Work Text:
Mistea’ Riverz ran, her long dark hair streaming behind her, her toned, shapely figure moving with the grace of someone who had always loved being in motion. At nineteen, she was striking—her smooth skin, high cheekbones, and expressive hazel eyes drew attention wherever she went. She was athletic, a natural runner, though she often found comfort not in competition but in the quiet moments afterward, stretching her feet and savoring the touch of her own hands on her arches, grounding herself in her own skin.
But this wasn’t that kind of run. Mistea’ wasn’t running for joy or strength. She was running to escape herself, her memories, and the weight of a future that seemed to be slipping from her grasp.
Her best friend, Kileen Cross, had already gone ahead, following the path they’d meticulously planned together since they were children. Both had graduated at the top of their class in the Accounting Technician program at The City’s small but respected community college. Both had enrolled for the fall semester. But only Kileen would move forward. Mistea’ stayed behind, tied to her past by grief and duty.
Her grandparents, Maple and William Riverz, were First Nation elders, deeply rooted in their traditions and culture. They lived in a modest apartment on the third floor of a weathered brownstone, their home filled with the echoes of ceremonial songs and the warm scent of bannock baking in the oven. Mistea’ had grown up surrounded by their love, their stories, and their teachings, which blended resilience and quiet acceptance with a profound respect for life’s unpredictable nature.
That resilience was tested the year Mistea’ graduated high school, when her grandmother Maple contracted a rare blood disease from improperly sterilized needles at a small clinic. Despite the severity of her illness, Maple had stood proudly at Mistea’s graduation, her vibrant spirit undimmed even as her body weakened.
It wasn’t the first tragedy to strike the Riverz family.
When Mistea’ was seven, her mother—a woman of fiery independence and fragile self-control—died in a car accident while driving under the influence. Mistea’ had been at a sleepover at Kileen’s house, giggling over cartoons, blissfully unaware of the storm about to upend her life. Her grandparents arrived early the next morning, their faces lined with grief, to deliver the news.
Her mother was gone.
Mistea’ screamed, “I want my Mommy!” again and again, her small body trembling as her grandparents hugged her tightly. Her grandfather William, a sturdy man with kind eyes and a deep, steady voice, carried her home when her legs refused to move. Her grandmother Maple, whose hands always seemed to carry the warmth of an eternal fire, held Mistea’s hand tightly, whispering words of comfort in their native tongue.
At her mother’s house, the three of them walked through each room, Mistea’ clutching their hands as they said goodbye to her mother’s short and troubled life. When it was time to leave, and Mistea’ screamed her protest, Maple and William didn’t hush her. Instead, they sang.
The song was a traditional one, soft and mournful, carrying the weight of loss and the strength to endure. Their voices wrapped around Mistea’, soothing her as tears rolled down her small, heartbroken face. By the time they reached their apartment, she was quiet. She took her “spot” at the kitchen table, placing her rubber boots neatly by the door, just as her mother had taught her.
That night, she slept between her grandparents, waking often to cry. They held her close, shielding her from the storm raging both outside and within. Over time, Mistea’ adjusted to her new life, but the pain never truly left.
When Maple succumbed to her illness years later, it reinforced what Mistea’ had learned as a child: loss is inevitable, and fairness has no place in its equation. Yet, her grandmother’s acceptance of life’s hardships lingered like a quiet song in Mistea’s mind.
Now, as she ran, the echoes of that song filled her heart. Maple had endured, not because it was easy, but because it was necessary. Perhaps one day, Mistea’ would find that same strength—not to run, but to stop, face her pain, and accept it.
For now, though, she kept running.
Mistea' had been secretly working on her and Kileen's "Path to Career Success" with her grandmother since they had first started it together during their early school years. Maple Riverz wasn’t just her teacher; she was Mistea’s most loyal and trusting confidante, always ready with an encouraging word that inspired Mistea' to push herself harder in everything she did.
Mistea' had worked tirelessly to please her grandmother while she was still alive and continued to honor her memory. She tried to make both her grandmother and mother proud, their spirits forever a guiding force in her life. Her grandfather, William, was her remaining anchor, but the absence of the two women who had shaped her most profoundly was a persistent ache.
