clapped.

And then another.

And another.

Soon, the room was filled with the sound of applause, their weathered hands coming together in a rare, joyful rhythm.

For the first time that day, Jules felt like she belonged—at least a little—in this quiet, stoic group.

She glanced back down at her creation, proud and maybe even a little moved. “See that, Mika?” she murmured to herself. “I’m listening.”

Mika walked into Build and Break with the notebook tucked under her arm, half-expecting some kind of Herculean challenge designed to push her out of her comfort zone. She had braced herself for an intense experience: scaling walls, solving riddles, or maybe even public speaking. But as she stood there among five strangers, surrounded by random objects—tools, fabrics, empty cans, broken electronics—the man running the activity explained they were here to “create something, anything, using anything in the building.”

Mika blinked. That was it?

She looked at the others. One person was already arranging Coke cans in a precariously tall stack. Another was fiddling with wire, twisting it into some abstract shape. Everyone seemed so focused, so intent. Mika glanced at her hands and then around the room. She picked up some scraps of fabric, a pair of googly eyes, and a glue gun.

“Notebook Girl really underestimated me this time,” Mika thought, smirking. She started working on her project, a growing certainty that Jules (Notebook Girl) must’ve misjudged her completely. Mika had an eye for detail, a knack for creating things, and this task felt less like a challenge and more like... playtime. Maybe Jules thought Mika would crumble under pressure or hate being around strangers, but this? Mika was thriving.

A man stacking Coke cans interrupted her thoughts, announcing, “This represents how reality television ideology has become a grip on the American throat.” His tone was lofty, almost reverent. Mika raised her eyebrows but nodded. “Political. I get it,” she murmured. She didn’t, not really, but she admired his confidence.

Meanwhile, her own creation was coming together. Piece by piece, the scraps of fabric began to form a muppet. It wasn’t any specific character but rather a quirky, colourful figure that, in Mika’s mind, was what she imagined Notebook Girl might look like in real life. The colours didn’t match, and the proportions were cartoonishly wrong, but it was whimsical and carried a certain charm.

When she finished, she held it up proudly.

The Coke can man turned to her and squinted. “That muppet looks... rude.”

Mika burst out laughing. “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.” If she could’ve given herself a high five, she would’ve. Notebook Girl, wherever she was, would probably appreciate this absurd masterpiece.

Mika flipped open the notebook, wondering if she had technically completed the challenge yet. Create something, Jules had written. Well, mission accomplished. She was about to write her response when the instructor clapped his hands together.

“All right, folks. Now that we’ve created, it’s time to destroy,” he announced, his voice taking on a darker edge.

Mika’s head snapped up. “Destroy?” She repeated, her tone laced with confusion.

The man grinned. “This is the break room. Time to break some shit to feel better.”

Mika frowned. “Right, where we take a nice, fun, creative break as a group.” She gestured to the table of snacks and drinks in the corner.

The man shook his head. “No. It’s literal. Grab a bat or a hammer, pick a piece of what you made, and smash it to pieces. It’s cathartic.”

Mika’s jaw dropped as her eyes flicked back to her muppet. “Wait, you’re kidding, right? Destroy our creations?”

The man grinned wider. “That’s the whole point. Creation and destruction. Balance.”

Mika looked down at her muppet and grimaced. This was not what she had signed up for.

Mika’s stomach twisted as she looked back at her muppet, the little patchwork creation sitting on the table like it had a personality of its own. The idea of smashing it felt... wrong. She wasn’t attached to it exactly, but it represented more than just scraps of fabric glued together. It was a spark of joy, a tiny victory in a challenge she didn’t even find that hard. Destroying it felt pointless.

Her fingers hovered over the notebook, desperate for a lifeline. She flipped it open and read Jules’ words:

You told me, when it rains, you always look for the rainbow. But sometimes the rainbow doesn’t show. So what do you do? You stand in the rain and scream. Let it all out, all those messy, angry, and un-Mika feelings. Instead of hiding behind a smile and your happiness to make others happy, release all those negative emotions. Beat the crap out of something. It'll feel amazing.

