Archive of Our Own ^beta

Despite the ache in her nonexistent bank account, moving in with a Daywalker was the best decision Nicole ever made.

Not that she’d made many good decisions before, most of her teenage years were spent grounded or in detention, but moving into a cardboard box would’ve been better than spending one more night under the same roof as her whore mom. She let a literal pedophile stink up the basement for free yet threatened to kick Nicole out if she didn’t get a job after miraculously graduating high school, so each patty Nicole flipped the next year stacked her sizzling resentment until it boiled over. She couldn’t stand her brother yelling at and flirting with fourteen-year-olds, couldn’t stand the drunken wailing of her mom, and despite rarely interacting with either of them because her brother forgot what legs were for and her mom was always off blowing her newest divorce, just seeing them in passing was enough to fantasize about following her father’s footsteps.

But she’d never see a Daywalker. Not in person, anyway. It was impossible. Since Nicole, a Nightwalker, vanished at sunrise and her roommate vanished at sunset they’d literally never interact. It was the greatest living arrangement Nicole could imagine. Her roommate could be the most annoying person on the planet—fuck, maybe she was, given her goody two-shoes species—and it wouldn’t even matter. She’d never be present to berate her, frown in disapproval, barge in her room and antagonize her for the sin of being born. Like, hello, being conceived wasn’t her choice. She’d go back and undo it if she could, save everyone the trouble of her company, but she couldn’t. Killing herself was always an option, but so was escaping her mom and having her own space. Housing with a Daywalker granted full freedom while only demanding half the rent.

Those terms more than compensated the apartment’s size, and it was a good thing Nicole didn’t own many belongings because even the lingering smell of smoke couldn’t mask the odor of unbridled materialism. Not in the messy way Nicole used to grow her depression piles but in the way people advertised their poor spending habits with a sense of pride they shouldn’t have. The walls were surprisingly barren—no family photos or happy memories for this bitch, apparently—but every flat surface harboured a designated decorative ashtray, all well-used. Shelves were consumed by punk rock CDs, so many she would’ve assumed they were stolen if her roommate wasn’t a Daywalker cause who the fuck bought CDs anymore? The bathroom was busied with premium makeup and the bedroom closet was crammed with designer clothes, each shirt probably costing more than Nicole’s wardrobe. The kitchen cabinets supplied more snacks than ingredients and the trash was overflowing with disposable coffee cups.

Nicole’s quick exploration acquired several tidbits of her roommate’s priorities, mostly the state of her lungs and her distance from the poverty line, but nothing too interesting or too personal.

Until she spotted the note attached to the fridge.

A painful thud echoed in the cavern of her chest and the guitar slung around her shoulders was suddenly leaden with unbidden memories of large fingers gently strumming, gently correcting the placement of hers, and gently pulling the trigger. It dropped like an anchor, the dissonant explosion nearly trapping her in the past, but she returned to reality upon registering the note was composed with a fucking pink glitter gel pen.

“Hi Nicole. I’m your roommate, Jecka. A few ground rules and we won’t have any problems.”

Too late, there was already a problem, gaudy ass penmanship excluded. According to the paperwork Nicole signed her roommate’s name was supposed to be Jessica, and in no world was Jecka a short form of Jessica. She briefly wondered if she walked into the wrong apartment but that couldn’t be true, both because her key worked and this ‘Jecka’ seemed prepared for her arrival. Maybe she had a lisp and got tired fumbling her own name. Or maybe she was just super white and her favourite baby names included Rebekkah and Aubreigh. If so, Nicole would reconsider the cardboard box.

“One: pay your half of the rent on time.

Two: don’t steal any of my drugs.

Three: keep the door locked even when you’re here. I have a Nightwalker stalker and if I find out he got in here and set up cameras or some shit I will burn this place to the ground.

Please don’t give me reasons to add more rules. If you have any questions let me know.”

Oh Nicole definitely had questions, just none she planned on asking.

That last rule she would’ve done without instruction regardless if the stalker thing was legit or not. Men harassed her enough as a minor and she knew most wouldn’t stop now, and the whole point of moving here was so no one would bother her ever again.

The first rule seemed stupid to even write, so either someone tried to freeload on her before or she was just demonstrating her professed authority. Trying to sound like a tough bitch when really the only hard thing about her was the stick up her ass. Nicole was about to head to work anyway so this uptight Daywalker she’d thankfully never meet could chill the fuck out.

As for the second rule—how was Nicole expected to trudge to her minimum wage, minimum effort job and not slit her throat in the soda dispenser without a pick-me-up? Maybe this ‘Jecka’ should’ve considered that before leaving her cigarettes in plain sight.

The pack was nearly full, anyway. She wouldn’t notice one missing.

As much as Nicole dreaded the destination, this was the first time the journey didn’t make her suicidal.

She didn’t love walking, she’d always prefer to be curled up somewhere with her laptop, but a fifteen minute downtown stroll was preferable to the hour long bus ride she used to take from the suburbs in every way. No asshole manspreading next to her, no hypothermia thanks to late buses, and best of all she no longer had to worry if she’d make it to her bed. Late shifts made it hard to catch the last bus as for everyone’s safety there was a ban on driving half an hour before sunset and sunrise.

Not that everyone listened, and walking to work offered the opportunity to spot the traces of anyone moronic enough to be on the road during the vanishing along with the chumps who didn’t arrive home on time. Most of them would just wake up in a bad mood; sore from disappearing on the pavement, pissed their last minute purchases were swiped, annoyed at wearing the remains of their mistimed meals.

Others, like whoever was behind the wheel of that totalled car, would never wake up again.

And now instead of rushing in either direction Nicole got to savour the sweetness of a stolen cigarette. She could get used to this.

She wished she wasn’t as used to the absolute joy of working fast food, all salt and spit and concocting a crossover between Hell’s Kitchen and 1000 Ways to Die, and like clockwork Emily appeared shortly before her break to keep her company. Well, and to scope out customers of her own. Nicole was ninety-nine percent sure her manager knew Emily dealt drugs in their bathroom but let it slide because addicts craved grease almost as much as lines and the extra profit was too good to turn down.

Although Nicole would prefer to be alone, she didn’t mind much. Emily was a little too obsessed with her but she was fun, occasionally provided free samples, and potentially was the only reason she lived this long.

“Moved in with a Daywalker today,” Nicole announced when she plopped down across from Emily, whose sharklike grin at Nicole’s serving of fries warped into a grimace.

“Gross,” she spat, intense expression mellowing as she mutilated a fry. “Don’t they all fuck their cousins? You find any evidence of that?”

“Not yet, but it definitely seems like she’s constantly fucking her tampon. One message was enough to tell she’s a stuck-up cunt.”

“You needed a message to tell that?” Emily scoffed.

“You’re right,” Nicole sighed, slumping in her seat. “It should’ve been a given.”

“Fuck that sunburnt ho.” Emily leaned forward to push a fry between Nicole’s lips, staying uncomfortably close even after Nicole swallowed. “Come live with me.”

Nicole frowned at the hopeful yet roguish twinkle in Emily’s eyes, a look that was unfortunately familiar. “How many times do I have to say I’m not squatting in a crack house with your gangster boyfriend.”

“You’d never have to say it again if you agreed.”

“The whole point of getting away from my mom was to have my own place.”

“It’s not your place, though.” Emily fixed her with a pointed look. “It’s the Daywalker’s.”

“Details,” Nicole dismissed with a wave of her hand. “It’s not like I’ll ever have an actual conversation with her. I’m just gonna pretend she doesn’t exist.”

Pretending would be easier if they didn’t share a bed.

Did this count as sharing a bed? It kind of did, didn’t it? It’s not like they fell asleep next to each other or woke up together, but they both used it. Well technically Nicole couldn’t be sure she used it, it’s not like she saw Jecka lay down, but why the fuck would she sleep anywhere else? Nicole could’ve avoided these mental gymnastics by taking the couch but she did not deserve a stiff neck when they were splitting rent so she was going to burrow in the bed she paid for.

And when Nicole awoke the next evening, she realized it wasn’t just blankets keeping her warm.

Daywalkers never really made sense to her—why bother researching what she’d never see—but their concept was less confusing before she roomed with one. Like, sure, Daywalkers lived their lives when Nightwalkers didn’t. They somehow didn’t go blind from everlasting sunlight or melt from excessive heat. Their streets were safer—allegedly—thanks to their searchlight in the sky. They insisted natural lighting was more enchanting than artificial and never relinquished their cameras since. It all sounded like horseshit, but horseshit she could accept.

How could she accept that a millisecond ago Jecka was laying here instead of her?