Mistea’ would always miss her mother and grandmother—so she ran.
Running became her escape, her solace. Sometimes, she pushed herself to the point where her heart felt like it might burst. Other times, she slowed her pace, allowing her mind to unravel the self-deprecating and destructive thoughts that occasionally plagued her. Her running speed reflected the state of her mind, fluctuating as her emotions surged and settled. An emotional young woman with a strong and active mind, Mistea’ found that running was as much a mental exercise as it was physical.
Her lean, muscular, and athletic body was a testament to the hard work she put into her escape. At five-foot-six and 126 pounds, she was proud of the strength and beauty her dedication brought her. Dressed in a sleek black nylon tracksuit with silver stripes down the sleeves and pant legs, and sporting brand-new white leather cross-trainers, Mistea' was ready for her morning workout—or so she thought.
The shoes were a recent splurge. Back in early July, Kileen and her grandfather had convinced her to move to the capital to attend business school and pursue the plans she and Kileen had been dreaming about for years. After securing an apartment together, Mistea’ indulged in the new shoes during a mall trip, buoyed by Kileen’s encouragement. The expensive trainers were meant to be her statement piece: a symbol of her confidence and readiness to take on the world. But at the last moment, Mistea’ faltered.
At the bus depot, with Kileen’ by her side, bubbling with excitement about their future, Mistea’ couldn’t go through with it. She muttered a quick “Sorry,” hugged her bewildered friend, and fled. She had kept in touch since then, and while Kileen wasn’t thrilled about being left to navigate the capital alone, she forgave Mistea’ after a week’s silence. The two best friends moved past the incident, accepting their new realities.
This morning, however, Mistea’ was less forgiving of her impulsive choices. As she ran along the train tracks that bordered her small prairie town, the new shoes began to betray her. Twenty minutes into her run, her feet were burning. It was an unfamiliar sensation, like sitting barefoot by a roaring fire. Frustrated, she stopped and sat on the train tracks, angrily pulling off the offending shoes.
She rubbed her damp socks, the moisture clinging to her hands. Fighting the urge to toss the shoes into the overgrown grass beside the tracks, she fumed inwardly. “F’N RIP OFF!” she thought, lamenting the money she had wasted. These shoes were supposed to be her confidence boosters, her “Look at me! I’m cool in these shoes!” moment. Now, they felt like a bad investment she couldn’t undo.
Pulling off her socks, Mistea’ let the cool morning air soothe her feet. The sun was bright but low in the sky, and its light caught her polished toenails. She flexed her toes, admiring the dark red shade she had carefully applied. Her hands moved instinctively to massage her feet, the sensation bringing an unexpected wave of comfort.
This simple act of self-care was one of Mistea’s secrets. She found a quiet pleasure in the soothing touch of her hands on her feet, a ritual she never shared with anyone. As she massaged her soles and heels, her mind began to quiet.
But the quiet never lasted. Memories surfaced unbidden, and her thoughts returned to the tiny kitchen table at home. The two empty chairs—her mother’s and grandmother’s “spots”—were constant reminders of loss. Her mother’s death in a car crash had left a void that even Maple, with all her love and strength, couldn’t fully fill. When Maple herself passed, taken by a cruel illness, the pain deepened.
Her grandfather’s steady presence was a comfort, but Mistea’’s heart still ached for the women who had shaped her life. Their love was the foundation of who she was, and she clung to their memory even as she struggled to move forward.
She slipped her shoes back on, leaving her damp socks in her jacket pocket, and resumed her run. The brisk air and rhythmic pounding of her feet on the ground helped push back the thoughts. For now, she focused on the path ahead, her mind drifting to the promise of hot coffee and the familiar comfort of home.
Despite the burdens she carried, Mistea’ ran on. She ran for her grandmother, for her mother, and for herself, hoping to find peace somewhere along the way.