Mika stared at the page, her brow furrowing. She could practically hear Jules’ voice in her head, coaxing her to let go, to do something completely out of character. But smashing the muppet wasn’t the way. Jules didn’t know her as well as she thought—Mika didn’t need to destroy things to let out her feelings. She needed something else. Something that felt more… Mika.

She decided to write her own little piece in the notebook, which of course was the game. And then decided that this was not the place she wanted to be. She left the break room clutching her muppet tightly, her chest still tight from the lingering words in the notebook. She wasn’t sure if she’d disappoint Notebook Girl or prove her wrong, but she knew smashing (or in this case, cutting) her muppet wasn’t the answer for her.

So, after a long thought and careful consideration, Mika decided the best place she could go that felt like her was the dog park.

The dog park had been a good decision. She sat on a bench, doling out treats from a pack she’d picked up at the corner store to eager dogs who didn’t seem to mind that she wasn’t their owner. Their wagging tails and happy barks were grounding, a reminder that joy could be simple and unforced.

But now, as she wandered out of the park, she heard a familiar voice call out her name.

“Mika?”

She turned to see Taryn leaning against a lamppost, her expression equal parts amused and curious.

“Taryn!” Mika blinked in surprise. It hadn’t been that long since she’d run into her, and the last time hadn’t exactly been a shining moment. Taryn had made some offhand comment about Mika being “weird,” and Mika had spiralled into an overthinking storm.

Taryn gestured to the crinkled bag in Mika’s hand. “Were you seriously feeding other people’s dogs?”

Mika’s heart sank. Here it came again, the subtle judgement, the not-so-veiled reminder that she was a little offbeat. She opened her mouth to respond, ready to defend herself, but Taryn beat her to it.

“You’re so weird.”

Mika froze, the word stinging like a slap. Her face flushed, and for a moment, she thought she might actually lose it again, just like last time. But before she could say anything, Taryn raised her hands, palms out, as if to calm her.

“Wait! I didn’t mean it like that!” Taryn said quickly. “Seriously, Mika, I meant it as a compliment.”

Mika blinked. “A… compliment?”

“Yeah.” Taryn shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “I don’t know. I’ve always kind of admired you for it. You’ve always been so… unapologetically yourself, you know? Even when we were kids.”

Mika frowned. “That’s not how I remember it.”

Taryn laughed softly, a little bitterly. “Yeah, well, that’s because I was a jerk back then. I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that I was jealous of you.”

Mika’s mouth dropped open, and she was silent.

“So,” Taryn continued, breaking the silence, “there’s this slam poetry event happening tonight in the neighbourhood. You should come. It’s kind of artsy and emotional, totally up your alley.”

“Slam poetry?” Mika echoed, still trying to process everything.

“Yeah. You should come. You’ll fit right in.” Taryn smirked.

“You’re going to slam poetry?” Mika asks.

“Just trying to be someone new. Someone authentic. Someone like you,” Taryn says, pointing towards Mika. “You’re something, Mika. You always have been. Time to get used to it because…well, other people notice.”

As if to emphasise her point, Taryn lifted her wrist and flashed a familiar piece of jewellery: a slightly frayed bracelet woven with uneven strands of purple and green thread.

Taryn started to walk away, and Mika stood rooted to the spot, watching as she disappeared down the street. Her mind buzzed with questions and emotions she couldn’t quite pin down.

“Utterly bizarre,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

And yet, as bewildered as she felt, there was a small, warm glow in her chest that hadn’t been there before.

The notebook sat open on the coffee table, its pages calling to her like they always did when her thoughts grew too tangled. Mika’s latest message was still fresh in her mind: I couldn’t destroy my creation. But that’s okay, because this notebook is what I would call the perfect vessel to release my emotions, whether they’re good or bad. I feel like I can tell you anything.

Jules sighed, tapping her pen against her knee as she sat cross-legged on the couch. Mika’s words always had a way of getting under her skin, forcing her to think about things she’d rather not. What emotions had she been bottling up lately? And why did she feel so compelled to release them here, in this notebook, instead of dealing with them head-on?

Her phone buzzed beside her, dragging her out of her thoughts. She picked it up and groaned when she saw Simone’s name.

Simone:I know you’re not on a trip, so you should come to my Christmas party.