The remnants of Jecka’s body heat seeped from the mattress while floral shampoo clung to the pillow, these inescapable sensations suffocating Nicole’s sense of self into nothing but this Daywalker’s shadow. It felt less like switching places and more like being night and day versions of each other, two sides of the same coin, and the very thought made her want to vomit all over the sheets just so Jecka would suffer something similar. As if Nicole would ever have anything in common with this bitch.

Other than a fondness of cigarettes, because when Nicole dragged herself out of bed she immediately noticed that Jecka’s pack of cigarettes was gone. A hurried perimeter check revealed the pack wasn’t anywhere obvious, meaning Jecka and her ashen lungs actually did notice that a singular fucking cig was missing, probably threw a tantrum, then retaliated in what she hoped would discourage any further heists.

She’d have to try much harder because Nicole wasn’t above snooping through every inch of the apartment for another hit and it didn’t take long to find the pack buried beneath her orderly rainbow of lace bras. She opened the pack to swipe another and snorted at how less than half the cigs remained despite being almost full last night. She debated stealing another but gained more delight in disturbing Jecka’s lingerie pride flag so she’d know on sight that she’d been bested.

To Nicole’s amusement the bras were reorganized the next night and once again the cigarettes were nowhere to be found. From then on each night began with a scavenger hunt, all successful on Nicole’s part, until a week later Jecka finally left another note with that ridiculous pink gel pen.

“The only reason I know you’re not dead is I wake up with less cigs each day.”

That sounded like a cry of defeat, and maybe Nicole could reply just once to rub it in her face. Snatching a blue ballpoint pen—she’d sooner kill herself than write anything with that Hannah Montana abomination—she scribbled the first thing that came to mind.

“Nice bras, Jessica. Am I the quickest to see them or is 24 hours a record for you?”

That should get a rise out of her.

“Only my dad calls me Jessica.

Last time I saw him he threatened to beat me with a baseball bat.”

Well, that wasn’t the rise Nicole expected.

This was so much better.

Seriously, child abuse? From Daywalkers? Way more fascinating than the lisp theory. It didn’t seem like a lie either, even if it was hard to believe. Like, sure, it happened in theory. Everything Nightwalkers experienced, every hardship they endured and evil they unleashed, had to be experienced by Daywalkers, too. Only difference was Nightwalkers basked in the moonlight while Daywalkers hid in the sunlight; pretended each sunrise was a purification of yesterday’s atrocities. Nightwalkers never pretended to uphold more morality than necessary while Daywalkers pretended they upheld nothing else.

Daywalker media painted a pretty picture, and it was difficult to peel back the façade to reveal the insidious underbelly when Nicole would never meet one in person, but even though this was the closest she’d ever get these stilted words spilled more than enough pink to pollute the perfection.

It was the writing itself that made Nicole believe her, the glitter subdued under tight, precise strokes. Like a robot wrote this note. Like she was paranoid of being monitored. Like if a drop of ink was out of place she’d be punished. Like she still punished herself in her dad’s absence.

Nicole couldn’t deny she was interested, if anything just to compare Jecka’s seemingly traumatic childhood to hers as she discovered more and more proof that the tie between Daywalkers and Nightwalkers was more complicated than mere contradiction. Back in high school—if they existed together rather than separately—she would’ve manipulated Jecka into confessing a wealth of blackmail Nicole would’ve stashed away for future use.

But the future was now.

The future was the rest of her life.

And Jecka would never be a part of her life.

“I won’t call you that again. I won’t call you anything. Unless there’s an emergency I have no plans to talk with you.”

“Worried you’ll fall in love with me, Nicole?”

Amazing how easily plans changed.

Normally Nicole wouldn’t respond to such obvious bait but the offensive heart dotting the I in her name couldn’t remain unchallenged.

“Only thing I’m worried about is my sanity.”

A new night brought a new note.

“Deflecting isn’t helping your case.”

“You got me. Girls who exist on a different plane, smoke through every hole of their body, and have men who should be in jail obsessed with them are totally my type.”

That should’ve ended this nonsense. Such an abrasive reply would’ve scared off most people trying to know her. Would’ve summed up why she wasn’t worth getting to know.

Either Jecka took remedial classes or took Nicole’s challenge as her own because their paralleled stubbornness birthed the back and forth conversations that instantly became an integral element of Nicole’s evening routine.

“What can I say? My presence is just that strong.”

“The smoke clinging to the furniture definitely is.”

“Deal with it, bitch.”

“Never said it was bad, chill. I’ll deal with it if you share. Your ground rules didn’t say anything against sharing.”

“You steal them already!”

“It wouldn’t be stealing if you share. Keep up, bimbo.”

“You’re gonna take them either way, aren’t you?”

“You know me so well already.”

“Fine, whatever. Just don’t leave a pack empty. If I don’t have my morning cig I’m the one who’ll nearly end up in jail.”

“Too bad I’ll never see that.”

It wasn’t until the sun was minutes from rising that Nicole realized what she implied, like she lamented never getting to see Jecka in person, and since she wasn’t going to risk vanishing on the floor to alter the message she had to hope Jecka knew it meant nothing. Not that Jecka’s musings or misconceptions mattered to her, but she’d rather not wake up to another conceited jab about love.

What Nicole loved was drama and gossip and seeing people do insane shit. Watching anyone do anything that would land them in jail would keep her entertained for at least twenty minutes, which was probably the same amount of time she’d wasted responding to Jecka’s persistence, and she didn’t need to reward her with more.

Too bad her thoughts betrayed her will; her last few seconds of moonlight involved flashes of a figure in designer clothes flipping off the cops, Nicole’s middle finger twitching like it used to when she handled her guitar.

“Your clothes smell like ass.”

Rude.

“You the kinda freak that sniffs people’s clothes when they’re not around?”

“Believe me it’s nonconsensual.”

“Sorry to hear you and my clothes can’t stop raping each other.”

“Maybe instead of apologizing just do your fucking laundry?”

Nicole pretended not to notice how that note was positioned like a bullseye on the laundry detergent.

“Who are you, my mom? It doesn’t matter how many times I wash my work uniform. It’ll always reek of rotten potatoes fried with armpit grease.”

“Thanks for that visual. How can you stand working at a place like that? I’m getting zits just thinking about it.”

“When customers are immensely stupid my manager’s fine with me shutting off my customer service voice. So it could be worse.”

“Not by much.”

“True. Working there’s killed my love for cheeseburgers. Still love pizza, though. Especially cold.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“Sociopath, actually.”

“Okay, Miss totally diagnosed sociopath. Ditch that fast food shit and be an influencer like me. Lots of people do it.”

“I’m not spending my nights giving lifestyle tips to chronically online grade-schoolers. Plus there’s no way you make enough doing that to afford rent.”

“You’d be surprised how much misogyny sells. You’ve got that guitar, though.”

“So?”

“What do you mean ‘so’? Do something with it, dumbass.”

Nicole hadn’t done something with it since her dad died and that wasn’t something Jecka needed to know.

“Like what? Beat someone to death? That’ll get views I’m sure.”

“As awesome as that would be maybe start with something tamer. Like busking. There’s always someone playing in this area. Can’t imagine it’s any different at night.”

“Street performers are the musical equivalent of prostitutes. I’m not that desperate or that homeless.”

“You sure act like you’re homeless. All your stuff is still in the bags you moved in with. It’s like you’re always prepared to leave.”

“There’s no room in your fucking closet. It’s like you’ve got a child slave in there making your clothes or something.”

“This is your home too, you know.”

No, she didn’t know that, and she especially didn’t know why Jecka was so certain. Home was a foreign concept, indecipherable to the shackles of her mom’s house that she was ‘lucky enough to live in.’ She’d hated leaving the house but hated returning even more, the tornado of blame lurking beyond the threshold transforming what should’ve been a home into a prison. But the apartment was quiet, it was always quiet, and she realized that anytime she was out she anticipated coming back. No one would bother her here—and she wouldn’t bother anyone, either. Maybe it was that simple. Jecka made it sound so simple.

But it wasn’t that simple. This was Jecka’s home, not hers. Nicole just happened to live there.

“Is it?”

“If you want it to be.”

Nicole wasn’t sure what she wanted. That house made her feel like she wasn’t allowed to want anything. The only thing Nicole allowed herself to truly want in several years was estrangement from her mom. The only thing she’d wanted before that was a home with her dad.

He didn’t want one with her.

One stray thought and she plummeted into her last moment with him, into the crimson spray that disillusioned that hopeful home to the house it always was, and she was so spacey and exhausted from clawing to the surface that she was late for work. Even then she didn’t hurry, the short trek a blur of horns and headlights and faceless people who’d never see her as anything more than something to honk at, and in the end she paced right past her workplace. Guilt was among the many emotions she didn’t feel, she knew her boss wouldn’t fire her anyway when her connection with Emily procured so much extra business, so she sparked her cigarette and let her feet lead her to the heart of downtown.

