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Her bedroom felt too empty. Gigi perched on the edge of the bed, knees hugging a pillow she didn’t really need, staring at the grem plushie beside her like it might spell out an answer if she squinted hard enough.
Her thoughts were loud today—full of moods, and the lyrics to a song she couldn’t get out of her head.
Nobody loves me, she whispered, even though she knew it wasn’t true. She felt it deep in her chest, the hollow space that always appeared when the world went quiet. The silence that followed felt heavy, folding over her shoulders like a damp coat.
Her eyes drifted to the coffee table where her recorder sat. Small, unassuming, but somehow carrying something Gigi couldn’t name—something light, like a heartbeat felt within her palm.
She wondered when she had last played it. She wondered if Cecilia ever thought about things the same way: constantly, softly, too much.
A tired, frustrated sigh escaped her. She curled tighter into the pillow, letting herself linger in the thoughts she usually pushed away—the ones about not being enough, about love being conditional or fleeting, the ones that whispered when she was alone.
Even if they weren’t true—the pressure in her chest isn’t letting up, and suddenly Gigi feels like crying. “GODDDDDDDD I’M SO PATHETIC!” The outburst felt too big for the occasion; the walls in base weren’t thick enough to completely isolate her, but Gigi didn’t care if someone had heard.
The sound of her own voice hung in the air for a moment before it fizzled out, swallowed by the quiet. Gigi slumped backward, face buried in the pillow like it could muffle the leftover embarrassment. Her tail gave an unhelpful flick. “Whatever,” she muttered into the fabric, words coming out half‑hoarse, half‑groan.
A knock. Sudden. Sharp enough to slice through the quiet.
Gigi flinched so hard the pillow almost slipped from her hands. Her heart dropped somewhere near her stomach.
“...Gigi?” Cecilia’s voice came through the door, muffled but clear enough to make Gigi’s tail stiffen.
Oh no.
“Uh—yeah! Yeah, what’s up?” Gigi’s voice cracked halfway, and she cleared her throat too loudly. “Just—uh—y’know, vibing!”
There was a pause. Too long. Then, softly: “Were you… screaming?”
The air went still.
Deafening silence pooled in the room, heavy and awkward, like even the walls were waiting for someone to say something. Gigi clutched the pillow tighter, wishing she could disappear into it. Her face burned.
Another small pause—then Cecilia’s tone shifted, light, like nothing weird had happened at all. “Anyway, I’m going to the mall. Did you wanna come?”
Gigi hesitated, squeezing the pillow until it kept the shape of her hands. Her throat felt tight, but she let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“...Okay.”
“Hey, it’s okay if—” Cecilia started, gentler now.
“I wanna go,” Gigi cut in too fast. Then, catching herself, she added quickly, “Plus, I could drive you there.”
There was a beat of silence from the hallway—then a quiet, almost smiling hum. “Cool.”
The sound of her footsteps drifted away, leaving Gigi staring at the door. The silence that settled after wasn’t as heavy anymore—still awkward, still fragile—but somehow softer in her pressurised chest.
Gigi sat in the driver’s seat, hands drumming lightly on the steering wheel. She refused to glance toward the passenger seat, though she caught out of the corner of her eye that Cecilia had turned slightly away, elbow resting on the window, palm pressed to her cheek. She stared out at the passing cars as if memorising their shapes—shapes easier to read than Gigi’s own scattered thoughts.
And maybe the gremlin wasn’t really just looking out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she was tilting her head ever so slightly at every stop sign, just enough to see Cecilia without admitting it to herself.
Usually, Cecilia would pick a song by now. She’d once teased that Gigi’s car was her ‘DJ booth,’ and Gigi had rolled her eyes but let her connect through Bluetooth. Today, though, the stereo was silent. Gigi noticed it more than she wanted to.
She tapped her fingers on the wheel again, slower this time, letting each small sound ground her. Thinking about the distance between them, the subtle presence that didn’t demand attention but simply existed, patient and calm.
Gigi’s tail flicked once against the seat, an unhelpful twitch that betrayed her nerves more than she’d like. She exhaled slowly, letting the air smooth out the tightness in her chest.