Jules put the phone down again, ignoring the message. She wasn’t in the mood for a party. Especially not one where she’d have to plaster on a smile and pretend everything was fine.

The phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t Simone.

Benson:You can’t ignore me forever, Jules.

Her stomach twisted, the words feeling heavier than they should. Benson had a way of doing that—making her feel like she owed him something, like she had to respond just because he wanted her to.

“No,” she muttered, tossing the phone onto the couch as if it were on fire.

For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the notebook. Then, with a sharp breath, she grabbed her pen and flipped to a fresh page.

Dear Mika,

I love that you couldn’t destroy your creation. You always follow your—

The sound of the apartment door creaking open made her stop mid-sentence. She frowned, looking up as her dad walked in, his arm around a woman Jules had never seen before.

“Jules?” he said, clearly startled. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Jules shot back, slamming the notebook shut and setting it aside. “What are you doing here?”

The woman beside him smiled awkwardly, stepping forward with an extended hand. “Hi, I’m Lucy. You must be Jules.”

Jules sat curled on one end of the couch, her legs tucked under her, watching her dad settle into the armchair on the opposite side of the living room. The air between them felt heavy, thick with unspoken tension. She toyed with the edge of the notebook resting on her lap before finally breaking the silence.

“So,” she began, her tone sharp enough to slice through the quiet. “Why are you back from Switzerland early?”

Her dad glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “We finished looking there,” he said simply. “Decided we weren’t interested in anything else.”

“We?” Jules echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Lucy and I,” he clarified. “We were going to check out some other places, but she wanted to see the apartment first.”

Jules nodded slowly, biting her tongue. A dozen snarky comments bubbled to the surface, but she pushed them down. Instead, she leaned back into the couch, her arms crossed. “And when, exactly, were you going to let me know you were in town?”

Her father ignored the jab, his attention shifting to a loose thread on the arm of his chair. “I thought you were with your mother for the holidays,” he said, his voice even.

Jules stiffened at the mention of her mom. “I needed a break,” she said. “So, I’m hanging here.”

The room fell into silence again, the kind that made Jules itch to say something just to fill the void. But before she could, her dad cleared his throat.

“We should get dinner tonight,” he said, leaning forward. “You, me, and Lucy.”

Jules blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, she considered saying no, but the look on his face stopped her. There was something tentative about the way he suggested it, as though he was trying to bridge the growing gap between them.

“Fine,” she said, her voice quieter this time.

Her dad nodded, looking relieved, and stood. “Good,” he said. “I’ll make a reservation.”

Jules watched as he walked toward the hallway, his footsteps fading as he disappeared into another room. She let out a long sigh, pressing her palms into her face.

Grabbing the notebook from her lap, she flipped it open and picked up her pen. The pages felt cool against her fingers, grounding her in a way the conversation with her dad hadn’t.

Mika, Jules scrawled in the notebook, the pen moving with agitated speed. So, my dad is in town. A true Christmas nightmare. She paused, chewing on the end of the pen before continuing. To make things worse, I am being forced into dinner. Every year brings yet another awkward meal with his girlfriend of the week, and every year, I walk out on the meal after my father is determined to tell each of his girlfriends what a brilliant father he is (which, to clarify, he isn’t a brilliant father).

She stopped, staring at the words. They felt sharp, too sharp, and yet not enough. Shaking her head, she kept going.

The only thing that has helped during these dinners was Benson… my ex-boyfriend, who would effortlessly defuse any tension in any room, whether that would be between me and my father or anyone else, because that’s the type of person he is—

Jules abruptly ripped the page out of the notebook, the sound loud in the quiet apartment.

“Nope. No. I can’t do that,” she said out loud, her voice firm as she crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it onto the coffee table.

She tapped the pen against the edge of the notebook, frustration bubbling under her skin. After a moment, she flipped to a new page and started again.

Dear Mika, she wrote. I can’t tell the girl I like everything now, can I? I want to, but I just… can’t.

Her handwriting slowed, the words faltering on the page. Jules stared at them for a long moment before groaning and ripping out the page again.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, tossing the second crumpled ball onto the growing pile.