Mistea Riverz jogged at a slow, steady pace, her mid-sized frame moving fluidly along the quiet streets. That morning, the bathroom scale had read 126 and ½ pounds—a detail she found oddly comforting as she embarked on her run. Her feet, which had began too warm uncomfortably earlier, again prompted her to stop midway to her destination.
She glanced around to ensure no one was near. The street was deserted, save for the faint hum of distant trains. With a quick motion, she kicked off her slightly worn cross-trainers, letting the cool ground soothe her bare feet. As she flexed her toes, she admired her deep red toenail polish more closely than she had, mere minutes before. There was something about that shade—dark, bold, and rich—that made her feel a rush of exhilaration. It reminded her of the sun at its most vibrant red, eternal and unyielding. The thought stirred something deep within her, a strange mix of longing and satisfaction. Smiling at her thoughts, she rubbed her feet thoroughly, lingering over her polished toes, her mind drifting into a daydream-like trance.
After a long, pleasure-filled sigh, Mistea slipped her shoes back on and resumed her run.
The second half of her route was less picturesque. The train yard stretched endlessly, a monotonous display of connected railcars. Alongside it ran Rail Road, a long, barren street lined with industrial remnants of a once-thriving community. It hadn’t always been this way. Over a century ago, Rail Road had been Main Street, bustling with commerce and vitality. But as The City expanded and shifted its focus, Main Street relocated to the other side of the tracks, leaving Rail Road to decline.
Businesses that chose to stay had long since shuttered, their empty lots overrun with grass and weeds. Only a few remained: garages, a cab company, and scattered factories. Mistea had applied to work at many of them over the years—first as a hopeful teenager, then as a college graduate. But the physical demands or lack of openings kept her on the outside.
Jogging past the last two residential streets before her own, she noted their ghostly quietness. Most homes were abandoned, their windows boarded up, leaving the neighborhood feeling like a shadow of its former self. Her own street, while livelier, wasn’t much better. It held a scattering of small businesses, a few apartment blocks, and many vacant lots.
“Coffee Stop...first stop,” she whispered to herself as her block came into view.
The familiar landmarks blurred past her: the Northend Clinic, where her grandmother’s life had taken a tragic turn; the post office; the laundromat and drugstore—each deserted at this early hour. Finally, she reached her street, where three businesses stood resilient: The Thrifty Spender, The Coffee Stop, and the Far North Café.
The Far North Café was run by her childhood friend Billy Chin, a shy but kindhearted man who had inherited the struggling business after his parents returned to their home country. Billy worked tirelessly, often sharing leftovers with Mistea and other neighborhood residents. Despite the café's financial struggles, he maintained his generosity and upbeat spirit.
Mistea recalled how Billy’s parents had arranged a marriage for him before leaving. His bride, a stranger to him, left before their honeymoon was over. Billy hadn’t seemed too heartbroken, though, and he’d even turned the failed union into a symbol of pride, wearing a thick gold ring he’d purchased from the proceeds of her returned wedding band.
As a child, Billy had been painfully shy, barely able to speak English when his family took over the café. But when he saw Mistea and her friends playing dodgeball outside one day, he mustered the courage to wave. To his relief, they welcomed him into their circle. The friendships he formed with them helped him learn English and adapt to his new life.
In return, Billy’s family rewarded the neighborhood children with meals and small jobs around the café. Mistea had fond memories of washing dishes there and digging out Mr. Chin’s car after a snowstorm. The Chin family, though struggling, always found ways to give back.
Mistea’s thoughts drifted to Billy’s parents, especially his mother, who had been close friends with both her grandmother and mother. She remembered how Mrs. Chin had returned to The City twice—once for Mistea’s mother’s funeral and later for her grandmother’s. Though their interactions had been brief, Mrs. Chin’s kindness had left a lasting impression.
As Mistea reached The Coffee Stop, she smiled at the thought of her small, resilient community. It wasn’t much, but it was home.
Mistea’ slowed her pace and came to a halt, finishing her morning run. She stood near the empty lot adjacent to The Coffee Stop, her breath steadying as she stepped onto the cool, dew-kissed grass. The almost-manicured ground felt inviting beneath her feet. With a sigh of satisfaction, she kicked off her running shoes and let the earth greet her bare soles.
