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Gigi had died before.
Not in the dramatic, movie kind of way—no chalk outlines or headlines. But in that quieter, slower way, where a single thought circles her mind like a vulture.
She’s been stuck on this one for a while now:
She’s 90% sure Cecilia could never love her.
Gigi had done the math a thousand times in her head, running through every awkward conversation, every glance that seemed to slip past her like she was invisible. Ninety percent was a cruelly precise number—close enough to hope, but far enough to hurt. She clung to that tiny sliver of possibility, even when the rest of her screamed it was impossible. Because what if she was wrong? What if love didn’t play by the rules she’d set?
Then, suddenly, Cecilia smiles.
Porcelain hands reach for her own like second nature.
A soft chuckle at something dumb Gigi just said.
And before she realises it, she’s smiling too.
They’re smiling together—and suddenly, that 10% starts to feel a little more real.
Someone might ask, “But how do you know she doesn’t love you?”
Gigi mutters it aloud, playing both interviewer and interviewee. Her tail curls in front of her, pretending to hold a mic. She lowers her voice to match the imaginary street reporter’s tone, then sighs like it’s the heaviest thing in the world.
“Because,” she says.
She pauses, glancing around as if someone might be secretly hiding in her room. Maybe also for dramatic effect.
“…I just know.”
It doesn’t land believably.
Her tail blinks.
She blinks back.
“It’s impossible. I mean…”
She looks up at the ceiling, then at the chaotic mess of her bedroom. Except for one corner—one painfully tidy little space where a small Cecilia egg plushie sat next to a green coloured labubu.
“How could someone like her… like someone like me?”
Her tail blinks again.
It doesn’t need to say anything.
It’s eyes already said it: you really need to get it together.
She closed her eyes. Huffs in annoyance, then with lighter air she whispers:
“What if… I just told her?”
Her tail curled tighter, uncertain now. Not blinking anymore. Just watching.
Gigi imagined it—Cecilia standing there, probably holding a cup of that green tea cocktail she liked, looking all soft and unreadable. Gigi blurting it out like an idiot, all nerves and regret before the words even landed.
“I think I like you.”
Or maybe—
“I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”
Or maybe no words at all, just a silence thick enough to crush her. And in the process Cecilia is there staring at her flattened frame with adoring eyes, painfully making Gigi feel things, leaving her in the floor where all she could do is confess without sentences.
She groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. It still smelled like Cecilia—lemongrass and something clean and hard to name, from the last time she’d been here. Gigi wasn’t sure if that was comforting or just completely humiliating.
“I’m not even her type,” she mumbled into the fabric. “I’m not even a type.”
The tail, ever opinionated, flicked her on the head.
“Ow,” she muttered, pulling the pillow tighter around her head.
The thing was—Cecilia was kind. Not nice, necessarily. Not in that sugary, surface-level way. But real. She remembered things. Asked questions no one else did. Noticed when Gigi disappeared for a few days and actually cared. She even brought Gigi soup once when she was sick—unasked. Just showed up at her door like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And Gigi had stood there in her oversized hoodie, barely holding herself together, while Cecilia just smiled like she didn’t notice how pathetic she looked.
What if she really doesn’t see me that way?
What if I ruin everything?
The weight of those thoughts sank like stones in her stomach.
But somewhere beneath the fear, something lighter stirred. Something sharp and hopeful and reckless. That 10% again.
And it was whispering:
What if you’re wrong?
She huffs. She turns over aggressively, putting dramatic care into flinging each limb like she’s performing for some invisible, annoyed audience.
Then Gigi screams.
Not muffled. Not held back. Just a full-throated, frustrated sound that echoes off the walls. If anyone’s outside her door, they’d probably freeze mid-step, make a face, then keep going. Maybe they’re used to it by now. Maybe she’s just ‘that person.’
“If there is some higher power out there… why have you done this?” she mutters, eyes heavy, brain heavier. “Is this punishment for stealing too many sugar packets from Starbucks?”
Her tail curls around her waist—maybe comforting, maybe dramatic flair. It doesn’t have a mind of its own, but it always moves the way she feels. Like it’s her subconscious with a spine.
“Or is it about that time I mistook salt for sugar and made that cheesecake for Cecilia too salty?”
She laughs under her breath, small and a little sad. “She still ate it, though. Called it ‘a creative choice.’”
A pause.
“She said it mockingly,” Gigi adds afterward, more to herself than anything. “But she still ate it.”
That memory sits in her chest like something warm she didn’t ask for. The kind of thing that’s easy to overlook until 3 a.m. when your brain won’t shut up.
She rolls onto her back again. Stares at the ceiling like it might write her answers in the popcorn texture above her bed.
What if she just told her?
No metaphors. No imaginary tail-interviewers. Just the truth, messy and real and terrifying.