She slammed the notebook shut and tossed it onto the couch. Standing, she raked a hand through her hair and glanced around the apartment as though the answer to her problem might be hiding in a corner. Her gaze landed on her phone, and an idea formed.

She snatched it up, scrolling through her contacts before pressing call.

“Hey,” she said when the other person picked up. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

Jules poked at the untouched salad in front of her, her fork idly shifting leaves around the plate as the silence at the table stretched. She glanced at Lucy, sitting serenely next to her father, and decided to break the quiet.

“So, Lucy, what do you do for work?” Jules asked, her voice polite but tinged with curiosity.

“I’m in marketing,” Lucy replied, offering a small, practiced smile.

“Do you ski?” Jules continued.

“Yes, I do,” Lucy answered, a little brighter this time.

“Lucy’s great at it,” her dad chimed in, his tone warm and proud. “Unlike Jules here—she’s never been into sports. Couldn’t even get her to play soccer if I tried.” He laughed lightly. “She was more into books and smarts than kicking a ball around.”

Jules barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes, her grip tightening slightly on the fork. Before she could respond, a flicker of movement caught her eye. She looked over her father’s shoulder and saw that Benson was there.

He descended the stairs with an easy, familiar confidence, a grin lighting up his face when he spotted the table. “So, what are we talking about?” he asked, slipping into the conversation effortlessly, as always.

Jules’s father beamed, standing to shake Benson’s hand. “Benson! Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Likewise,” Benson replied smoothly before turning to Lucy. “Hi, I’m Benson.”

Lucy offered a polite smile in return. “Lucy.”

Then, finally, Benson and Jules turned to each other. Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade into the background. “Hi,” Jules said softly.

“Hi,” Benson echoed, his voice carrying a weight of familiarity and unspoken history.

Jules’s father broke the brief silence, sitting back down and asking Benson, “How was Brazil? Still chasing the waves?”

“Always,” Benson replied, his smile easy.

Her father chuckled before shifting his attention back to Jules. “You know, I always wanted to take you on trips like that, Jules, but you were always too invested in a book. Why was that?”

Jules felt the question land like a stone in her chest. She had a thousand answers—each more honest than the next—but none she could say aloud. She stared at her father, her mind spiraling. Did he really not understand why? Had he ever?

Her feelings swirled in a familiar storm. There was anger—sharp and cutting, born of years of his casual dismissal of who she was. There was sadness—a deep ache that came from wanting him to see her for more than what she wasn’t. And then there was something else, something quieter: resignation. Jules had long ago accepted that her father was who he was and that the version of her he carried in his mind wasn’t entirely real.

Yet, sitting here, caught between his obliviousness and Benson’s presence, she felt exposed. Like every part of her he had ever misunderstood was on display, with no way to shield it. She glanced at Benson, wondering if he could feel the tension radiating off her, if he saw the cracks forming in her carefully constructed composure.

Jules pushed her fork around her plate, her appetite gone as her dad, sitting across the table, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “What? Are you going to fight me on this one too?”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t bite. Not yet. She took a deep breath, remembering Mika’s words: Listen to your mochi.

She let the tension in her shoulders ease and plastered on a calm expression. “No, I wasn’t going to fight,” she said. “Actually, I was just remembering something.”

Her dad looked at her with mild curiosity, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What?”

Jules sat back, keeping her tone measured. “Do you remember how you used to take me to that little bookshop downtown? The one with the creaky floors and the cat that always sat in the window?”

His face softened, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “Of course, I remember. You used to love that place. It would be the only way I’d get you to play soccer.”

“I did,” Jules said, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “That’s where I first fell in love with books.”

Mika wandered down the hallway, the muffled sound of raised voices catching her attention. She slowed her steps as she neared Chloe's room, recognising the tense tones of her sister and Bradley mid-argument.

“I can’t believe you’re not even willing to try,” Bradley said sharply, his voice heavy with frustration.

“Because I know how this ends, Bradley,” Chloe shot back, her tone resolute. “It’s better this way.”

There was a pause, a long silence that felt like a held breath, and then Mika heard the door swing open. Bradley stormed out, his expression a mix of anger and disappointment. He caught sight of Mika, hesitated for a moment, and then said flatly, “Merry Christmas,” before brushing past her and leaving.