The grass was chilly in the shadowed corner of the lot, but as she moved into the sunlight, its texture shifted—warm and soft, like nature’s carpet. Standing still, Mistea’ curled her toes and pressed her heels into the comforting blades, savoring the simple joy.
She glanced around. No one in sight. Confident in her solitude, she began to stretch. Her lean, toned body elongated with each movement, her muscles awakening further under the morning sun.
“Ahhhhhhh!” she exhaled, stretching her back and shoulders, the knots melting away. The relief felt divine—her favorite moment of the day so far, second only to her post-run foot massage. Feeling light and euphoric, she paced slowly, wrapping her arms behind her back and clasping her hands, preparing for her next stretch.
And then—
“Yahhhrrrrghhhh!”
A guttural roar escaped her, echoing across the empty lot. She looked down in horror. Her right foot had landed squarely in a fresh pile of feces.
Her brown eyes watered with frustration as she shook her foot violently, trying to rid herself of the mess. The foul substance flew off in clumps, reminiscent of the way she used to kick off mud from her boots as a child playing in puddles. But this wasn’t mud.
“Is that dog poop? Or…?” Mistea’s mind reeled in panic.
“Human waste!” her inner voice screamed.
“No!” she groaned, the thought nearly making her gag.
She ran her toes through the grass in an attempt to clean them, but the smell worsened, sharp and nauseating. Between her toes, thicker bits of the excrement clung stubbornly. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she sat on the grass and pulled out the spare socks she always carried in her tracksuit pocket.
Using one sock as a makeshift wipe, she scrubbed her contaminated foot, muttering curses under her breath. The other sock served as a shield, covering the now semi-clean foot. She stood, gathered her sneakers, and trudged to the sidewalk. With a scowl, she tossed the soiled sock into a nearby trash can.
Still reeling from the ordeal, Mistea’ stormed into The Coffee Stop.
“Let me use your bathroom! I have an emergency!” she exclaimed to Greg, the night clerk behind the counter.
Greg, his red eyes betraying his exhaustion—or perhaps something else—nodded lazily.
“Yeah, go ahead.” He smirked and added, “Hey, look who it is! Clarence! Come say hello!”
Mistea’s attention snapped to the tall figure by the counter. Her breath caught. It was Clarence Tacks, but… different. Older. Refined. He was broad-shouldered, dressed sharply, and his deep brown eyes glimmered with a quiet intensity. For a moment, Mistea’ forgot her predicament.
“H-hi, Clarence!” she stammered, her smile quick and nervous. “Be right back!”
She darted toward the bathroom, her heart racing. As she passed him, she caught a hint of his cologne—a warm, masculine scent that sent shivers down her spine. She prayed he hadn’t noticed any lingering odor from her earlier misstep.
But Clarence noticed something else entirely: her fresh, crisp apple-scented body spray. It lingered faintly in the air, a fragrance Mistea’ always applied generously before her runs. He couldn’t help but smile.
Clarence’s dark eyes had lit up, a subtle spark betraying his calm demeanor. In that fleeting second, Mistea’ saw it—a warmth, an attraction, unmistakable and mutual.
Her lips curled into a soft smile. For all the chaos of the morning, something told her this moment was meant to happen.
Clarence liked her, and Mistea’ knew it the instant she caught his eyes lighting up. It was just a fleeting moment, but it was enough for her to sense his inner pull, the quiet attraction he tried so hard to mask.
“Don’t forget to flush!” Greg teased, his grin mischievous as Mistea’ passed him on her way to the sink at the back of the shop.
“Shut up! I said I had to wash my hands—you heard me!” Mistea’ shot back, her growl sharp enough to make Greg blink.
Unsure whether she was joking or genuinely annoyed, Greg hesitated before calling out, “Sorry, Mistea’!” His voice was hesitant, carrying a faint note of guilt as the sound of running water echoed from the back room.