Her phone is charging beside her. Black screen. No messages. No reason to hope.
Her fingers twitch anyway. She picks up the phone, checks her last message with Cecilia:
Gigi:
don’t let me get a second drink if I start crying again lol
Sent four days ago. No response—just a little “seen” checkmark beneath it.
Gigi stares at it like it might change. Like Cecilia might suddenly text back after four days and say something predictable, like: ‘Only if I get to cry with you.’ Or ‘I’ve been thinking about you too.’
Instead, nothing.
She locks the screen. Unlocks it again. Locks it. Unlocks.
Her tail knocks over an empty mug on her nightstand. It doesn’t shatter… thankfully.
“Rude,” she mutters.
Then:
“What if I text her now?”
The idea is insane. Like climbing into a volcano to see if it’s really hot. But also… maybe she was tired of burning quietly.
She stares at the message field. Blinking cursor. Mocking her.
Say something normal, she thinks. Cool. Chill. Unbothered.
Her thumbs hover. And then—
Gigi:
Would you eat that cheesecake again if I put even more salt?
She hits send. Immediately regrets it.
Grabs the phone like she can pull the message back through the screen. “No no no no—why did I do that? That’s not even—what was that?? That was not flirting, that was—a stupid random thought!”
Her tail covers her face.
She lies there, vibrating with dread.
And then…
Three dots. Typing. Cecilia is typing.
Gigi stops breathing.
The moment stretched out, taut and fragile, where every breath felt like a loud, clumsy interruption. Time slowed, heartbeats pounded loud enough to drown out the silence of the waiting screen. She held her breath like it was the secret to holding on, to not falling apart.
Cecilia:
only if it’s paired with tea and an emergency evacuation plan
Gigi reads it five times. Then a sixth. Then she throws the phone across the bed like it’s radioactive.
She covers her face. “What does that even mean?” she whisper-yells into her hands. “Is that a yes? Is it a no? Is it a ‘you’re insane but endearing’ kind of thing?!”
Her tail coils like it’s hiding from secondhand embarrassment.
She sits up too fast, hair a mess, eyes wild. Grabs the phone again. Stares at the screen like it might blink out a clearer answer.
Then—another message.
Cecilia:
…is this you asking me to hang out?
A pause.
Cecilia:
because if it is, Gigi, you could just say that
Gigi’s heart does something she’s pretty sure hearts aren’t supposed to do. Like, skips and crumples and screams at the same time.
She types. Deletes. Types again. Deletes.
Then finally—
Gigi:
…maybe
And because she can’t leave it at that:
Gigi:
ok yes
i was maybe also thinking about you
and maybe you’re not just really good at eating terrible cheesecake politely
Send.
She throws herself face-first into the pillow. Screams again. Quietly this time. Like the scream is trying not to wake the 10% inside her that’s starting to believe this might not end in disaster.
The phone buzzes again.
Cecilia:
that’s enough. let’s get you to bed.
Gigi blinks.
She sits up slowly, rereads the message. Five times. Then ten. The words settle into her like warm tea, like headlights in fog.
Because she knows what that means.
It’s what Cecilia always says when Gigi’s had too much of everything—too much thoughts, too much anxiety, too much sadness covered in blankets at 3 a.m.
It means I see you.
It means You’re not too much.
It means I want to annoy you too.
And maybe… it also means I want you. Though that one is more creative liberty on the gremlin’s side.
Gigi holds the phone to her chest. The room is still a mess, her hair is a disaster, and her tail is twitching like it’s trying to translate Morse code from her heartbeat.
But that 10%? It’s louder now.
The knock comes before she can spiral again. Three times. Not rushed. Not timid either.
Gigi freezes, wide-eyed, tail curling like a spring behind her. Her phone is still pressed to her chest like it might absorb the panic for her.
Another knock. Then—Cecilia’s voice, muffled through the wood.
“Hello?? Hellooo. Is this door open?”
Gigi makes a sound like a dying animal. Her room is a disaster. She’s wearing her same ol’jacket but for some reason she feels under dressed, and her hair despite being normal feels like the last thing she wants Cecilia to see right now.
She scrambles upright, almost stepping on her tail in the process. “One sec!” she croaks, her voice cracking halfway through.
She kicks a giant plushie off the floor. Then trips on it. Then swears quietly. Then opens the door anyway.
Cecilia stands there, her signature skirt perfectly fitting, cheeks slightly pushed from the goofiest, sweetest of smiles. In one hand, she’s holding a small takeout bag. In the other—a canned tea Gigi knows is her favourite.
Her expression softens immediately. “Hi.”
Gigi blinks. “Wow… You’re actually here.”
Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so you want me to leave now?”
“No! No, I just—uh, didn’t expect you to come over so... fast.” Gigi gestures vaguely at the air, as if it will do the explaining for her.