They didn’t talk, just watched the buildings blur past. Cecilia hummed softly, thoughtful, and in the steadiness Gigi could believe the warmth from the automaton without meeting her eyes. It reminded her, faintly, that she wasn’t as alone as she’d felt back in her room.
The quiet didn’t weigh on her. It simply existed, carrying a small, unspoken reassurance that lingered even at the edges of her sharp thoughts about love and belonging.
The parking lot buzzed faintly with weekend noise—carts clattering, laughter echoing, someone’s music bleeding faintly from a distance. Gigi locked the car and fell into step beside Cecilia, the rhythm of their shoes syncing like they’d done this a hundred times before.
They had.
The mall was its usual mix of colour and sound: the smell of pretzels, neon signs, voices layered over pop music that changed with every store they passed. Gigi didn’t feel heavy anymore, not exactly. Just… more stable.
They wandered without much purpose. Cecilia stopped to poke at a display of sunglasses; Gigi tried on a hat two sizes too big just to make her laugh. They shared a drink at the food court, Cecilia sipping first, Gigi pretending not to mind the shared straw.
Then, somewhere between the arcade and a cosmetics store, a familiar beat rolled out of a speaker—something upbeat, stupidly catchy. Gigi’s ears perked up before she could stop herself. She shot Cecilia a grin.
“Oh no,” Cecilia said flatly, already guessing.
“Oh yes.”
And just like that, Gigi tugged her toward the open space between shops, laughing, spinning her around until Cecilia had to give in. The music was too loud, the floor too glossy, and Gigi’s hair stuck to her face when she moved—but for once, it didn’t matter. For a few minutes, she wasn’t thinking about anything at all.
When the song faded, so did the moment. The laughter thinned, leaving behind only the echo of it, and something in Gigi’s chest gave a small, traitorous twist.
She didn’t know what triggered it—maybe the sight of a couple passing by hand in hand, or maybe just the stillness that followed the noise. But the thought came back, sharp and quiet as ever: Nobody loves me.
She muttered something about needing a minute and slipped away before Cecilia could ask.
There was a photo booth tucked neatly into a corner near the arcade, its curtain half-drawn, smelling faintly of plastic and perfume. Gigi sank onto the small bench, pulling the curtain shut like armour.
It hadn’t even been a few minutes before footsteps approached—careful, unhurried, and then:
“Gigi?” Cecilia’s voice, soft, right outside.
And even though the curtain was still between them, Gigi felt her hands come up to cover her face.
“Don’t—” Her throat caught. “Don’t look at me.”
A pause. Then the faint rustle of fabric as Cecilia leaned closer to the curtain. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Then talk to me instead.”
“Talk about what?” Gigi’s voice was muffled against her palms.
“Anything,” Cecilia said. “What’s in your head.”
There was a sound like a laugh and a sob. “You don’t wanna know what’s in there.”
“I probably do,” Cecilia replied, light but not teasing.
Silence again. Gigi breathed in, the air stale inside the booth, smelling faintly of dust and sugar. Then, quietly: “Sometimes I just—feel like nobody loves me.”
The curtain shifted just slightly, as if Cecilia might reach through it but stopped herself. Her voice came soft, steady. “Then it’s a good thing you’re wrong.”
Gigi’s throat ached. “You can’t just say that like it’s—”
“True?” Cecilia cut in gently. “Yeah, I can.”
Gigi pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes. The smallest laugh slipped out—shaky, and choked up.
Outside, the photo booth’s timer blinked to life without either of them noticing. The camera clicked once, twice—capturing only the empty curtain and the faint outline of their shadows.
When Gigi finally pulled the curtain open, Cecilia was there, leaning against the booth with that same patient calm.
“You good?” she asked.
Gigi exhaled, long and quiet. “Not really.” Then, after a beat: “But better.”
Cecilia smiled, small but sure. “Good enough.”
They walked back toward the noise and light of the mall, and though the ache hadn’t disappeared completely, it no longer felt hollow. It had room now—room for something softer, something that sounded almost like acceptance.
“I wanna go home,” Gigi said after a while, her voice low. “I want you to hug me for the rest of the day.”
Cecilia huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that sounded almost like a promise. “Yeah,” she said. “I can do that.”