Taken

The persistent gurgle of my stomach finally spurred me out of bed, a familiar craving for my mom's pancakes guiding me downstairs. The silence, however, was deafening.

No clatter of pans, no lively chatter. Just an empty kitchen and a note on the fridge: 'Dear Katie, I went to pick up some groceries with Emily, we will be back in the afternoon. Xoxo Mom.'

A sigh escaped me. Home alone, and no pancakes. A quick, unenthusiastic search of the cupboards yielded nothing appealing. My mind drifted, catching on the picture of Alex and me by the stairs – a moment frozen in laughter, a reminder of the easy comfort of our shared lives.

My stomach, ever the persistent companion, demanded attention once more. The corner store it was, a short walk away. A quick shower, a change of clothes, and a glance in the mirror at the hazel eyes and brown hair that mirrored my dad's too closely, too painfully. I brushed away a tear. Not now, not for a simple trip to the store.

Stepping out, a bitter gust of wind bit at my face, a stark reminder of the cold world beyond my door. But I was already dressed, already committed. I locked the door, a small, unconscious act of responsibility, and began my walk, the crisp air a sharp contrast to the warmth of my thoughts.