Greg glanced at Clarence and murmured, almost to himself, “She’s been kinda touchy in the mornings lately… Maybe?”
Clarence didn’t reply. He had caught the faint trace of marijuana clinging to Greg’s hoodie, mixing oddly with the smell of fresh coffee. Instead of responding, he shrugged his broad shoulders and took a long, thoughtful sip from the steaming cup Greg had poured him.
The coffee was good. It always was here. The Coffee Stop had remained a beacon of familiarity, even during the years Clarence had been away. He glanced around the small, bright shop—the same cheery decor, the same cozy little displays, and the lone circular table by the window.
The date table.
Clarence lingered near it, memories stirring. He had never sat there. Not as “chubby four-eyes” or “pickle-faced Clarence,” as the kids used to call him. The taunts from his childhood felt distant but still sharp enough to leave an ache.
For a moment, anger bubbled up, a dark rage sparked by years of torment. But it faded quickly, replaced by a dull loneliness that settled in his chest. Who would have wanted to sit at this table with him back then?
Nobody. That was the answer he always told himself.
Clarence let out a slow sigh, staring at the little table that had once symbolized everything he thought he’d never have.
In the bathroom, Mistea’ glanced over her shoulder before slipping off her shoe and sock. She scrubbed her foot briskly with dish detergent, using the edge of her sock as a makeshift cloth. Grabbing a few paper towels, she dried her foot, then spritzed it with air freshener before tucking the damp sock into a bag and stuffing it deep into the garbage can.
She washed her hands thoroughly, gazing at her reflection in the mirror.
What she saw made her freeze.
Her face was there, but the spark that had once defined her—the beauty, the vibrancy, the essence—was gone. All she could see staring back at her was an empty shell.
Mistea’ leaned closer, hoping for a different answer, but the reflection remained the same.
Greg’s voice jolted her out of her trance. “Hurry up, Mistea’!”
“Okay!” she called back, quickly adjusting her dark, wavy hair and smoothing her track pants.
In the shop, Clarence heard her voice. It pulled him out of his thoughts, and he instinctively stepped away from the date table as if he’d been caught trespassing. A part of him wished he could sit there—just once—but old fears whispered that he didn’t belong.
Inside the bathroom, Mistea’ while hurrying to clean her foot had felt, her cheeks flushing at the thought of facing Clarence again. But when she returned, her nerves steadied as she caught his gaze.
“Hello, Clarence!” Mistea’ greeted, her voice warm as she leaned casually against the wall, letting the morning light frame her athletic figure. “You’ve been gone a while. What, two years? How’ve you been?”
Her hand rested on her hip, her pose exuding quiet confidence. Clarence’s eyes traced her form, and for a moment, he was mesmerized. But Mistea’ dropped her hand when his gaze lingered too long.
“I asked how you are,” she repeated, arching a brow.
Clarence blinked, startled. “Sorry,” he stammered, his face flushing as Mistea’ tilted her head slightly, amused.
“I mean… I’m sorry about your grandmother,” he added, his voice softening. His eyes fell to the floor. “She was always nice to me.”
“Thank you,” Mistea’ said, her tone gentler now. “I saw your parents not too long ago. Shop still looks cool.”
As she spoke, Mistea’ adjusted the rolled-up cuffs of her track pants, revealing her toned calves and new cross-trainers. Clarence couldn’t help but notice, and neither could Greg.
“New shoes, huh, Mistea’? What’d they cost? Three hundred bucks?” Greg joked, oblivious to the unspoken moment between the two.
Mistea’ ignored him, grabbing the paper from the counter. With a sly smile, she brushed past Clarence, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Join me?”
She didn’t wait for his answer, heading straight for the date table.
Clarence stood frozen, his heart pounding.
No one had ever asked him to sit there before.
Mistea’ sat at the date table, nervously tapping her finger on the edge of her coffee cup. She tried to bury herself in Greg’s newspaper, but her attention kept flicking back to Clarence, who still hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. Out of the corner of her deep brown eyes, she watched him, frozen in place, his broad shoulders rigid as though trapped by an invisible weight.
