Chapter Text
11:00. Saturday. October 12th. Riley’s Apartment.
The bedding was soft beneath her cheek—freshly warmed sheets, smelling faintly of detergent and safety. The comfort of it oozed into her bones. Maya loved naps in Riley’s bed. It was the most comfortable place in the world. To be near her best friend, to smell her shampoo on the pillow, and to touch things that felt too precious for her dirty hands.
This was the calmest she had felt all week.
In the background, the lazy theme song of their favorite reality TV show hummed on. Riley’s stomach gave a loud growl, hungry for whatever delicious scent was coming from the kitchen.
Maya could almost taste the chicken parmesan from here. Mr. Matthews always served up extra cheese—far more than the recommended portion. But it was perfect. Spinach, broccoli, crispy chicken, and the creamiest sauce made with butter, garlic, and herbs.
In her life, Maya hadn’t cooked many meals. The few she had attempted were usually under Topanga’s supervision. Outside of that—and an occasional bowl of cereal or a slapped-together sandwich—cooking was a luxury. The kind of thing people did when they had groceries that weren’t just the basics.
There were days when Maya did the shopping alone. She’d sneak a ten out of her mom’s purse—or collect pennies from the street—and walk fifteen minutes to a corner shop that sold dented cans and knockoff brands at discount prices. Marlo, the old guy behind the counter, never asked questions.
Sometimes, she’d see other kids like her—hovering by the same shelves, buying instant noodles and oatmeal, no parents in sight.
Those were the days Maya felt a little lucky.
Her babysitting money would usually go toward milk, cereal, and whatever she could stretch over the week. Ramen packs were staples. She’d learned to fudge expiration dates and dilute condensed soup with water—just enough salt, and it passed.
She liked food just as much as the next kid, but the meals she loved most were the ones that filled her stomach fast.
And Riley’s kitchen... that was a whole other universe.
There was a full cupboard just for snacks: giant bags of crackers (cheesy, crunchy, buttery), rows of granola bars, chips, jelly fruit candies, and—her favorite—a giant glass jar filled with cookies. So many cookies, they could feed their whole class in one go.
Behind the classics, there was the popcorn stash, trail mixes that only Topanga liked, and way in the back? Riley’s and Auggie’s previous Halloween candy haul.
They were allowed one candy per week. Two on weekends.
That kind of rationing was not exactly a Hart family tradition.
Maya had never been to Farkle’s house, but she imagined it looked similar—just more... organized. Transparent containers labeled in perfect handwriting, shiny metal scoops. The kind of kitchen where you could see your reflection in the utensils.
For sleepovers, Maya used the toothbrush Topanga kept in the guest drawer.
There were free meals offered around the city. Churches, community centers. But Maya knew better. She’d heard stories of police waiting near the doors, just looking for kids to show up so they could report their parents for neglect.
She wasn’t taking that risk.
The other options either required a signature from her mother or meant someone would “officially” take over.
Maya couldn’t afford any of that. She needed to stay invisible.
Next to her, Riley was drifting off, her head slowly tilting to the side. They had exhausted themselves that morning, celebrating their victories. It had felt good—better than good—to have something go exactly the way Riley had dreamed it.
It might’ve been one more responsibility added to the pile, but Maya didn’t mind. It meant time with her friends. It meant her mind and body stayed off the streets, out of her house. Lingering after the bell didn’t feel like a chore when you had nowhere else to belong.
And even here—snuggled in a warm bed with her best friend—something still felt... off.
Maybe it was the weight of all the things left unsaid. The weird, subtle shift in Riley’s behavior. Or maybe it was something else.
Whatever it was, she ignored it.
That’s what she always did with problems that didn’t demand immediate attention.
Call it lazy, or self-preservation.
Either way, it was her way of forgetting.
And that... she’d done a lot of.
Years of forgetting. Of skipping over the important details of a life she never asked for. Of burying memories so deep they dissolved into the darker corners of her brain. Souvenirs held emotions—hope, care, want.
None of those were helpful in the jungle.
At breakfast, Riley’s parents had asked them both about their week.
“Better than ever!” Riley beamed, giving a full recap.
Maya had been asked, too. Topanga had turned toward her, eyes warm, curious. So, she gave her version. Shorter. But enough to make Auggie smile.
The Matthews, as always, were encouraging. They cheered for both girls, then moved the conversation on to other matters Maya couldn’t quite follow—chores schedules for the kids for the week.
They didn’t linger. Like good people.
