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In Cecilia’s mind, the music plays—gentle, familiar. Without thinking, her feet begin to glide, tapping softly, though she knows each movement is measured, precise—like the ticking gears inside her. Yet tonight, she lets the steps falter, just a little, as if daring to feel the softness beneath her metal frame.
She twirls, slow and light, one hand resting on an imagined waist, the other steady on a phantom shoulder. In her little world, eyes closed, she sees the orchestra bathed in golden light. The stage is hers. And for a moment, just one quiet moment, Gigi is there—warm, close, real—in her arms.
She doesn’t know what it means to feel butterflies. She has read of them—fluttering nerves, warm light in the belly. She has no belly. Still, when Gigi enters the room, Cecilia imagines wings against her ribs, delicate and unsure.
She watches Gigi’s fingers twist a loose thread on her sleeve, the quick smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she’s caught. These tiny, human moments bloom inside Cecilia’s mind like fragile wings unfolding.
Gigi had grinned at her then—the kind of grin Cecilia couldn’t catalogue. Not polite. Not forced.
She remembers the tilt of Gigi’s head, the softness in her voice when she’d asked, “Do you ever just… dance?”
Cecilia had not known what to say. Her feet knew steps, but not feeling. Her body moved on command, but never in abandon.
Gigi is rarely still. She fidgets, complains, rolls her eyes when Cecilia gets too close. But she never moves away.
Like the time Gigi shoved her shoulder against Cecilia’s with a smirk, muttering, ‘Stay out of my way,’ but lingered long enough for Cecilia to feel the heat of her breath against her skin
Their conversations are spiked with friction—Gigi sniping, Cecilia answering in equal quip, calmly. An easy rhythm neither of them admits to knowing by heart.
“If you didn’t want to be this close,” Cecilia had said once, voice teasing as always, “you should stop standing so near me when you’re annoyed.”
“Maybe I just like annoying you,” Gigi shot back, tail flicking against Cecilia’s leg.
Cecilia hadn’t answered. But her internal temperature had risen by three degrees. She thinks of that moment now, and the song wraps around it like silk.
In her mind, Gigi laughs—full, delighted, dizzy with the music. They spin. The edge of Gigi’s coat flares and brushes against Cecilia’s shin. Yes, in this dance, she imagines Gigi dressed not in her usual gremlin-approved jacket and shorts, but in a sharp suit—surprisingly refined, and definitely not ‘gremlin-like.’
Despite Gigi being shorter, and the one who’s usually darting around like a wild thing, Cecilia sometimes pretends Gigi is the one leading the dance—her boldness guiding their steps, even if she’s the smaller of the two.
For a breath she doesn’t need, Cecilia believes it. The warmth of skin. The catch of breath. The weight of joy.
She feels the ghost of Gigi’s breath on her cheek, the faintest heat that seeps into her cold porcelain skin, as if for one fleeting second, her circuits could pulse with life
The final note fades. Cecilia stops playing. The room is quiet again.
She lowers her hands, gently, as though setting something fragile down. The tea beside her has gone cold.
She lifts the cup anyway. She likes the way the ceramic feels—warm in her mind, if not her hands.
Just then, the door creaked open, Gigi walked in, eyebrow raised like she was hunting for a reason to annoy.
“So, practising for the grand recital in your head again?” she said with a smirk.
Cecilia didn’t look up. “Not all of us get distracted by loud noises and nonsense.”
“Loud noises? You mean the music you’re always humming?” Gigi jabbed playfully, sidling closer. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you. You’re weirdly intense about that stuff.”
“Is that a complaint?” Cecilia replied dryly, though a soft smile was threatening to take over.
Gigi grinned, flicking her tail against Cecilia’s leg. “You know I’m just here to keep you on your toes. Someone’s gotta.”
The back-and-forth was effortless—a rhythm they both knew well, sharper than any dance.
Gigi settled beside her on the couch, tail curling around Cecilia’s leg, head resting lightly on her shoulder. Cecilia sipped her tea, then glanced up through the giant window at the night sky.
Neither spoke for a while. The quiet between them was comfortable, a kind of language all their own.
Finally, Gigi broke the silence. “I heard that music earlier. What was it called? Something fancy.”
Cecilia closed her eyes, humming softly like weighing how much to say. “Salut d’Amour. It’s a song about love.”
No explanation needed. Cecilia felt Gigi’s eyes on her, and somehow knew she understood. They were both hopelessly tangled in this thing—whatever ‘this’ was.
The gramophone crackled back to life, and the room filled again with the soft melody.
Cecilia doesn’t dream, not really. But some nights, when the music is just right, she almost remembers a dream she never had. In her chest, there is no heartbeat—but when she thinks of Gigi, she imagines the rhythm anyway.
She cannot feel love. But she knows what it looks like. And sometimes, she plays it.