Her heart sank.
“Why won’t he come over? Does he not want to?” the thought stabbed at her confidence, unraveling it thread by thread.
“Of course, he doesn’t,” she chastised herself. “Why would someone who looks like that want to sit with me?”
The doubts hit harder now, her chest tightening with the familiar sting of rejection. She fought the tears welling up, her pride clinging stubbornly to its last shreds.
“Fine,” she thought bitterly, slamming the newspaper shut. “Screw this!”
Mistea’ stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, and strode to the counter. She slapped the newspaper onto the counter beside Greg.
“Catch you later,” she muttered, barely looking at him.
Before Greg could reply, she pushed through the door and stepped out into the crisp air, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. But as she marched down the sidewalk, her frustration gave way to something heavier—a dull ache that settled deep in her chest.
“Arrghhh!” Mistea’ groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “What the hell was I thinking? I made a total fool of myself.”
Her steps quickened as if trying to outrun the embarrassment that clung to her. The sting of Clarence’s inaction dug into her like sharp claws. She’d taken a chance, opened herself up for a moment, and it had backfired.
It wasn’t like she threw herself at anyone. She wasn’t desperate. But there had been something about Clarence—his quiet presence, the way his gaze softened when he looked at her—that made her think, just maybe, there was a connection. Clearly, she’d read it wrong.
By the time she reached her apartment building, her mood had shifted from anger to raw vulnerability. She fumbled with her keys, muttering under her breath about how she should’ve known better, when—
“Wait!”
The soft but firm voice stopped her mid-motion. She froze, her breath catching in her throat.
“Wait... don’t go!”
Her head snapped up. Through the reflection in the glass door, she saw Clarence jogging toward her, his expression uncertain but earnest. She turned slowly to face him, her heart racing as their eyes met.
He stopped a few steps away, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. His gaze was heavy with emotion, his lips parting to speak but failing him.
“Mistea’,” he started, his voice barely above a whisper, “I... I’m sorry.”
Her brow furrowed as she searched his face.
“I froze, okay?” Clarence confessed, his words rushing out now. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just... no one’s ever asked me to sit at the date table before.” He dropped his gaze to the sidewalk. “I didn’t know what to do.”
Mistea’s frustration melted away, replaced by a warmth that softened her features.
“Clarence,” she said gently, stepping closer. “It’s okay. Really.”
He looked up, his eyes searching hers for reassurance.
“I mean it,” she added. “If you want, we can go back. Be each other’s first date.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Unless you’re afraid of being seen with me.”
Clarence’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but he shook his head. “Next time,” he said quietly, though his hesitation betrayed him.
Mistea’ sighed softly, her disappointment showing for just a second before she masked it.
“Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “But if you’re coming inside now, don’t make me regret it.”
Clarence nodded, his resolve hardening. He wouldn’t mess this up again.
As she unlocked the door and pushed it open, she glanced back at him, her eyes daring him to step through. For a moment, he hesitated, before he followed her inside, and let the spark of something new and unspoken continue flickering between them.
Clarence nodded firmly. He wasn’t going to mess up his first real moment with Mistea’ Riverz again. Her steady, piercing gaze communicated more than words—if he stepped through that door, there was no going back. She was looking for someone ready to move forward with her, not linger in hesitation. Clarence hoped desperately that he could be that person for her, even though their time apart made him feel like they were meeting anew.
Mistea’ slipped her key into the lock, opening the door to her life—a quiet, lonely one she was ready to share. She held the door open behind her, waiting for Clarence to step through.
“Stairs... no elevator here,” she said casually, leading him to the stairwell of 2425 Downside Street.
He followed, his heart pounding with every step as he tried to focus on the path ahead rather than the captivating sight of Mistea’ just ahead of him. When they reached the third floor, she guided him down a narrow hallway to apartment thirteen. She unlocked the door, holding it open for him once more before disappearing inside.
“Have a seat at the table—but not in any of the chairs already placed there. Use the extra chair,” she said, glancing around briefly to check if her grandfather was home.