Mika stood there for a second, uncertain, before stepping into Chloe’s room. Chloe was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall, her jaw tight and her arms crossed.

“Chloe?” Mika said softly. “I’m sorry. Did you guys just…?”

“Break up?” Chloe cut in, her voice edged with bitterness. “Yeah.” She leaned back on her hands, her eyes briefly meeting Mika’s. “He’s leaving Seattle. Wants to move on with his life. And I’ve been through long-distance relationships before—I’m not doing that again.”

“Long distance isn’t that bad,” Mika offered, sitting down on the bed beside her sister.

Chloe let out a short, incredulous laugh and stood up, pacing across the room. “Yeah? How would you know? You’ve never even been in a relationship.”

Mika felt her cheeks flush, but she lifted her chin. “Notebook Girl,” she said firmly.

Chloe stopped pacing and looked at her sister, then burst into laughter. “That’s not a relationship, Mika. That’s a pen pal. You could still mail your little notebook to her from Fiji.”

“Fiji?” Mika asked, frowning. “Why would I mail it from Fiji?”

Chloe stared at her as if the answer should be obvious. “Come on, Mika. You really think Mom and Dad are going on a second honeymoon? Dad’s up for a job there, and they’re making you go with them.”

Mika’s stomach dropped. “What? No. What if I don’t want to go to Fiji?”

Chloe raised an eyebrow. “Why would it matter? You spend all your time with Mom, Dad, and Grandpa anyway. It’s not like you’re leaving anything behind.”

Mika blinked, the words hitting her like a slap. She stared at her sister, realisation dawning like a slow, painful burn. “You’ve all been lying to me?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Chloe’s face softened, but she didn’t deny it.

Mika sat cross-legged on her bed, her fingers gripping the edge of the book she was trying to read. But the words blurred together, refusing to hold her attention.

Mika’s mind raced as her sister’s words sank in, each one sticking like shards of glass. “You’ve all been lying to me?” It was a question that seemed too simple to carry the weight of the truth, but the more she thought about it, the heavier the meaning became. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot, and the room felt like it was closing in on her. The cool air in the room felt suffocating now, like the walls were pressing in from all sides.

Lying to me? The phrase echoed in her head like a broken record. How could they? How could they hide something like that from her? All this time, she’d believed that the trip to Fiji was something they all wanted to do together, that it was a chance to get away as a family, to escape the pressure of everyday life, and maybe—just maybe—come closer. But to know now that it had all been a lie, a decision made without her, felt like a betrayal she couldn’t quite put into words. Her heart ached with the sting of it.

She thought of her parents, the way they’d always been distant, wrapped up in their own world. The way they’d barely noticed her presence, as if her happiness was secondary to whatever their lives were focused on. The thought that they'd been planning this trip, this big change, without so much as a conversation with her—it felt like a crushing weight settling over her chest.

Mika’s eyes blurred, and for a moment, she felt the familiar rush of tears that threatened to break free. She blinked them away. She wasn’t going to cry. Not now, not over this. Instead, she pushed down the bubbling frustration, the hurt that swirled in her chest.

But deep down, she felt a bitter sadness taking root. She couldn’t quite grasp the full scope of it yet, but she knew one thing for sure: the trust she had with her family was broken. They hadn’t even given her the courtesy of being part of the decision, of asking what she wanted, of considering her feelings. The realisation hit her harder than anything else ever had. They don’t really see me, she thought, the words hanging in the air like a painful truth. They never did.

Mika took a slow, shaky breath, her hands balling into fists at her sides. She could feel the anger building, threatening to spill over. How could they do this to me? She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but instead, she just stood there in silence, letting the weight of it all settle around her.

So this is what it feels like to be invisible, she thought, staring at her sister, who was still standing there, waiting for some kind of reaction. The feeling of being unheard, unseen—just like all those times when she felt like she was nothing more than a ghost in her own home.

She let out a frustrated sigh, tossed the book onto her comforter, and stood up abruptly.

She paced around her room for a few moments before reaching for her phone. Swiping through her contacts, she called Adam’s House.