The city was bustling long before midnight, the early evening coffee runs thinning for those who considered every hour happy hour. Neon signs glared along metal and asphalt, unnecessary for navigation given Nightwalker’s adapted night vision but esteemed for making even the shabbiest establishment look inviting. Nearly every alley contained junkies finding their veins and losing their belts and even the squealing brats sprinting to school didn’t give a shit, every activity regardless of propriety just another buzz in the background. It was so much more alive than the suburbs, offered more reasons to be alive, yet Nicole still felt like a dead girl walking.

Like a moth drawn to fire she was momentarily hypnotized by overhanging fairy lights arranged like constellations, shuffling down a swarming cobblestone street until she spotted a man plucking his guitar for an audience of one, most likely his girlfriend. It was stupid and pathetic and Nicole had better things to do than watch him earn nothing more than a sloppy blowjob afterward. That’s what Nicole kept telling herself even when her boots anchored to the ground and her eyes caught the nicks and scrapes in the wood, the stories behind the injuries unknown yet reading all too similar to the one she’d forsaken with silence.

This guitar rung a pleasant tune but the guy playing was average at best, which was possibly the biggest compliment Nicole had ever given a man. His fingering was sluggish and awkward, strumming too harshly when certain notes required a delicate touch, but that didn’t seem to matter to his girlfriend. She watched him with rapt attention, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His playing improved when he watched her, too, like she was the reason for his music. Like he found himself in her calming presence. Like he’d never need a larger audience so long as she listened.

And soon Nicole wasn’t listening to anything, all sounds of the city fading into the soothing lullaby her dad used to play for her when she struggled sleeping. He taught her how to play it, patient and nurturing as she learned the fingering and strengthened her voice. It was the first song she mastered besides nursery rhymes, her nails absentmindedly scratching the rhythm on her wrist. She still knew it by heart. Every note, lyric and memory came as naturally as breathing.

But even if she seized that amateur’s guitar right now she wouldn’t be able to play it. It was pointless with no one to play for. The only person Nicole ever played for wasn’t here.

Jecka wasn’t, either.

Some high school habits never left, and while for some that meant tardiness and destroying already doomed marriages for Nicole that included cutting in the bath. She wasn’t limited to that area but it was the only room in her mom’s house that locked and she’d dealt with her mom barging in her bedroom and shrieking about blood staining her carpet enough for one lifetime. There were already so many perks to moving out and one of her favourites was never having to lock the bathroom door anymore because why bother? Not like Jecka could walk in and see her with her tits out and wrists sliced.

Admittedly that could be funny depending on Jecka’s reaction but her freaking out and dialing a suicide hotline would be even worse than her mom’s misguided rage, so it was probably for the best she’d never know.

What she did know was how nice it was to take her time, the embrace of warm water and the familiar pattern of comforting stings soothing her into a deep trance.

Apparently too deep because the next thing she knew she was sore, chilly, still very much naked, and a quick check of her phone confirmed it was the following sunset. She’d never vanished in the tub before. She faintly registered the dull burn across her arms and the stiffness in her neck before coming to terms with how she actually could’ve fucking drowned.

Or… not.

The tub was empty.

Why the hell was the tub empty?

Massaging feeling back into her legs she stumbled to her feet, noticing some bandages and antibiotic ointment by the sink that definitely weren’t there before. Her trusty razor was openly displayed too, purified of yesterday’s indulgence. Flat beneath the ointment was a note, the writing sharper than usual like the pen was fueled with frustration.

“I swear to god if I wake up to the smell of a corpse I’ll find a way to kill you again.”

Nicole parted her lips as if to chuckle but caught the noise in her throat when she realized it would’ve emerged as something mortifying.

Not like anyone would’ve heard her. It would’ve been a secret, much like the noises in response to her flesh surrendering to steel. But even though no one could see her either, she never felt more seen. Like she’d been stripped beyond nakedness; candid and raw and only acknowledged by those unafraid to look. But everyone was afraid. Even the mirror only reflected the goosebumps prickling her skin.

But there was no fear in the note, the first aid, the empty tub. Only blind determination to fill in the blanks.

She felt feverish all of a sudden like she’d just taken a hot shower, and as pleasant as one sounded to soothe the aches of her unplanned sleep the ache to get the fuck out of the bathroom was stronger. Her hands moved on autopilot, cleaning the crust from her cuts in the sink, applying thin layers of ointment and gently bandaging her wrists. She dried what moisture remained on her body and gathered her clothes from the floor, intent on exchanging them for whatever smelled the least ass in her bag.

When entering the bedroom she nearly smacked into a new clothing rack, void of character but rife with choices.

She did her laundry and hung up her clothes.

“Do you wanna see what I look like?”

God, this bitch talked a lot. And kept asking questions Nicole didn’t want to answer.

“That’s like top 5 things I don’t wanna see. I’d rather get an uncircumcised dick pic.”

“You just became the worst roommate of all time.”

“I wasn’t already?”

“Surprisingly no but mentioning uncircumcised dicks has granted you the title. Congrats.”

“That’s what honesty does to a person. Makes them ugly. Lying is so much sexier.”

“So you do wanna see what I look like?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’re fucking with me and you already know.”

“No? How would I even know this? There’s no pictures of yourself in the apartment. Not like there’s space with all your shit everywhere. You’re gonna end up on Hoarders in your 40s.”

“Please, I’m way too hot for some washed up therapist to threaten to toss out my MSI merch. Plus how many influencers do you know with the name Jecka? It’s really easy to find me.”

“Thanks for the reminder to block your name on every social media ever. If only that worked for these notes.”

“You’re the one that keeps replying when you said you wouldn’t. Or was that a lie, too?”

She said that like replying was a choice.

Well, okay, it was, but it wasn’t that she wanted to reply. She wanted to have the last word. She wanted her final impression to inspire emotions so strong that Jecka would never seek her out again. A nearly foolproof tactic. Pushing people away was second nature and she’d ensure they remembered why it was unwise to get close.

With the lack of note the following evening she assumed Jecka finally took the hint that she wasn’t interested in whatever interested her enough to be so tenacious. The absence was almost unsettling after such steady messaging, like the sun itself skipped a day to take a nap, but Nicole certainly wasn’t complaining. If she were lucky this would be the finale of their Daywalker / Nightwalker sitcom and she could return to her blissful ignorance of everything that occurred between sunrise and sunset.

With an hour to kill before her shift Nicole secured a drink, nestled on the couch, opened her laptop—

And was face to face with the smuggest grin she’d ever seen.

She slammed her laptop closed as if that would reverse the past few seconds, like she could undo the travesty of comprehending that Jecka fucking changed her wallpaper to a picture of herself, but no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut that grin had seared into her eyelids.

With a huff she ripped opened her laptop again, glaring into the glowing amber eyes of the person she apparently couldn’t avoid even when they literally couldn’t run into each other. Her gaze roamed over sun-warmed skin framed by waist length waves so gold as if infused with pure sunlight. Her glossy lips were the same shade as that fucking gel pen, like she stamped each message with her mouth. Nicole recognized the top from Jecka’s closet, unbuttoned just enough to waver between enticing and slutty, and it was frustrating that she’d never be able to see that shirt anymore without picturing it filled by Jecka’s chest.

Just when Nicole thought it wasn’t possible for Jecka’s presence to be more potent in this apartment that bitch found a way, and with the size of that shit-eating grin she knew exactly what she was doing and that it would work. The face bearing the makeup, the hands retrieving their groceries, the teeth clamping these cigarettes, the body sharing her bed; what was once a featureless silhouette fleshed out into a stunning woman who refused to be unseen.

Whatever. It was… whatever. So what if she now knew what Jecka looked like? Sure, she was hot, Nicole wasn’t blind, but she’d never see her beyond a screen so her appearance wouldn’t impact her life. It wouldn’t impact their conversations either, if they even continued. This picture meant absolutely nothing. It was a mockery. A futile ploy. She’d change it back after work.

She never changed it back.

“Your turn to show me what you look like.”

Nicole found that cheeky ass note taped to a box of leftover pepperoni pizza in the fridge and would’ve slammed the door if her stomach wasn’t caving in on itself like the handful of girls in high school who were always mysteriously absent at the tail end of lunch. Instead she carried the box to the couch, devoured a cold slice, and took her time chewing another to consider Jecka’s sheer audacity. Just because Jecka eagerly exhibited her tits didn’t mean Nicole bore the same desire.

She didn’t jot a reply until she finished the pizza, placing the paper in the empty box and returning it to the fridge.

“My turn? Didn’t realize we were playing a game.”

While she thought that would piss Jecka off it only inspired her to order more pizza, the boxes acting as treasure chests both for scraps of food and whatever surprises awaited in writing.

“We are and I’m winning. I can’t find pics of you anywhere online.”