And Maya didn’t feel sad.
Not mad, either.
But there was something—a weird tightness between her shoulders, like someone was pressing down from behind.
Maybe it was shame.
Shame for the things she’d hid? Or the things she’d said?
Or maybe it was that growing sense of disconnection, like she wasn’t really inside her body anymore, just floating above it—watching things unfold from a bird’s-eye view.
Detached. Hollow.
Yeah… that tracked. That sounded exactly like a Hart.
The episode ended. Riley yawned and closed the laptop.
“Want to take a nap?” she mumbled, voice soft with sleep.
Maya nodded, like she’d just been pulled back down from the clouds.
She shifted, closing her arms around her friend the way they liked.
Riley was the little spoon. Maya didn’t mind being the big spoon.
She wondered, just briefly, if her friend would ever ask to switch.
Would ever turn around and say, “I hold you this time.”
Would she think maybe... Maya wanted to be held, too?
But Riley didn’t say anything. And Maya just lay there, wide awake behind her sleeping best friend, and waited for the peace to stay.
She couldn’t afford to scare her nonblood related sister away. Goodness knows she wouldn’t survive.
13:03. Saturday. October 12th. Riley’s Apartment.
As expected, the meal had been the tastiest, dreamiest thing Maya had eaten in weeks. She’d thanked the Matthews more than once for it, even if they waved it off like it was nothing.
Now, they were all gathered around the dining table, spooning through bowls of chocolate and vanilla ice cream. The warmth of lunch still lingered in the air, the kitchen filled with post-meal lull.
Riley was the first to break it.
“Mom, Dad... you really don’t need to come to my debates this year,” she announced, casually. Like she hadn’t rehearsed that line in her head all morning.
She meant the upcoming debate set against St-Henry’s prep. The first one in a series against other schools, only a few days away.
Maya glanced up from her bowl. Topanga and Mr. Matthews looked mildly surprised. There was no way they’d miss it. Not when it came to Riley performing.
Seeing their daughter on stage, speaking her truth with confidence and poise, was a huge deal to the Matthews. Topanga deeply respected that kind of courage. And Cory... as long as Riley was happy, he’d clap the loudest in the room.
“Mr. Johnson already sent us the dates,” Topanga said with a self-satisfied smile, tapping her phone. “They’re in my calendar.”
Riley groaned. “But mooom... L—My friends are going to be there. I want more independence!”
“You’ll get it in high school,” Mr. Matthews replied, brushing off her dramatics. “For now, just be happy we’re your ride.”
Riley folded her arms in protest. “Come on, please!”
The parents exchanged a glance. Then, Topanga raised an eyebrow.
“Would this have anything to do with a boy?”
Riley turned scarlet. “What? No—why would—what makes you think that?”
Topanga held up a hand. “I get that having your parents on the sidelines isn’t always the coolest. But what if you have a panic attack? Or forget your speech?”
“I’ll manage. Maya will be there,” Riley said firmly, like it settled everything.
“Yep,” Maya added, licking the last bit of vanilla from her spoon, elbows now planted on the table like she was Riley’s legal counsel.
Topanga looked between the two girls. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because once we say no, that’s it. You really want us to sit this one out?”
“I do. Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad,” Riley replied, her mouth full of chocolate and determination.
The parents nodded, not entirely satisfied, but willing to let it go—for now.
Maya scraped the pearly swirl of melted vanilla from the bottom of her bowl and licked it clean.
“Alright,” Topanga said, rising from the table. “Be ready in ten minutes, fam. We’re going shopping.”
The girls stood and rinsed their bowls in the sink, their day far from over.
13:32. October 12th. Car ride. New York.
The city always looked different from a car.
Maya had noticed you could never quite see the tops of the buildings, and the blur of motion erased all the little things that made each street special. From inside a vehicle, everything felt either too fast or way too slow.
The Matthews didn’t live far from the mall. The trip would’ve been faster by subway, but Maya wasn’t complaining. A car ride meant rest. And sometimes, it was nice to see the city from a different angle.
She sat squished in the backseat between Riley and Auggie, whose booster seat kept him upright and locked.
Maya, on the other hand, was thoroughly sandwiched—wedged between the two kids and the middle console. Her shoulder bumped Riley’s; her hip pressed into Auggie’s plastic seat frame. She could already feel something poking into her butt. A rogue toy? A safety buckle? Probably both.
There was, of course, the eternal family debate about the radio.