“Hi, uh, is Lucas there?” Mika asked, trying to sound casual.

…

“Also,” Mika added quickly, “is there a red notebook there? It’s very important.”

…

Mika groaned. “A notebook where I write my feelings. Because I’m very upset and need a place to process them.”

…

“No!” Mika snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. No. I don’t want pizza. I just—hello? Hello?”

The line went dead.

Mika lowered the phone, staring at it with a mix of disbelief and indignation. “They hung up on me.”

Grabbing her coat, she pulled it on with an exaggerated huff and stormed out of her room. Her boots crunched in the fresh snow as she walked aimlessly down the street, her emotions swirling. She felt frustrated, confused, and overwhelmed—everything she usually buried beneath her bright exterior.

As she walked, she passed by five snowmen lined up neatly on someone’s lawn. She stopped, glanced back at them, and something inside her snapped.

Picking up a sturdy stick from the ground, she walked over to the snowmen. Without hesitation, she swung the stick at the first one, decapitating it in one blow.

The snowmen lost their carrot noses and all toppled over completely as Mika swung wildly, her breaths coming in short bursts. By the time she finished, the yard was a battlefield of scattered snow chunks, a crumpled stick, and an exhausted Mika standing in the middle of it all.

She dropped the stick, her arms hanging at her sides as the cold air stung her cheeks. And then, despite herself, she laughed—short, bitter, and shaky.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and continued walking, the tension in her chest slightly looser. Maybe destroying a few snowmen wasn’t the solution to all her problems, but it was a start.

The poetry venue was buzzing with energy, voices blending in a low hum as Mika walked through the doors. Her cheeks were still cold from the night air, and her fingers trembled slightly—not from the cold, but from everything swirling inside her.

Without hesitating, she made her way to the stage. Her boots echoed against the wooden floor as she climbed up. The host raised an eyebrow, but Mika waved them off. “Sorry, I’m kind of just on a roll right now,” she said into the mic, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.

A few scattered claps and cheers encouraged her. She adjusted the mic stand and scanned the crowd. “Taryn. Are you here? Taryn? No?” She shrugged. “Okay. Well…” She paused, gripping the edges of the podium as the words began tumbling out. “I just beat the crap out of something, and it felt amazing.”

Laughter and a few claps erupted from the audience. Mika grinned, a little less nervous. “Thank you. Yeah, thank you. Because it’s okay to say that things suck. To admit that, it’s okay. Like my family right now—oh my god! They suck.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Mika chuckled, then her smile faded as she continued, her voice softer. “I’m not holding back anymore, not after Fiji.”

The room grew quieter as her words hung in the air. Mika took a deep breath and forged ahead.

“Here’s the truth: I’m not happy and positive all the time. I’m not. And I admit that. I also admit that I try to be because if I’m not…” She laughed bitterly. “Who else will be? In fact, I usually feel small. And like... like an outsider.”

She scanned the audience again, her gaze freezing when she saw her. Taryn. Walking down the hallway.

Mika’s chest tightened, but she didn’t stop. Her voice grew sharper, angrier. “Because of her!” she shouted, pointing toward Taryn. “There she is. My school bully, in the flesh.”

A hush fell over the room as Mika stepped down from the mic, slowly walking toward Taryn.

“That night at the middle school dance when you got that bracelet you’re wearing? That night changed everything for me,” Mika said, her voice trembling but unwavering. “Because of you, I stayed home every night and missed out on my chance to make friends, to meet new people. I don’t go to parties; I don’t go to clubs—I run away from them.”

Taryn froze, her face pale as Mika continued, her words heavy with years of bottled-up pain.

“You kept me from wanting to go out and... and put myself out there. You kept me from being me. You stopped me from doing all the things I wanted to do for so long. And the worst part is…” Mika’s voice broke slightly. “You don’t even remember.”

She took a step closer, her eyes locked on Taryn’s. “And now you have the audacity to ask me out?”

From the back of the room, a woman called out, “Maybe she liked you!”