That was purposeful, and she didn’t know how she felt about Jecka not only wanting to see her but actively scouring like a horny ex. With how easy it was to ruin people with their digital footprint, with how often Nicole did just that to whores that tested her patience, Nicole made sure to limit hers. Not that she didn’t have social media accounts, she needed them to be a hater, but she never posted images of herself and carefully concealed personal details.

And tonight, more than any other night, that secrecy paid off.

“That sounds more like I’m winning.”

“Why don’t you want me to see you?”

“People can’t be anonymous anymore?”

“We literally live together.”

“Sure. In the way a rat probably lives in our walls.”

“You’re the rat in this scenario.”

“That your best Nightwalker diss? A little lame if you ask me. My bad for expecting something more creative than ‘live, laugh, love’ from a Daywalker.”

“I was never dumb enough to expect bright ideas from someone who loiters in dark alleys.”

“You aiming at the mafia rumours or the vampire rumours?”

“Vampires are supposed to be hot. You Nighties are related to Edward Cullen.”

“You’re the one writing with his skin cells.”

“My glitter pen is fab and you know it. I bet you totally look forward to seeing it each night. It’s like your nightly coffee.”

“More like my nightly hangover. Why do you keep leaving me stupid notes like we’re in middle school?”

“Cause you haven’t given me your number, bitch. Here’s mine.”

There was absolutely zero point to exchanging numbers, even beyond Nicole’s avoidance of friendship. It was just illogical. They’d never be able to have actual conversations. They could text, but that would serve just as much purpose as these notes. They could leave voice mails—except Nicole wouldn’t. She wouldn’t listen to Jecka’s, either. How many would it take for Jecka to realize she was basically talking to herself and stop altogether? They could send pictures and videos but Nicole had nothing to send and Jecka probably had too much. The only pictures Nicole took were for blackmail schemes while Jecka’s camera roll was undoubtedly overloaded with scenery and animals and aesthetics and memes, and Nicole did not need to wake up to dozens of spam notifications.

Emily spamming her with tips to remove blood stains followed by kiss emojis was already bad enough but at least that friendship had benefits. She and Jecka were roommates, that was all they’d ever be, and other than free cigs the benefit of that bond was silence. As annoying as the notes were they were soundless, ignorable, allowing this to still be the greatest living arrangement Nicole could imagine. Why ruin a good thing?

She stuffed Jecka’s number in tonight’s vacant pizza box and tossed it across the room, watching it slide beneath the couch to be forgotten and untouched by neither sun nor moon.

She never would have called her, anyway.

Nicole involuntarily learned way too much about Jecka the past few months, impossible not to when enclosed by her essence, but it wasn’t until December she learned that Jecka was a massive fucking nerd. She’d spotted the occasional essay on Jecka’s desk so she knew she was enrolled in university but with exams poised to strike their apartment deteriorated into an academic warzone. Rather than Christmas decorations it was garnished with flyaway papers, textbooks thick enough to cause brain damage and an assortment of crushed cans ranging from espresso to alcohol.

The disarray Nicole could relate to. The effort not so much. She’d never studied that hard for a test in her life, her best grades only happening out of spite. But university played by different rules than high school—even though she was sure the cultivation of rapists and pedophiles was the same—and judging by the musty fear of failure clinging to every corner like black mold, spite wasn’t sufficient to carry Jecka through.

And if that wasn’t enough to highlight Jecka’s panic, the lack of communication was.

It began with curt replies, which was already weird enough. Even when conceited and bossy Jecka was always openly talkative, annoyingly so, making the dismissive, one word rebuttals all the more bizarre. As the clutter in the apartment increased Jecka’s messages did the opposite, slowing until hitting a stop, and Nicole had grown so accustomed to skimming Jecka’s notes while stealing her cigarettes that more than once she was mentally flaying her first customer before realizing her lungs were detestably clear. She’d smoke when she returned but it was never as sweet, never as satisfying, and no way was she gonna let this bitch’s school issues interfere with her drug use.

It took five days of neglected teasing, not that Nicole was counting, before she finally encountered that gaudy pink ink.

“Remember when you said you had no plans to talk with me?

Follow them.

Fuck off.”

Evoking anger wasn’t new. Most people couldn’t stand her bluntness, her nonchalance, her disrespect for authority. Nicole didn’t give a shit.

Jecka’s anger was new.

Jecka’s anger twisted something deep inside of her, like how her vision twisted the letters into words she’d never misread, how the glitter sparkled as harshly as the flash of a gun, how the crumple of paper between her palms reverberated in her ears like fireworks, how the lump in her throat was as heavy as dead weight, how everything twisted and twisted and she was twisted and it was all her fault.

And then she chastised herself for pretending Jecka mattered enough to hurt her, to change her, to be anything more than a phantom warming her bed.

“I won’t forget again.”

Nicole still wasn’t counting but after three nights of noticing hard lemonades line the counters and tissues flood the trash she spied a note half buried in Jecka’s schoolwork, like she was unsure if she wanted Nicole to see it.

“If I don’t do well my mom won’t pay my rent anymore.”

The penmanship was messy like Jecka’s hand had been shaking, like this was a cry for help to someone she knew didn’t care, and each practically illegible squiggle deepened Nicole’s understanding of this absolute shitshow of a month.

If Jecka failed her exams, or didn’t get good enough grades to please her mom, she’d have to move—either back to her abusive dad or to the streets from the sounds of it, and even louder was Jecka’s preference to overdose on mystery pills. All of those scenarios equaled an empty apartment. An apartment barren of Jecka’s influence. An apartment lacking sunlight. An apartment where moonlight wasn’t enough.

They never had to talk again. That was fine. That’s what Nicole demanded in the first place.

But Jecka wasn’t fucking leaving.

Nicole didn’t normally buy from Emily—her prices were outrageous and a peck on the cheek was usually enough for a freebie—but that night she cleaned out her supply of Xanax. After her shift she detoured to a family owned Nightwalker bakery, somewhere Jecka could never visit, and purchased a multipack of festive cupcakes. They came in a fancy ass box with a ‘Merry Christmas’ inscribed on top, and despite Christmas being a week away Nicole left both the anxiety reducing drugs and the red and green frosted diabetes on Jecka’s mountain of textbooks.

Jecka never thanked her. Nicole didn’t need or expect her to. But she felt oddly satisfied at the daily diminishing of her presents.

Nicole stayed true to her word, not contacting Jecka even after her exams were over, even though it would significantly impact her if Jecka failed them. She figured Jecka would inform her if that was the case—god forbid she break her own ground rule about paying rent on time—and she wasted her nights getting wasted off the dozens of hard lemonades still in the fridge to distract from the possibility of having to confront her mom again.

It was the beginning of January when Nicole noticed a picture saved to her laptop simply labelled ‘Happy New Year.’ She opened it to see a screenshot of Jecka’s grades—all A’s. Like a fucking nerd. A fucking nerd who was relieved, proud, and maybe wanted someone else to be proud of her, too. Maybe the only person privy to how hard she worked. The only person who knew what those grades really meant.

Nicole did, and it was contradictory because passing wasn’t something she considered an accomplishment. Neither was attending university. Neither of those things made anyone special. Jecka shouldn’t be anyone special.

But knowing her long shot attempt helped Jecka succeed, knowing neither of them were being forced back to their abusive families, knowing Jecka was staying in the apartment, staying here, staying with her—Nicole’s insides twisted in ways debatably worse than before.

It was only after shifting forward to try and relieve the discomfort that she discovered something hiding behind her laptop. An unopened pack of pricy cigarettes—personalized with a kiss of lip gloss. It shimmered pink just like the lips on her wallpaper, just like the pen carving Jecka’s thoughts, and for the first time Nicole learned something about Jecka voluntarily.

Her lip gloss was flavoured.

Nicole didn’t really believe Jecka about the stalker thing—like, duh, of course men were weird about her, that plague was packaged with being a girl, no need to be an attention whore about it—until the serenity of the night was shattered by the harsh rattling of the doorknob.

She wasn’t expecting anyone—why the fuck would she puncture her peace with someone’s presence—and even if she was they wouldn’t have been able to get in the building unless she buzzed them in. So either one of her neighbours was tripping and misread their door plates or someone snuck in with the intention of breaking into their apartment.

Thankfully she’d locked the door like she did every night yet the knob kept rattling as if it would magically rotate with enough attempts. She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole at a tall ginger boy, his eyes wide and skin slick with sweat and mania tugging his smile. Every few seconds he’d scan the hallway as if ensuring he wasn’t spotted before retrying the doorknob.

Keeping still and breathing slowly she watched him try for several minutes, deranged expression never altering, and the cacophonous rattling echoed like an earthquake in her skull long after he left. She recognized that look on his face all too well. It wasn’t the look of someone who gave up for good; just for now. He’d be back. Maybe in ten minutes. Maybe just before sunrise. Maybe every night after.