Topanga liked the news. Mr. Matthews always went for old-school hits from the '90s. Auggie demanded the kiddie channel, full of off-key cartoons and unbearable jingles. Recently, Riley had begun insisting they put on the Z100, which basically meant whichever boyband was making headlines that week.
Today, the car played Topanga’s choice.
Mr. Googly was riding shotgun with Auggie, strapped securely to his chest like a plushie security guard. It had taken a full minute—and some intense negotiation—for Auggie to let Maya take the seat usually reserved for his “bestest buddy.”
During that minute, Maya had chewed the inside of her cheek and looked out the window like she didn’t care.
Something sharp jabbed her again from underneath. She fished around and pulled out a tiny plastic ring.
“That’s mine,” Auggie said, his front teeth still missing and his S’s coming out wet and squeaky. “I asked Ava to marry me, but she said no.”
Maya blinked. “Sorry buddy.”
Up front, the parents were having their own debate about which route to take. Topanga argued the GPS would save them two minutes. Mr. Matthews insisted on “his way,” which was code for “I’m driving, I’m choosing”.
“She’s right, Auggie,” Riley said, snatching the ring from her brother’s hand. “You’re too young to get married.”
Which, of course, started a war.
“Give me my ring back!”
“It’s just a ring!”
“MOOOOM!”
Topanga didn’t even flinch. She offered one glance—a serious warning sort of glance—and both kids paused.
“Riley stole my ring,” Auggie tattled.
“I was just looking at it,” Riley replied, throwing it back into her brother’s lap like it was radioactive.
But Auggie wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. He began grousing under his breath, muttering nonsense phrases about love and betrayal, until the car finally rolled into the mall parking lot.
A flair for the dramatics definitely ran in the family.
14:17. October 12th. Atlantic Terminal Mall. New York.
After parking, and settling on divide and conquer as a tactic, the three girls walked into the Atlantic Terminal Mall, window perusing.
They had their own little habits when it came to shopping, stores they would visit more frequently, aisles they preferred over others, water fountain they favored, and so on.
And Maya was comforted in knowing, even though she never asked for anything, Topanga always provided a double of whatever Riley chose to buy those days. Unless too specific to be needed, she never treated her any less. Or forgot she existed. Taking as much time in helping her daughter, as she did with her.
It was…appreciated. Maya liked those moments where she could for a second or two, imagine herself as Riley’s actual sister. To think Topanga as her mother, just buying her twins clothing, or supplies for school.
It was nice.
“Mom, girls in class are wearing bras,” Riley declared skipping her way in the main hall. “Can we go to Victoria’s Secret?” She asked with her best puppy eyed expression.
Topanga, who was holding her phone to answer a text, blinked once. “I don’t think you need one right now, sweetheart.” The woman was occupied, like any busy lawyer.
Although, to be fair, Maya didn’t know any more. It happened sometimes that Topanga had to deal with a few urgent matters on weekends, in those moments, Mr. Matthews was generally in charge of taking care of the kids.
“Please?” Riley pressed, cheeks flushed. “Just, like… one.” She pressed half looking at her mother, holding onto Maya’s hand.
Topanga smiled gently and looked away from the device to focus on the girls. “How about a bralette instead?”
“What’s that?” Maya wondered.
“It’s like a bra, but no wires. Much more comfortable. No hassle,” she explained, as they got to the escalator. “We’ll buy one for each of you.”
Maya raised her eyebrows. “Oh—no need, Ms. Matthews, I’m good.” She took a small step back, pretending to be very interested in the moving steps.
“Maya, I insist,” Topanga said firmly but kindly, without even looking at her. “If my daughter’s getting something today, so are you. If you want anything, just say it.”
“I really don’t need anything,” Maya mumbled, voice quieter than before.
Topanga gave her that look again—the one Maya knew too well. The one adults gave her when they weren’t going to argue, but they weren’t going to budge either. It was the same one she got when she’d show up without a coat and said she wasn’t cold.
“It’s just clothes,” Topanga said lightly, walking into the right direction. “And besides, you girls babysat for us every now and again.”
“Mr. Matthews already paid us plenty for last night,” Maya reminded, nudging Riley with her elbow like she might back her up.
“Yes, but this is my compensation,” Topanga said with a wink, handing each girl a ten. “Now. Bralettes, then jeans. And Maya, didn’t your backpack strap break?”
Maya blinked. “It’s fine.”
“Mmhmm,” Topanga hummed, already eyeing the display of bags by the entrance of the nearest large surface store.