Clarence nodded and chose the spare chair near the wall, careful not to disturb the arrangement at the table. He immediately understood its significance—those chairs weren’t just furniture; they represented the absent family members Mistea’ had lost.
“Nice place... cozy,” he said softly, appreciating the warm, lived-in feel of her apartment.
Mistea’ offered him a faint smile before heading down the hallway to her room. Left to himself, Clarence glanced around, taking in the details that made this space hers. His eyes landed on a framed painting hanging on the living room wall—a childlike yet haunting portrait of a woman with sorrowful eyes. He recognized it instantly as Mistea’s fourth-grade art project.
He’d been there when she painted it. He remembered the weight of her sadness as she worked, tears mingling with the watercolor paints. His own attempt at the project had been a disaster, the paper disintegrating under his heavy-handed use of water. He sighed, the memory bittersweet, as he admired the beauty and emotion preserved in her work.
The sound of the shower starting pulled him back to the present. Clarence shrugged off his leather jacket and loosened his tie, suddenly feeling out of place in his polished attire. Mistea’s home was unassuming, her shoes and boots neatly lined near the door. He took off his own shoes and set them beside hers, making sure they touched—a quiet, symbolic gesture.
A sound floated down the hallway that stopped him cold. Mistea’ was singing.
Her voice was soft yet resonant, carrying a melody of resilience and longing. He sank to the carpeted floor, overwhelmed by the beauty of it. The words of her song—a story of loss, survival, and quiet strength—pierced through him, unraveling the walls he’d built around his heart.
Tears rolled freely down his cheeks as he rested his head against the wall, letting her voice wash over him. His mind felt open but weak and it let a certain memory take him over.
It was 1987, and the gymnasium buzzed with anticipation. Clarence Tacks sat quietly among the students, his stomach twisting in knots. The junior high school had organized a special afternoon gathering, and everyone had been asked to remove their shoes.
Clarence hesitated, but there was no way around it. He slid his shoes off, only to feel his heart plummet. A fresh hole had appeared in his sock, his big toe poking through like an uninvited guest. His socks had been fine that morning, but the fabric had worn thin against an unruly toenail. Now, with the tear exposed for all to see, Clarence was mortified.
Laughter erupted around him like a wave. Clarence shrank into himself, his face hot with embarrassment. Back then, he was quieter, more vulnerable, and the jeering of his classmates hit him like sharp, stinging blows.
But not everyone was laughing.
Mistea’ Riverz and Kileen Cross stood off to the side, watching the scene unfold. The moment the lights dimmed to signal the start of the sock hop, Mistea’ leaned toward Kileen.
“I’ll be right back,” she said firmly.
Mistea’ wasn’t the kind of girl to stand by while someone was humiliated, especially not her English class lab partner. She stomped across the gym in her small, white-socked feet and stopped in front of Clarence.
“Ask me to dance,” she commanded.
Clarence blinked up at her, his mouth opening and closing, words failing him. Before he could respond, Mistea’ grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor.
The music shifted into a slow, melancholy ballad, and the two swayed together in the center of the gym. Clarence moved stiffly at first, his humiliation weighing him down, but Mistea’ held him close, her presence a quiet assurance.
As they danced, Clarence rested his head near hers. That’s when she felt it—the warm, silent tears falling onto her shoulder. He was crying.
“Don’t worry,” Mistea’ whispered softly into his ear. “I’ll take care of you.”
The gym grew quiet as the other students watched them. Some began to shift uncomfortably, realizing the cruelty of their earlier laughter. Heads lowered in shame as the true bullies tried, once again, to stir the crowd into jeering.
What Clarence and Mistea’ didn’t see was what happened next.
Kileen Cross, Mistea’s best friend, noticed the mocking whispers and the pointed fingers starting up again. Her blood boiled. Without a word, she sprinted out of the gym, her socks padding quickly across the hall.
Less than thirty seconds later, Kileen returned, and she wasn’t alone. Beside her was Billy Chin, now a rebellious senior infamous for leading a group of tough, misunderstood kids who preferred hanging outside to attending school events.
