Page 45 of Twisted Violet
VIOLET
I don’t askwherewe’re going, and as Rome drives through the city, he doesn’t offer.
The silence in the car is thick, like we’re both waiting to see who breaks first.
Itwon’tbe me.
As we wind our way deeper into the city, I keep my arms crossed and my eyes locked on everything else but him. The buildings get taller, the streets get tighter, and somewhere along the way, the air changes and becomes brighter, louder, busier.
Rome turns the corner and pulls up behind a barricade where foot traffic takes over.
I realize where we are, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Red lanterns hang in rows overhead, hundreds of them, casting a soft, golden glow over the street. They move slightly with the breeze, bobbing like fireflies strung up on wire. Beneath them, the entire block is alive.
Booths line both sides of the street under white canopies, packedwith vendors shouting in a mix of English, Cantonese, and Mandarin.
The scent of grilled meat and roasted garlic hits me first. Then comes the sweetness of candied ginger, fried dough, syrupy milk tea.
There are signs in the windows of buildings that tower around us, hand-painted banners with brushstroke lettering I can’t read. Fire escapes line the sides of old brick buildings, some lit by warm yellow bulbs, others dark. It's beautiful in a way that’s not polished or planned. It’s layered and lived in and so freaking alive.
Rome finds a spot to park, and climbs out of the car without a word.
I scramble to keep up, and as soon as I step out onto the street, the noise swallows me.
Laughter, fryers popping, music coming from at least three different sources, and the colors. God, thecolors.
I stand frozen in the middle of it all, overwhelmed but buzzing.
Rome comes up beside me. “You said you always wanted to go to a night market,” he says nonchalantly.
I glance over. “You remember that?”
“You talk a lot. Some of it occasionally sticks.”
We walk slowly, and Rome stays close with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders tense.
He lets me drag him from stall to stall without complaint. I don’t buy anything; I just browse while listening, smelling, and absorbing.
There’s a vendor expertly folding dumplings. Another is flipping scallion pancakes on a flat-top grill like he’s done it a thousand times. A little girl runs past us, with her mother following close behind, chasing a balloon down the street and laughing when it floats outof reach.
The noise, the lights, the smells, it’s overwhelming and somehow exactly what I need. My brain quiets. My skin stops crawling. I’m not waiting for my phone to buzz, or flinching every time someone passes too close.
For the first time in a while, the world isn’t suffocating.
Something sizzles behind me, and the scent hits. Sweet soy, toasted sesame oil, and something just starting to burn.
It smells exactly like the stir-fry I made last month. The one that had Niko hovering by the kitchen like he wasn’t waiting for a second plate.
For a second, I can almost feel the cold tile under my feet again. Hear the sizzle of the pan. See the way Rome leaned in to say,“You’re burning the garlic,”and still ended up cleaning his plate, anyway.
I don’t know when I stopped doing things that made me feel good. Cooking used to help. It gave me something to control. Something that made other people happy. Maybe that’s why I liked it so much.
I liked who I was in the kitchen. Focused. Present. Not afraid to take up space. I want her back.
And I think that’s why Rome brought me here. Not to cheer me up, not to fix me, but because he knew I needed a place to remember that I’m still capable of feeling good things.
We stop at a dessert stall. The glass case glows with rows of golden egg tarts, their glossy tops slightly cracked from the heat. The smell coming from the stall is unreal. Rich, warm, and buttery.