What Maya didn’t know—what Riley hadn’t even noticed herself—was that Topanga had no plans of buying anything for Riley’s already overflowing wardrobe. Everything she picked out today was intentional. Fall was on its way, and if they left with mittens, boots, and even a scarf or two, Topanga would sleep easier.
“Wouldn’t want you girls freezing,” she muttered under her breath, mentally checking off the list as she placed a pair of gloves in red and another one in purple in their basket.
“Thank you, Ms. Matthews,” Maya said eventually, her smile was soft, grateful in the kind of way that stung a little if you looked too closely.
“You’re welcome, honey,” Topanga replied, without making it a big deal.
14:49. October 12th. Atlantic Terminal Mall. New York.
“Matching bras!” Riley announced gleefully, bringing two more sets and dropping them into their gray shopping bags. “Yellow for you, purple for me,” she grinned. “Or maybe pink? What do you think?”
Topanga had agreed begrudgingly to let them have exactly one bra each, but as Maya was getting used to these days, Riley would certainly find a way to convince her mother to let them have more.
They giggled as they walked toward the displays. There were so many models... Dainty bows, daring straps, floral mesh, and sparkly gems.
Brassieres. Stuff meant to stay hidden. But apparently, even that had fashion rules.
And Maya... well, Maya hadn’t thought about it much. Her chest hadn’t grown particularly. Her body didn’t seem to want the same things Riley’s did. She hadn’t really considered what she should wear underneath.
Or what message it sent, if any.
Some sets were bold. Others sweet. Some screamed frilly and flirty, others looked like they required an instruction manual.
“How do you even get into that?” Riley asked, pointing at a display that looked like an interwoven mess of black straps and loops.
“Gymnastics,” Maya muttered, pretending to squint at the price tag.
“There’s a great deal, girls!” Topanga called from nearby, gesturing to a section of overflowing bins. “Pick five each.”
Maya approached slowly. Bins labeled by size. Hundreds of panties staring back at her like a test she hadn’t studied for.
“Hey! You picked this one too,” Riley said, holding up a light blue pair with a daisy bow after a full minute of digging in the ‘XS’ bin. “Wouldn’t you rather get the black one? It’s the same.”
Maya frowned.
If given a choice, colors always felt better than black. She had enough of that at home. Too much, actually.
“No,” she said, giving a small smile. “I’ll stick with the blue.”
She liked blue. The red, pink, yellow and green too.
But something shifted when she noticed that nearly every piece she picked matched Riley’s choices. Obliged, she lingered longer at the bins, trying to find designs that weren’t repeats.
But by the end, in the choices left, the only one she liked that wouldn’t disintegrate in her laundromat washer… was the same blue underwear Riley chose.
“Have you girls picked yet?” Topanga returned with a bag of her own, filled nearly to the brim. Maya nodded, but her eyes briefly drifted to the contents of the mother’s bag.
She didn’t mean to snoop. Not really. Just... a peek into the kind of choices a woman like Topanga made in a place like this.
They were bolder—lace-trimmed, deep-colored, elegant pieces the girls wouldn’t have dared to try on. The kind that looked like they belonged in glossy magazines or in movies.
At least, that’s what Maya thought.
And she couldn’t help but wonder—why?
Why would a woman like Topanga choose those over simpler ones? Wasn’t she supposed to be past all that? Married. Settled. With two kids and a kitchen full. Did she still need to impress someone? Or was it just... personal taste?
And if it was taste, what made these so much better than the ones Maya had seen at target? Did price make them more beautiful? Did lace mean more than cotton?
Her brain wandered further—toward a question she wasn’t sure she should be asking.
But she did anyway.
Did a boy ever have a say in those choices?
Would Mr. Matthews ever tell his wife to wear something else, the way Topanga sometimes chose his button-ups before school events?
Was that what Riley wanted? Not just underwear that matched—but ones someone else might like? Was that why she brought it up with such excitement?
And the thought unsettled a sea of following thoughts.
If Lucas ever got to choose what Riley wore... what would it be?
What would he ask of her?
That idea—that some boy could have a say in what you wore—that idea played with Maya.
She tried to picture it. Lucas telling her— no Riley—what to wear. What not to wear.
And the image twisted in her stomach.
Not in a wrong way. Just enough to feel…something.
Even as the thought buzzed around in the back of her mind like a loose wire, a small smile crept onto her lips.
She didn’t know why she didn’t hate it completely.
Not exactly.