Billy strode into the gym, his expression sharp and defiant. He didn’t need to say much. “Come outside and laugh at me,” he challenged, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
The bullies froze, their bravado evaporating under Billy’s glare. His crew fanned out across the room, a silent but unmistakable warning: enough was enough.
Kileen stood proudly beside Billy, her arms crossed as the bullies backed down.
On the dance floor, Mistea’ and Clarence continued their slow sway. For that moment, the world around them faded, and the sting of the earlier laughter dissolved into the warmth of a single act of kindness.
Clarence Tacks crying heavily from his life now past, continued to listen to Mistea’ soft voice remind him of his old memories still haunting for him today.
Minutes before Clarence had first heard her singing, Mistea’ stepped into the small, steamy bathroom, closing the door behind her and locking it with a quiet click. The soft hum of the running shower filled the space, and the sharp tang of eucalyptus soap mingled with the warmth of the air. She peeled off her track clothes as well as her underwear and let them drop into the hamper, pausing to rub her neck and shoulders before stepping under the steady stream of water.
The shower’s warmth enveloped her, washing away the grime of the day and loosening the tension that had clung to her muscles. As the water pooled around her feet, Mistea’ glanced down and sighed softly. Her toes wiggled slightly against the porcelain, and she reached for the body wash.
She always saved her feet for last, a private ritual she secretly cherished. Sitting carefully on the edge of the tub, she poured a generous dollop of the fragrant soap into her hands and lathered it between her palms. Slowly, she cupped her left foot, cradling it gently as if it were something precious. Her fingers traced over the curve of her arch, spreading the suds in smooth, deliberate motions.
Mistea’ worked her way to her heel, kneading it softly with her thumbs. A small shiver of pleasure ran up her spine, unbidden but welcome. She allowed herself a smile, feeling the tension melt as her touch lingered. Her fingers slid along the pads of her toes, cleaning each one with care, as though honoring them for carrying her through so much.
Switching to her right foot, she repeated the motions, her breaths deep and steady, her movements unhurried. The soap bubbled between her toes as she massaged them, her fingertips exploring the soft skin and calluses that told their own stories of morning runs and long days spent on her feet. Each touch brought a sense of calm, a fleeting joy she didn’t often allow herself to dwell on.
When she was finished, Mistea’ rinsed her feet carefully, watching the suds swirl down the drain. The air felt lighter somehow, her mood steadier, as if she’d grounded herself through the simple act of self-care. She dried off with a plush towel, pausing to pat her feet dry with particular tenderness, before slipping into her favorite lounge clothes.
Mistea’ glanced down at her freshly cleaned feet, her toes peeking out from the edge of her leggings. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she flexed them once, reveling in the newfound lightness they seemed to hold. It was her little secret, the quiet pleasure she found in nurturing herself this way—a small but sacred ritual she wouldn’t trade for anything.
Mistea’ wrapped her damp hair in a towel and slipped into her fluffy white robe. She wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror, leaning close to inspect her reflection.
This time, she saw herself—not the Mistea’ she sometimes feared she was, but the Mistea’ she knew she could be: strong, kind, and capable of opening her heart again.
She smiled and slipped into oversized slippers, glancing one last time at her reflection before heading into the hallway.
Her heart sank when she saw Clarence.
“Clarence! Clarence, what’s wrong?” she cried, rushing to his side.
Clarence lay crumpled on the floor, his body trembling.
“HELP! Someone help!” Mistea’ screamed, her voice breaking.
But even as panic gripped her, she cradled his head gently, her touch steady. “Don’t worry... I’ll take care of you,” she whispered, echoing the words that had once comforted him.
Clarence drifted into unconsciousness, but not before hearing her voice, a beacon cutting through his confusion and fear.
When he woke hours later in a hospital bed, his first sight was Mistea’ curled up in a chair beside him, her face etched with worry.
She stirred and smiled softly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Clarence replied, his voice hoarse but warm.
As their eyes met, he felt a renewed sense of hope.
“Don’t worry... I’ll take care of you,” her voice whispered again in his mind.