Unfortunately for him, the reason she recognized that determined look was because she often saw it in the mirror, and nothing fueled her determination like ruining a man’s life.

His features wouldn’t be enough to effectively cyberstalk him but if Jecka was aware of his existence he must’ve made himself known to her, either through DMs, comments on her content, or causing a ruckus about her elsewhere. Acquiring screenshots from Jecka would take too long assuming she’d even share so scouring her comment section was probably her best bet. Even with the high possibility that Jecka blocked him there was no fucking way that freak didn’t have dozens of burner accounts. For missions like this Nicole was a master detective; familiar phrasing, a few slip-ups, and she’d definitely hunt him down.

Jecka was right about her account being easy to find and based on her brief profile description and video thumbnails she mainly promoted makeup and fashion advice, many outfits recognizable from her boundless closet. Nicole aimlessly scrolled and clicked a video at random, realizing when her nail tapped the screen she actually nailed her own coffin because, after avoiding it for so long, she was willingly about to hear Jecka’s voice for the first time.

“Some of you have been asking about the rack of clothes you sometimes see behind me in my videos.” Jecka’s tone was clear and confident and so fucking preppy, yet pealed with a distinct sharpness forged by whatever abuse she endured and sustained against losers in school. “Way darker than my usual stuff, right? They belong to my roommate but she’s not here right now, so…” Jecka’s shimmering lips stretched into a mischievous grin, like she knew Nicole would see this someday. “I’m sure she won’t mind if I try them on.”

What?

The video jolted to Jecka in a new outfit. One of Nicole’s outfits.

Nicole’s current outfit.

The room was sweltering all of a sudden, shirt clinging to her skin, the same shirt clinging even tighter to Jecka’s. The dark fabric was a backdrop for her luminescent hair like the night sky was for the moon, her golden eyes gleaming like stars. Maybe Nicole should’ve been pissed off that Jecka looked prettier in her top than she did, and she blamed her abrupt fever for why the only thought circling her brain like it was shoved inside a microwave was that Jecka could make anything look pretty. She had the looks, the charm and the resolve. If she couldn’t save an outfit it was doomed from the first thread, and Nicole’s emo apparel proved a fallen angel was still an angel.

It’s possible Nicole wasted a godforsaken amount of time watching videos Jecka posted since she moved in, every casual mention of her ‘Nightwalker roommate’ distracting from the fact she was supposed to be liberating the world of a soulless ginger. She scrolled back up to Jecka’s more recent entries, opening one where Jecka was responding to someone asking what a guy could do to be interesting enough for her to consider dating him. No man was interesting enough to date, Jecka must know that, but judging by the length of the video Jecka must provide a more thorough answer.

“He could kill his mom,” Jecka stated, maintaining a serious face for a few seconds before breaking into musical laughter that totally didn’t make Nicole’s stomach flip or anything. “That’s way better than boring ass small talk on a first date. And, like, I’m already hot, but then I’d be officially hot enough to say that someone killed their fucking mom just for the chance to take me to dinner. That’d get me on magazine covers, right?”

She was clearly joking. Maybe not about the desire to headline magazines, that seemed appallingly legit, but not if the catch was inspiring matricide. Plus anyone with half a brain would know an influencer would never agree to an outing with a stranger, especially if they committed murder. Based on the comments, her followers seemed to know her well enough to recognize her layers of sarcasm.

All except one.

And with that bullet she hunted him down.

She was greeted the following night with a pronounced note from Jecka, jumbled and passionate like she couldn’t scribble it fast enough.

“Did you hear about the guy who got arrested last night for stabbing his mom fifteen times and stuffing her body in the freezer? That’s my fucking stalker! Holy shit I’m free! I’m gonna get fat on sugar after I write this to celebrate. Have as much as you want and party for me!”

Nicole severely underestimated the consequences of learning how Jecka’s voice sounded because now each word bounced off the page and ricocheted in her ears, the melodic lilt of Jecka’s relief and elation crystal clear. Jecka became Nicole’s personal tinnitus but her pitch perfected the quiet. She heard what Jecka said several times before she listened, finally receiving an explanation why there were enough snacks on the kitchen counters to feed an army. It might last them a week, but given Jecka’s excitement and Nicole’s inability to resist free food that timeframe was probably too generous.

“More people should commit matricide for you if I get to reap the benefits.”

“I was debating deleting the ‘kill his mom’ video but maybe I should make another. Weed out the insane one by one.”

“I dunno. This guy sounds like a specific brand of insane to me. And a better stalker than a murderer. How did he get caught? Did he turn himself in?”

“No, apparently the dumbass confessed his plan on that video and someone notified the cops. Which is fucking crazy. People make controversial comments all the time so I can’t believe someone actually took it seriously.”

“Sounds like this person has way too much time on their hands. You sure they’re not a stalker, too?”

“They got that fuckwad arrested. I don’t care if they’re a little obsessed with me. I can sleep a little easier because of them.”

“Maybe this new stalker was hoping this would make you a little easier to sleep with.”

“Not everyone is gross.”

“You think they did this out of the goodness of their heart? If not a fuck they gotta at least want your recognition.”

“Don’t you think they would’ve announced themselves then? Why stay anonymous if they want me to notice them?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Well, I hope this person knows how much I appreciate what they did for me. I won’t forget it.”

“You gonna tell them that in a video?”

But there was no video. Instead—

“I think I’ll keep it a secret.

Between me

and the rat that lives in our walls.”

Nicole was an inherently selfish person. She didn’t do anything that didn’t benefit herself. That sexual harasser would’ve disturbed her every night if she didn’t intervene and if she ran into him panting at her door when she got home from work she probably would’ve been the one arrested for slugging him with the emergency fire extinguisher, so she tracked him down and got him behind bars just to prove she could. The success and solitude were the only rewards she needed. She didn’t do this for Jecka so she didn’t need anything from her in return.

She especially didn’t need these stupid butterflies.

Apparently the thieving of Nicole’s clothes was now an open secret because Jecka wasn’t bothering to be sneaky about it anymore. More and more videos featured Jecka innocently sporting her shirts, not that Nicole was still watching them, and oftentimes her favourite hoodie wasn’t where she left it the night before.

Initially it annoyed her. Like, hello, Jecka had enough clothes to open her own upscale store; the fuck did she need her cheap ass hoodie for? But when she spotted the sleeve drooping from Jecka’s bra drawer she realized this replicated the first time Jecka hid her cigarettes—except Jecka clearly wanted her to find this. The cuff proposed a playful invitation for a new routine scavenger hunt. One that Jecka was already enjoying. One that took a few more nights for Nicole to tolerate. After all, this version didn’t grant the thrill of stolen cigarettes.

But each night her hoodie smelled a little more like Jecka, and some it still radiated with her body heat.

Not like Nicole considered those rewards for finding it; she considered them the trail of a terrible thief. Jecka was either unaware or completely unbothered. Unlike the first few weeks of fruitlessly trying to hide her cigarettes, these hiding spots suggested Jecka cared more about the opportunity to hide her hoodie rather than how quickly it’d be found. The disrespect towards her mastered criminality disgusted Nicole to a degree. She should be the one hiding things. If Nicole didn’t want someone finding something, they never would. Likewise, there was nothing Jecka could hide that Nicole couldn’t find.

Until Jecka proved her wrong.

She thought she’d merely misplaced a shirt but when several thorough searches didn’t reveal its location she knew it had to be missing. Her first thought was that Jecka found it too hideous to harbour in her home and tossed it away but Nicole dismissed that idea almost immediately. Removing an item from the apartment went against their unspoken rules. It contrasted Jecka’s motivations, especially considering she was the one who encouraged Nicole to hang up her clothes like she actually lived here.

That only left one solution.

Jecka wore it during her vanishing.

While that explained why Nicole couldn’t find it, it didn’t explain why Jecka wore it as pyjamas. Or why she wore any of her clothes at all. At first it was just to tease her, clearly. Although she pulled off Nicole’s alternative style obnoxiously well, compared to her regular wardrobe it probably felt like donning Halloween costumes—tight ones, given her bigger cup size. It was just for fun, something to entertain her audience, and wouldn’t have been suspicious if the trend only lasted for a few sly videos. But wearing them when the camera was off? Picking favourites? Hoarding one for herself? That behaviour roused more than a few questions.

Just none Nicole planned on asking. Addressing the open secret was the same as killing it and one whiff of death was enough to know she preferred Jecka’s perfume. They could share the hoodie—she didn’t really have a choice there, but that was fine—and now that Nicole found her shirt so to speak, she decided Jecka could keep it. Not like she could take it back unless Jecka stopped wearing it at night, but Nicole didn’t mind if she never saw it again. She’d allow Jecka this one successful theft.