Cecilia holds up the tea. “Gigi I am literally a room over.”
Then, as if it were second nature, Cecilia steps inside without waiting for permission, toeing off her slippers neatly like she’s done this before—which, of course, she has. Too many times. But somehow, this time feels different. Gigi’s room is the same chaotic mess it always is, but now it feels like every plushie and blanket is watching, whispering, ‘You’re not subtle.’
Their slippers sit side by side by the door—Gigi’s bright orange with a sleepy beaver stitched on top, Cecilia’s soft green with a little bunny. Matching, but not on purpose. Or maybe it was, but no one ever said it out loud.
Cecilia settles on the edge of the bed like she belongs there, placing the takeout on the nightstand like she’s laying down peace offerings.
Like this is some fluffy domestic sitcom… and Gigi didn’t want to be in one.
Cecilia pops open the tea and hands it over without looking, like she’s passing Gigi a thought she already finished.
“I wasn’t sure if you were hungry,” she says lightly, leaning back on her hands.
Gigi takes the can but doesn’t sip it. “No… I’m not.”
The silence stretches. Not awkward, exactly—but heavy, like a couch cushion that’s still warm from someone else sitting there.
Cecilia tilts her head. “You okay?”
Gigi nods too fast, then shakes her head too late. “Sort of.”
Cecilia wasn’t sitting close enough to make the gremlin’s brain haywire yet. Their knees aren’t touching, but Gigi can feel the not-touching like a gravitational pull.
“I think… I’m gonna pass out,” Gigi suddenly admits, eyes fixed on the opened can in her hands. “Just… so much in my brain. Or, I guess, exactly the right amount. But, too much of it.”
Cecilia hums. “Yeah. I got that impression somewhere around the ‘salt cheesecake threat.’”
That gets a small laugh out of Gigi, weak but something.
A pause. Gigi places her tea on the nightstand.
And then—before her wary courage can bleed out completely—Gigi adds, “Did you come over because you felt bad? Or… because you wanted to?”
Cecilia doesn’t answer right away.
She looks at Gigi—not startled, not defensive. Just present. Like she’s really thinking about it, not because the answer is hard, but because she knows Gigi will try to twist anything less than perfectly clear into a rejection.
Finally, softly:
“Because I wanted to.”
Suddenly Gigi feels warm. Her tail curls tighter, and her voice comes out like a whisper that got lost on its way to being brave.
“...Oh.”
Cecilia smiles like she’s letting her in on something obvious. “You don’t really believe me, do you?” the sentence lands like a jab too close to home.
Gigi shrugs. “I believe you’re nice.”
“Oh come on! I’m not that nice.”
Gigi snorts. “Debatable.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Cecilia leans sideways, lets herself fall onto Gigi’s shoulder. And the gremlin has to pretend she’s a stone statue totally not about to combust right this moment. Then Cecilia places her hands on her lap like she’s about to explain a really simple truth to someone who’s too emotionally constipated to get it.
“I didn’t come because I felt bad, Gigi. I came because you asked. Just like all the other times.”
Gigi blinks. “That was barely asking.”
A beat.
Then, the gremlin opens her mouth. Closes it. Her ears are burning. Her tail is sending an SOS behind her back.
“I don’t… know how to say anything without sounding like a Tumblr post,” Gigi blurts.
Cecilia chuckles. “Try me.”
Another beat.
Gigi doesn’t try with words.
Instead, she reaches over and takes Cecilia’s hand—gently, deliberately—like she’s afraid it might disappear if she touches it too fast.
Her fingers trail along the porcelain at Cecilia’s wrist. She always admired the mechanical aspect of Cecilia in quiet ways before, when no one was looking, but now… now she lets herself look.
And not just at the craftsmanship. At her.
Cecilia watches, still and unreadable, but the faintest hum in her frame betrays her. A soft whirring, a quiet click. Louder than usual.
It makes Gigi feel just that bit braver.
She glances up, then down again, and slowly interlocks their fingers. Then—without thinking too hard about it, because thinking will kill her—she lifts Cecilia’s hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles of her index and middle fingers.
Not playful. Not flirty.
Devoted.
Cecilia goes very still.
The hum deepens—a quiet, glitched stutter behind her ribs—and Gigi feels it in her own chest like feedback from a too-close mic.
“Oh,” Cecilia says.
That’s it. Just oh. But her voice slips, barely. Like something in her mind short-circuited.
Gigi looks up, flushed, eyes wide like she’s only now realising what she did.
Cecilia doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t say anything else, either. But her thumb brushes over Gigi’s knuckles like a thought she’s still forming. Like she’s holding back everything she could say, because this moment already says enough.
Their hands stay linked.
The tea on the nightstand gets warm. The takeout is forgotten. But neither of them move to fix anything. Because something else just started working.