Mika’s head snapped in her direction. “No. No, I’m tired of people saying that bullies mean they like you. God, it makes me mad. I’m mad at you,” she said, turning back to Taryn. “I’m mad at my parents, I’m mad at Chloe, I’m mad at myself. But you…” Her voice softened, but the fire in her eyes remained. “You don’t get to have that power over me anymore, Taryn. You don’t. I wish I could’ve gone up to you and told you how much you upset me. I wish I could’ve gone up to all the bullies who made me feel too weird, too stupid, too Asian. But you know what? I was only 12 years old.”

The room was silent as Taryn stepped forward, her hands trembling. “So was I,” she said quietly. “I had no idea I did any of that. But I’m sorry I did. Truly, I am sorry. I feel terrible. I wish I could go back, but I—” She hesitated. “Can I make it up to you?”

Mika crossed her arms, her guard still up. “How?”

Taryn took a deep breath, her voice soft but earnest. “There’s a Christmas party tomorrow night. I’m pretty good with parties. I’ll make sure it’s the best one you’ve ever been to. Please come.”

Mika stared at her for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

She turned back to the mic, placing it back in its stand. Without another word, she walked off the stage and made her way to Taryn, sitting down beside her.

“I’m glad you came,” Taryn whispered, her voice full of relief.

Jules stood on the sidewalk, watching as her dad helped Lucy into a waiting taxi. The evening air was brisk, and the glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement.

Her dad turned to her, hands in his coat pockets, and offered a small smile. “You know, Jules, those bookshop trips, we should do that again sometime.”

Jules blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, the usual walls between them seemed to lower. She gave a soft nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”

With that, he stepped into the cab, and as it pulled away, she watched him disappear into the night.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, turning to Benson, who had been waiting a few steps away. Her hands found her coat pockets as she added, “I know this probably wasn’t what you meant when you asked to hang out.”

Benson smiled, his usual easygoing charm on full display. “It’s okay. It was… good to see you.”

“You too,” Jules replied, and for the first time in a while, she meant it.

Benson hesitated, shifting his weight slightly. “The reason I wanted to see you is because I wanted to tell you something.” He paused, glancing at her. “I’m moving back. To Seattle.”

Jules’ eyes widened slightly. “You are?”

“Yeah. And I wanted to make sure we’re okay, which… it seems like we are.”

She nodded, processing his words. “We’re okay,” she said simply.

“Good,” Benson said, visibly relieved. Then, his grin returned. “A few people from school are hanging out tonight. I think it’ll be fun to go. You should come.”

It’s hard to break up old habits, to open yourself up to something new. But if you can do it, Notebook Girl, then I promise to try. I hope you write back soon.

Jules and Benson walked through the café where their old schoolmates had gathered. Christmas lights twinkled from every corner, and the air smelt of coffee and cinnamon.

Simone’s voice carried across the room as Jules entered. “Jules Millin? Back from her trip and out past eleven? I must be seeing things.”

Jules rolled her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “The Christmas lights make you look especially calculating,” she retorted as Simone smirked and sauntered away.

The pair joined a table where others from their school days were catching up. Jules settled into her seat, only to hear a familiar voice from behind her.

“Oh my, Jules. Jules!” Taryn’s voice was bright and teasing. Jules turned to see her walking toward the group with a broad smile. “You’ll like this. I just got back from a poetry reading. No institution is immune to poetic justice, am I right?”

Taryn laughed as though she’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Jules stared at her, deadpan. “Wow, a whole new Taryn.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but Taryn didn’t pick up on it.

“I had a breakthrough!” Taryn announced proudly.

“Me too,” Jules muttered under her breath.

Taryn leaned closer, oblivious to Jules’ tone. “Are you going to Simone’s party tomorrow night?”

Before Jules could respond, Simone chimed in from across the room. “Yeah, Jules. Are you coming to my super-undoubtedly-delightful-and-awesome Christmas Eve party, which many would trade souls to attend?”

Jules sighed. “Sure. Why not?”

Taryn grinned. “Great! I’m bringing a girl.” She spun around and walked off, leaving Jules blinking after her.

Benson leaned in, his hand brushing hers on the table. “Maybe we can go together. As friends?”

Jules glanced down at their hands and then back up at Benson. She gave a small smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll go. Why not?”

I guess this is me saying, Go with the flow.