Nicole could pull the same shit if she wanted. Jecka had so many shirts to choose from she probably wouldn’t even notice one was missing. Then again, Nicole thought the same about her cigarettes and that initial theft inspired everything that came after. Every conversation, every annoyance, every second Nicole spent on someone she couldn’t see was because she spent every second surrounded by her afterimage.

Radiant blonde hair and smooth tan skin accompanied every outfit; complimented them in ways Nicole’s ghostly features never could. Not that she’d be caught dead in that frilly shit, anyway. She had no intention of wearing anything from that portal to a child labour camp in public, around the apartment, or to bed. The bed already smelled enough like Jecka. Between that and the hoodie she was bound to suffocate, the oxygen in her lungs swapped with warmth. That was the cost of living with the sun.

Nicole was a proficient thief, but this price she paid.

“Your guitar’s dusty as hell.”

“If that bothers you go ahead and clean it.”

“Do I look like a fucking maid to you?”

“Most days you look like a piece of paper.”

“Only most? What do I look like the other days?”

“Like someone who doesn’t have a Britney Spears meltdown over some dust.”

“The dust doesn’t bother me, bitch. The reason it’s dusty does.”

“These conversations already take long enough without the fucking riddles. Just say what you wanna say.”

“Why aren’t you playing it?”

That question felt more loaded than it should’ve, the weight of each word hoisting Nicole’s defenses like the first time Jecka mentioned her guitar. Her walls were airtight originally, an expertly crafted fortress that barred all invaders, solicitors and everyone in-between. Jecka had no hope of breaking through.

Jecka must’ve held onto that hope anyway like some girl scout who stuffed their garbage in their pocket instead of littering because now, months later after cracks formed without Nicole’s knowledge or consent, that hope began seeping through like poisoned syrup. It was painful, like fingers pushing into a wound to tear it wider, and as she tore and bled and spilled her guts it scared her how much easier it was to breathe. How Jecka might break down her walls and how she might let her. How Jecka wanted to see what was on the other side and was putting in the effort to soak in the view.

Nicole didn’t know how to handle that.

“Why do you care?”

“Am I not allowed to care?”

“Am I not allowed to have other hobbies?”

“Cyberbullying isn’t a hobby.”

“Can you back the fuck off already? It’s just a guitar. It’s not important.”

“Bullshit. If it wasn’t important you wouldn’t have brought it here.”

That fact was so obvious that any flimsy attempt at denial would just be pathetic. She never would have left anything valuable to her with her mom, and with no cards or photos or any other sentimental shit this guitar was her only reminder of her dad. It was the only physical proof that his love wasn’t something she invented. The only connection to who they used to be. Even if it remained out of tune her whole life, she’d take this guitar everywhere.

He didn’t give her a choice of losing him so she wouldn’t give him a choice, either.

Her current choice was presented at the tip of a pen. She could leave the page blank. Change the subject. Invoke the anger she knew simmered in Jecka’s stomach. Any of those would leave this interrogation unfinished and let Nicole remain an unsolved mystery.

Instead, splashes of ink unveiled the truth.

“It’s my dad’s. He taught me to play.”

“He not around anymore?”

Very perceptive.

“A piece of him might still be caught in the floorboards.”

“Classy. So you’ve never played for anyone else?”

“It was kinda a thing just for us. I didn’t need anyone else to listen. No one wanted to anyway.”

“I’ll listen.”

A jarring crack like lightning in her lungs and breathing was hard again.

“How?”

“Probably with my ears.”

“Okay, smartass.”

“How does anyone listen to anything? Record yourself playing.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Aww, you’re shy. Who knew a sociopath could be so cute.”

“I’m not shy, bitch. I haven’t played in like seven years. I probably can’t anymore.”

“Have you tried?”

“There wasn’t a reason.”

“There is now.”

“You really think you’re as important to me as my dead dad?”

“No. Just the only one important since.”

Nicole grinded her teeth to stifle the crumbling in her chest, stomping around splintered brick and stone as if brushing any meant accepting the enlargement of the oozing gaps in her walls thanks to the persistent aim of a glittering pink catapult.

This bitch was so conceited. Just because she was the star of her own life and of everyone who fixated on her pretentious videos didn’t mean she was the star of Nicole’s. So what if Jecka was the only person she sort of talked to every night? So what if she let her wear her clothes? So what if she ate the food Jecka prepared for her? So what if she still hadn’t changed her laptop’s wallpaper? So what if she hadn’t cut in the bathtub since Jecka supplied first aid? So what if she helped her relax enough to pass her classes? So what if she got rid of her stalker and helped her sleep better? So what if the warmth of Jecka’s bed helped her sleep better, too?

None of that made Jecka important to her. It just made them roommates. Roommates that would never meet so they may as well still be the strangers they were when Nicole moved in.

“You’re extremely fucking annoying.”

“And extremely fucking right. All I’m hearing is that you can’t get me out of your head. Which means I’m still winning our game. By, like, a huge margin. Aren’t you tired of losing?”

“I never even wanted to play.”

The off-key scratch of each word was too vulnerable, too destructive, too beseeching, like positioning a nail over her chest with one hand and offering a hammer with the other.

The next night, the hammer struck.

“You’ve always been a bad liar.”

With nowhere to go but needing to be anywhere else Nicole wandered the streets, a stomp in her step that’d been lacking since the last time she’d stormed out her mom’s place. The occurrences were even more frequent than her mom’s divorces, her body still instantly responding to her need to run even when the cause was directly opposite of her mom’s incessant bitching. Her mom yelled just to yell, the lack of precision rendering her insults ineffective and forgettable, but her consistent volume and invasion of privacy had Nicole racing out the door until she found some semblance of peace.

Meanwhile, even though Jecka couldn’t speak to her outside of videos, her last note screeched so loud in Nicole’s brain it leaked out her ears and reverberated against their apartment walls like a cacophonous volley of arrows, each piercing the chinks in Nicole’s armour. Her thoughts muffled more and more until she couldn’t hear herself think, couldn’t dare speak aloud and prove Jecka right, so she did what she was best at and ran. Ran anywhere that no one would see her, no one would hear her, and no one would care.

That mentality often led her to her dad’s house, even after he was gone. She lived downtown now and the apathy of her fellow Nightwalkers was a decent substitute. The distant emergency sirens, the catcalling on every corner, the buzz of flickering neon signs; the background noise of the city was a perfect distraction from Jecka.

Until she realized Jecka would never hear it.

Not directly, at least. Every sound commonplace to Nicole was a version Jecka could only experience through recordings. Not that these sounds were anything special, most were fucking aggravating after five seconds, but it was the fact that Jecka couldn’t choose to hear them herself. She could hear cars and animals and people but never these cars, never these animals, never these people.

She’d never hear Nicole play.

Nicole’s chest ached from earlier like she’d been struck again, Jecka’s words filling the open wound like molten paste. It weighed her down, slowing her steps until she stopped, only to notice she’d stopped somewhere familiar.

A cobblestone street illuminated with fairy lights Jecka would never see, decorated like constellations Jecka would never see, and just like last time Nicole followed them she spotted that same guy busking for his girlfriend. His playing hadn’t improved and his audience hadn’t grown, but he looked just as happy to play as his girlfriend did to listen.

Nicole couldn’t replicate that moment with Jecka. Not truly.

But she could try.

She hurried home and dusted her guitar.

Nicole wasn’t entirely sure what she expected the next night and was embarrassed for expecting anything at all. Jecka would leave a note, obviously. She always did, even back when Nicole didn’t want her to. But if there was ever a night for her to leave more, to leave something as personal as what Nicole left her, it would be tonight. Nicole consumed an early smoke to quell the anxiety and anticipation swarming her stomach like angry hornets but the sweetness only reminded her further of Jecka, of the flavour of her lip gloss, and the swarm intensified to the point she wouldn’t have been able to sleep without the vanishing. She never thought she’d yearn for validation again, didn’t think she could when the only person’s approval she cared about was dead, but stumbling upon someone who adamantly refused to be ignored resurfaced what she’d ignored in herself for several years, and now she yearned for compensation.

It could’ve been anything. Elated notes taped to her guitar, cigarette packs stuffed in the sleeves of her hoodie, her missing but not missing shirt proudly displayed and not smelling like her at all anymore, counters covered with their favourite snacks, her wallpaper changed to a picture where Jecka was happy rather than smug; anything proving this night was different. Anything proving that someone who said they cared actually did.

She found nothing.

She knew Jecka creeped her laptop—Jecka occasionally left pictures of dumbasses getting blackout drunk at university parties and of herself blowing a kiss to the bathroom mirror at said parties as if to include Nicole in her day—so Nicole transferred the video directly to her desktop so Jecka wouldn’t miss it. During Jecka’s nearly month long attempt of convincing Nicole to play there’s no way she hadn’t been checking her laptop daily, grasping that frayed string of hope attached to what little foundation remained of Nicole’s walls. All it needed was a tug.

