4224

Three months ago, I should have been dead.

I stepped into a candlelit coffee shop that reeked of burnt espresso and vanilla. It was the kind of place that displayed its pastries like art—Ella would’ve loved that.

She used to call this kind of place heaven. To me, it was hell. Yet, I was still breathing with her liver in my body. The shop’s name wasn’t revolutionary: Books & Pumpkin. They should have gone with: Burnt Beans & Boring.

Ella would have traced hearts on the damp window, hummed a song under her breath, and happily chewed on her cinnamon bun. A smirk threatened the corners of my lips because even after she was gone, she still managed to make me smile. Well, almost.

My throat tightened and my knuckles turned white while the waitress slid my espresso onto the table, so I decided to take a sip.

Too hot. Too bitter. Too acidic.

I was sure even gas station coffee would taste better than this. It should have come with a warning and a refund. I sighed quietly, tilting my head toward the ceiling. I could feel it—the spiral pulling me under. Once again.

She was six feet under the earth in a wooden coffin while I was sipping coffee.

The love of my life had become the loss of my life.

I shook my head but then a flicker of brown hair caught my attention.

She sat by the window. Her chestnut hair, twisted into a loose braid, was tangled from being hastily tied up. It wasn't just her hair; it was also the way she joyfully gulped coffee and the warm dew that rose on her face as she inhaled it.

The sticky buns.

She held one in a napkin, though the glaze was already sticking to her fingers and as she tore it apart, savoring every bite with closed eyes.

That’s how she used to eat them.

My breathing ceased, and my heart did something strange - it jumped.

It was Ella’s mirror, down to her slumped shoulders and her smile, which seemed to say that life hadn’t hurt her yet. But I knew it wasn’t her. I didn’t need a face. I had her liver inside me. I tightened my grip on the mug as if it could tether me to something real

Then she pulled out a book. I saw the spine before I saw the title:

Little Women.

Ella’s favorite. Dog-eared. Underlined. Torn at the corners, just like the copy she made me read years ago. A sharp, wrong laugh caught in my throat. Of course she’d be reading that. Of course.

I ran my thumb over the inside of the mug. Not for the warmth, but to keep my hands from shaking. The number caught my eye again.

4224.

It was inked where my ring should have been. I was supposed to marry her.

Now, I carried her liver and a number that meant nothing to anyone but me.

Most people wouldn't give a day like this a second look. They’d sip their coffee, check their phones, and move on. But for me, it was anything but mundane because I simply hadn’t stepped into a coffee shop since the day she died.

She loved them, which was why I couldn't stand them anymore.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Even inside the car, the buzz of the city seeped through the windows. Ella was behind the wheel of our white Toyota, in control as always, but also a bit reckless. A hint of mischief tugged at her lips, and then she blasted the music. I covered my ears. Ouch!

“That’s too loud.” I squinted.

"Don't be a baby," she teased, giggling.

Then she caught the beat and started singing, "This girl is on fire! This girl is on fire!”

Her singing was awful, and I nearly choked laughing but I didn't want to ruin her moment.

I peered out the windshield as rain oozed down in blotchy rivers. People rushed through the streets of New York City, some with umbrellas and some without. Tourists gawked and snapped pictures like paparazzi, as if the city might vanish before they could capture it. Locals, on the other hand, darted through puddles, uninterested. Skyscrapers towered above, their flashy screens displaying ads. New York — the city of infinite possibilities. Or so people said. Adrenaline surged through me because our bags were packed in the trunk, ready for our move into the new apartment.

Then Ella turned to me and said, "You know, I am so happy that we can finally start our lives here. Most of all, there are so many coffee sho-" She was cut off.

Shattered glass rained down on my face. Silence cut through the air like a blade while I was being yanked backward violently, an iron tang coating the back of my tongue. A scream.

That was the last time I heard her voice, and now she stood before me, alive and well.

I woke up to a sterile ceiling, the smell of bleach, and the beeping of machines. My vision was still a blur.

"Where is Ella?" was the first thought that came to my mind.

The nurse's silence said everything.

My body shook, and I fell apart right then and there.

That was the story behind my tattoo.

4 2 2 4.

The loss of my life.

I had encrypted it with numbers to avoid lots of questions from curious people. My eyes were still locked on her, as if it could bring Ella back from the dead, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. Ella had been my world, and now part of her lived inside me. I crossed the room and suddenly stood before her, frozen in place. My mind unraveled faster than death could run at my heels.

Our eyes locked.

I blinked—slowly. Because I hadn’t asked for Ella’s mirror. Some would call it fate. I call it a curse.

She pulled out her AirPods and smiled at me. "Yes?"

I was slightly taken aback, and a moment of silence stretched between us. My brain buzzed as I searched for words, because her voice wasn’t the same as Ella’s.

Then, a laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, is this your usual place? I'm sorry. I can totally move."

“No, no, it’s okay.”

She took the conversation into her own hands. "Um...do you come often to the Books & Pumpkin?"

"No, not since her death." I managed.

"Her?"

"A loved one I lost."

She tilted her head, her eyes softening with pity. "I'm sorry. Really."

"It's weird. Like, your body remembers them before your brain does, you know?"

"I used to work in a hospital. But personally?" She pointed at herself, then looked into the void. "No, I have never experienced it myself, but I have seen lots of people who do."

I glanced down at my hand, where the number was inked. I took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yeah."

Her gaze shifted to me, and then her eyes narrowed at the number. "That seems familiar..."

I gritted my teeth and clenched my jaw so hard that it almost splintered. "It's personal."

She shook her head and blinked. "No, no. I meant my brother was in a psychiatric rehabilitation program. They gave patients ID’s with four digits just like this. His was 4398.”

My breath caught in my chest, and my lips thinned. “No, it's something else.”

At first, she remained silent but then, she nodded slowly and gave me a crooked, tight smile. "Of course. I'm sorry. This must be awful."

I wanted to turn around, but I stopped mid-breath. "What's your name?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm Ella."

We shook hands, and mine lingered for a second too long. All I felt was a wrenching knot in my stomach. A faint sourness coated the back of my tongue.

I smiled. Just enough to be polite.

Then, I walked out into the drizzle and the noise of a city that didn’t care that I was falling apart. I didn’t look back. The cold bit into my skin as I stood there, getting soaked.

I stared at my hand.

4224.

It should have been a ring.

I took a breath, which didn't help, and told myself this sting was just the weather. It was a lie I’d keep telling myself until it worked. I rubbed my thumb over the number 4224.

Shortly after me, she stepped outside. The door clicked shut behind her as she disappeared among New York's buildings and traffic lights.

I let the rain drench my hair, clothes, and shoes.

Eventually, the pain would fade. At least, that's what I tried to tell myself. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

My gaze dropped to my hands. A sticky bun. I took a bite and it was too sweet, but exactly how she used to like them.