The apartment smelled like burnt sugar and bad decisions. The last pancake went from "almost okay" to "why do you hate yourself?" in three seconds. I flipped too late, stared at the dark underside, and killed the burner.

"Perfect," I muttered.

The plate beside me was a sad mix of edible and "we don't talk about her." We only had groceries enough to scrape this together, a loud reminder I had to go shopping later.

At least some pancakes were semi-presentable. I tossed the worst into the ...