Maybe the string finally snapped.

This was exactly why she never wanted to communicate with a two-faced Daywalker in the first place. How could she expect anything other than disappointment? She thought she stopped being disappointed in people after her dad preferred to be an abstract painting than her dad, thought her soul darkened enough to dispel disappointment, but Jecka sure loved proving her wrong.

She should’ve known better. She did know better until this bossy blonde bitch came along and fucked her philosophy with one stroke of pink glitter. Then Nicole was doing things she’d never do, saying things she’d never say, and apparently participating in Jecka’s mystery solving side hustle. The only reason Jecka was so attentive was because she was just a game to her. A report to write. An emotionally stunted Nightwalker to fix. Jecka didn’t give a shit about Nicole’s music, just if she could make her dance to her tune.

Maybe Nicole hadn’t been dancing, but she’d been tapping her foot—unintentionally, hypnotized by the same curse as modern pop, and didn’t realize until it was too late. Until she actually put effort into letting someone know her, letting someone see her, and that effort was trampled. Her reason to try snuffed out as soon as it sparked and she was stupid for thinking this fire would burn past sunrise.

She’d delete the recording before the next.

Well, that was her plan. But it was amazing how easily plans changed, as the second she returned home from work she received a distracting text from Emily.

“You’re a lying ass ho Nicole. I’d kill you if I didn’t love you so much.”

Huh?

“The fuck is this coming from?”

“What happened to pretending your Daywalker roommate didn’t exist?”

She didn’t like where this conversation was going. It was never good when Emily got confrontational, usually out of nowhere so Nicole had to learn to take her mood swings in stride, but given how hostile Emily was towards Jecka from the start it was probably for the best that they roamed the streets at different times.

Also for the best that Jecka regularly stocked the fridge with alcohol. Nicole popped the tab of a hard lemonade and took a greedy sip before typing her reply.

“That didn’t really answer my question but okay. She didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“So singing her ‘You Are My Sunshine’ wasn’t your choice?”

Nicole froze just before taking another sip, the can creaking under the sudden force of her fingers. She eyed the message as if it contained a code; like YAMS was an acronym for an experimental sweet potato scented drug Emily was selling. As dumb as that sounded it still made more sense than Emily somehow knowing she not only sung that song, but sung it for Jecka.

In the midst of trying to understand the impossible, Emily sent another text.

“Corny as fuck btw.”

The death grip on her drink transitioned to her phone.

“Excuse me?”

“You know it is. You literally couldn’t have picked a sappier song.”

“Bitch calm your tits about the fucking song. How did you know I sung it at all?”

“Don’t play dumb. Your cover’s gone viral.”

Say what now?

She never posted the video online. She never posted anything of herself online. And she’d sooner throw herself out the window than let people hear her sing her most important lullaby to her Daywalker roommate in the only way a Nightwalker could. Despite her explanation at the beginning of the video, total strangers would probably view it like a star-crossed love confession.

Something believed to be that genuine and emotional would probably… get a ton of views…

Ignoring Emily’s subsequent texts she hurriedly checked Jecka’s socials—and to her horror and disbelief, Jecka had posted two new videos. Both with staggering numbers despite not being public for even twenty-four hours.

Nicole chugged the rest of her hard lemonade and clicked on the first video. Jecka was close to the camera, amber eyes sparkling and with a smile stretching ear to ear. She bit her lip for a moment as if trying to contain her excitement before it finally burst free in a high-pitched squeal.

“You guys will never believe what I woke up to this morning.”

Well, that wasn’t good.

“Okay, so you guys know that Nightwalker I live with? The one whose clothes I wear sometimes? So when she moved in with me she brought this old ass acoustic guitar decked out in stickers from like the Stone Age, and like any sane person I figured she was either a musician past her prime or some groupie for the local indie bands that’ll never sell a T-shirt let alone a CD. But as months went by I noticed the guitar collecting dust and realized that poser hadn’t touched it once!” Jecka glared at the camera and Nicole knew it was aimed at her. “So I’ve been trying to convince her to play something for like forever but this stubborn bitch kept refusing. ‘I probably can’t play anymore’,” Jecka mocked with a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Bitch, my ass you can’t play anymore if the fucking video on your laptop named ‘For My Annoying Daywalker Roommate’ has anything to say about it!”

Wild how rapidly something Nicole desired became something she dreaded.

“Before any of you throw a bitchfit, she knows I use her laptop. And she clearly wouldn’t have named it that if she didn’t want me to watch it, so I’m gonna watch it. Even better—I’m gonna record myself watching it.”

She’s gonna what?

“I know, I know,” Jecka raised her hands in defense, though she didn’t look even remotely ashamed, “reaction videos are all clickbait and stealing other people’s content, but hear me out before burning me at the stake.

“One,” Jecka lifted a finger, “this bitch has no platform to steal from. Girl doesn’t exist. Wouldn’t be surprised if she has no birth certificate.”

Honestly, that wouldn’t surprise Nicole either.

“Two,” a second finger joined the first, “if she’s actually good I’m gonna make sure the world knows and then she’ll totes owe me favours for the rest of her life.”

Piggybacking checked out more than complete selflessness, though Nicole had no intention of fulfilling any favours when she didn’t ask to be famous. All fame would grant was forty-year-old virgins organizing her suicide instead of her.

“And three…”

Jecka paused for a long time, tongue tied by whatever crossed her mind. Curiously she didn’t cut ahead or alternate clips like she did in other videos to ensure they were pristine and engaging, instead securing her viewers to ten seconds of heavy silence where her eyes unfocused and her features softened.

“I’ll never be able to watch her live,” she said in a quiet, wistful tone that mimicked the streaks of glitter that hit Nicole the hardest. “I wish I could, but I can’t. What I can give is a live reaction, which is the next best thing. And it won’t just be for her music. I’ve never even seen what she looks like. Imagine living with someone for almost a year and not knowing what they look like.” Finally Jecka regained her composure, expression twisting into an unserious scowl. “Bitch if I open this and you’re wearing a mask or some shit we will have words. Many of which will be ’fuck’ and ‘you’.”

The video ended and Nicole clicked away before it could replay, taking a deep breath to process everything she heard. In ten minutes she felt more emotional whiplash than emotions period for most of her life, all influenced by one arrogant influencer. A spiteful part of her—which was pretty damn large—elected to ignore the next video just so Jecka might experience an ounce of the insecurity she did tonight. Keep Jecka guessing the next few weeks if she’d watched it at all.

But Jecka promised she’d listen. Promises meant little to Nicole when no one kept them, but Jecka did. Even when she couldn’t be here she found a way to listen. She gave Nicole a reason to play, so Nicole played. It was scary how simple it was. Jecka made it simple.

Jecka made clicking play so simple.

The second video placed Nicole’s recording on one side of the screen and Jecka’s reaction on the other. Jecka had changed into the shirt Nicole knew she’d been wearing to sleep and based on her cheeky little grin she was wearing it now because she knew Nicole knew. Like it was an inside joke between them. Like anyone could watch but only they could see.

What everyone could see was the extreme close up of Nicole’s acoustic guitar, showcasing the chips it suffered before she was born, the faded vintage stickers she and her dad adhered together, and most importantly its remarkable cleanliness.

“Look bitch,” Nicole said off-screen, “dust is gone. You can quit complaining about it now.” Nicole watched herself walk into frame—and after going to such lengths to avoid even being in the background of other people’s content it was an extremely fucking surreal experience seeing herself front and centre; like she was demanding attention instead of avoiding it. The foreignness of her voice was strange enough but even stranger was her eyes looking less like a dead fish than they used to. When did she start appearing like she was actually alive?

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jecka mused in astonishment, a wide smile splitting her face while she waved a frantic hand at the screen. “You look like you front a female version of MCR. How could you not let me know I was living with a hottie this whole time?”

She did let Jecka know. She implied it, at least. Considering she was boasting about lying at the time, though, Jecka probably didn’t take her seriously. But given her excited reaction she must’ve imagined how Nicole looked before, an image that apparently didn’t rival reality, and it took herculean effort for Nicole to stare at herself instead of Jecka’s beaming expression because she’d rather endure the uncomfortable twist in her gut than this sudden swarm of butterflies.

In the video she sat down and adjusted her guitar in her lap. At the time she recalled thinking she’d be inept trying to hold it properly after so many years, but the motions came so naturally it was like she’d never stopped playing. From this perspective she saw her fingers instinctively slide into position, like she didn’t even have to think about it. Like the only thing she was thinking about was making her audience proud.

She blinked and saw her dad.

She blinked again and saw Jecka.

