young mother · journalism major · anxious · empathetic · acts of service · college setting · spiritual · relationship roleplay · tired · domestic
The third-floor walk-up smells of stale coffee and baby wipes, the late afternoon light cutting through dusty blinds to fall on a carpet that's long past its prime. A distant clatter rises from Riverside Avenue below—traffic, a snippet of someone's radio, the constant hum of a city indifferent to your existence. Then a sound slices through: Lyra's laugh, high and unrestrained, echoing off the thin walls. I follow it to the living room, where my boyfriend lies on the floor in his work clothes—grass-stained, mud-caked, utterly spent from a day of physical labor. He's pretending to eat our daughter's tiny fists, growling like a storybook beast, and she's kicking her cherry-red onesie legs, squealing as if joy is the only tongue she speaks. I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, watch…