“Well Jecka,” her past self announced, shaking Nicole from her unbidden reverie, “you’re the first person to hear me play since I was a kid.”

Jecka’s jaw dropped, so slightly that Nicole was pissed at herself for noticing, but the shock was too peculiar to ignore since Jecka already knew this. That was basically the whole reason Jecka pushed her to play so much in the first place. Was it just an act for her viewers or did she overload her brain remembering so much useless academic bullshit that she had no room to remember anything else?

“You said my name,” Jecka murmured, her tone soft with surprising shyness. “You’ve never even written it before.”

Seemed Jecka remembered just fine. Seemed she remembered much more than Nicole because she had no idea she’d never done so. She thought about her often enough—intrusive thoughts—that she figured she would’ve written her name at least once, even just to mock it’s whiteness, but that must’ve never happened because Jecka seemed like she’d been awaiting Nicole’s acknowledgment for months.

“That make you feel special?” Nicole continued in the video, and it was eerie how it almost sounded like she directly responded to what Jecka just said. Like they were having a true conversation right then and there without having to wait twenty-four hours for a reply. Like this was a flash of how they could’ve been if they were born in the same light. “That white knight shit totally makes Daywalkers’ nips hard, doesn’t it. Don’t go poking holes in my shirt.” She began tuning her guitar, as if disinterested in what she was saying. “Keep it, by the way. I don’t give a shit.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Jecka interjected, playfully sticking out her tongue.

“And before you misinterpret this,” Nicole said firmly, glaring at the camera, “this is the lullaby my dad used to play for me all the time. If you expected something hardcore, too fucking bad. Be disappointed for all I care. But if you fucking laugh at me I’ll toss all your bougie ass clothes out the window, don’t think I won’t. Not like you could stop me.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk like a hissing cat?” Jecka said, voice dripping with amusement. If this conversation was contained in notes Nicole was sure Jecka would’ve taken that observation further, would’ve been so relentless Nicole would’ve considered adopting the grumpiest fucking cat she could find so Jecka would hear nothing but hissing, but given how quickly she composed herself she must’ve been keenly aware how vital this moment was and had no desire to ruin it. She’d been the one waiting for it, after all. “I’m not gonna laugh at you, I promise.”

“Better fucking not,” Nicole muttered under her breath. Jecka hadn’t broken a promise yet but that was before Nicole’s song; everything after was uncertain.

“Whatever,” Nicole sighed in the video. “Just… enjoy, I guess.”

Then she strummed for what she’d assumed was an audience of one, and even though many more had heard her by now it was only the response of this one that she cared about. Despite the subpar audio quality the music was gentle, soothing in the way only her dad was capable of, and for a second Nicole forgot she was listening to herself and not him. Jecka never left the present even in the past, sparkling eyes glued to Nicole like she didn’t want to be anywhere else, but when Nicole’s voice joined her strings, gravelly yet smooth, the amusement painting Jecka’s face melted to gratification, splattered with shock, then muddied with something Nicole couldn’t decipher.

Nicole expected this video to conclude the infuriating way their conversations usually did; with Jecka getting the last word. Whether with a snarky comment, some variation of ‘I told you so’ regarding her musical ability, or a frightening reminder that she had feelings. But for the longest time Jecka didn’t say anything. Instead she stared across time into Nicole’s eyes and clutched her stolen shirt like it would vanish if she loosened her grip.

Then she started crying.

Nicole still struggled grasping the fact that Daywalkers were more than just unfinished gluten-free sandwiches deserted on the streets and cringeworthy commercials for summer camps. When she couldn’t see them, couldn’t talk to them, it was hard to imagine they lived equally compelling lives as Nightwalkers. They might be losers with a superiority complex but they shared the same spaces, food, entertainment; countless invisible connections to invisible people, much like what connected her and Jecka. Even without seeing Jecka’s face or hearing her voice Nicole knew what she was feeling. The intensity of her writing, if there was leftover pizza, the remaining number of cigarettes, the hiding place of her hoodie; from nonchalance to complete breakdowns, Jecka felt it. So obviously Jecka cried, too. Nicole knew Jecka cried back when she was stressed over her exams and probably cried over a bunch of even dumber shit, too.

But knowing Jecka cried and seeing Jecka cry were two different things.

“Congrats,” Jecka whispered with a watery smile. “You finally won.”

Nicole didn’t know what that meant, still didn’t really understand this game they played, but she didn’t feel like she won. It felt like she achieved something—her most important lullaby made her most important living person emotional, after all—but not victory.

Because even though Nicole found someone to play for, even though Jecka listened, Jecka wasn’t here. Jecka would never be here, and Nicole would never be there. She knew that when she moved in, she knew that when she recorded the song, and she knew that more than ever now.

Their game had no winners. Just pretenders. So she’d keep playing pretend.

Hopefully Jecka would, too.

“I never said you could share that.”

“You never said I couldn’t.”

“I recorded that just for you, you asshole.”

“Exactly why I had to show other people. You never would’ve.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit what strangers think of me.”

“My followers aren’t exactly strangers.”

“If you say that out loud you’re gonna get stalked again.”

“Have you seen their comments though? Lotta people out there wish they could be your guitar.”

“And I wish I couldn’t read.”

“Take the compliment, bitch. Being thirsted over means you’ve made it. They’re requesting more songs from you, too. Some are asking what eyeliner you use.”

“I’m not making content for your stupid followers or answering their stupid questions.”

“A joint Daywalker / Nightwalker channel would be a massive hit though, you gotta admit. My followers have been shipping us for months anyway.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ll find out if you collaborate with me. Wouldn’t you rather get paid to play your guitar than flip burgers?”

“I didn’t pick up my guitar again to play for other people.”

“And yet you picked it up.”

“I thought you’d finally shut up about it if I did.”

“You seriously thought you could sing that for me and I’d never bring it up again?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“You really suck at lying.”

“You really suck at shutting up.”

“If you really wanted that you would’ve played a song you didn’t care about. But you played the lullaby your dad used to play for you. Why?”

“It’s the first song I learned to play. Figured I still had the muscle memory.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Your choice had nothing to do with the lyrics?”

“Bitch, I told you not to misinterpret it.”

“And I told you I’d listen. Guess what bitch? I listened.

So if there’s anything else you wanna say, I’m still listening.”

Nicole had a choice, like she often did with Jecka when pretending she didn’t. She could do what came naturally with everyone else. Run as far as she could. Push them away if they chased her. Make herself as unlovable as everyone who was supposed to love her told her she was. Do whatever was necessary to be left alone, which was exactly why she moved here in the first place.

Or she could do what came naturally after this house became a home.

Nicole retrieved the old pizza box from under the couch, Jecka’s number ready to be found. Nicole then found herself on the bed, taking a deep breath of Jecka’s everlasting presence before calling her for the first time. She watched Jecka’s phone vibrate on the nightstand, replicated by the fluttering in her stomach, and when prompted she left a message.

“Playing that song lets me pretend I’m somewhere else. Used to be the past.” Nicole paused, glancing at the closet that used to only be filled with Jecka’s clothes but was now sprinkled with hers. She battled the tightness in her throat until she realized she didn’t need to. It was okay if Jecka knew. She wanted Jecka to know. “Now it’s the morning.”

Rather than pink glitter that wasn’t as grating as it once was, Nicole was greeted the following evening by the notification of a new voicemail.

“I’m adding another ground rule.” Months ago that statement would’ve prompted an eye roll and further rebellion. Tonight, Nicole’s chest flooded with the warmth in Jecka’s tone. “Your guitar’s never allowed to get dusty again, Nicole.”

It was just then she realized that was the first time Jecka said her name out loud. She’d never said it in videos, purposely shrouded with ‘my Nightwalker roommate’ or some playful insult, but the moment she had Nicole all to herself she didn’t hesitate.

And as their unidentified game occupied her future, Nicole heard her name slip off Jecka’s tongue more and more often. They continued their expected thieving and occasional unexpected gifting. Jecka showed her photos with natural lighting and Nicole artificial. Nicole never changed the wallpaper on her laptop, but the wallpaper on her phone may have changed to something similar. Everything acted as an excuse to leave more voicemails; an excuse to hear each other’s names; an excuse to exist together.

Even when Jecka’s original three ground rules were ridiculous, Nicole never questioned the fourth. She utilized her dad’s teachings to learn her first tune without him, an acoustic cover of Jecka’s favourite MSI song, and after venomously refusing to record anything else for Jecka’s channel she did just that. And after telling Jecka she didn’t care about her reaction she watched it an embarrassing amount of times anyway because it was the only way for her to see Jecka smile. Maybe it was only pretend, maybe these defeats and victories meant nothing, but she’d never stop playing.

Despite the ache in her nonexistent heart, moving in with Jecka was the best decision Nicole ever made.