Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zoey pressed her forehead against the edge of the cardboard box, silently begging the material to hold strong for just a moment longer. Inside were mugs, thrift store plates, and exactly three wine glasses. Her entire culinary empire- and she was ninety percent sure the bottom was about to give out. Perfect. New apartment, new roommate, same old disaster.

Zoey shuffled the rest of her way to the door, clinging to the bottom of the box for dear life. Her knuckles whitened, her hands acting as the only barrier between herself and a pile of shattered glass at her feet. She stopped in front of a door, the number 317 written on a plaque. She hesitated for a second, unsure whether or not to knock or just let herself in. This was fine. Totally fine. She could do this, she thought to herself as she stood face to face with the closed door. People move in with strangers all the time. People, however, don't combust from awkward small talk. 

Still, she caught herself muttering under her breath, rehearsing what she’d say when met with her new roomie: 

“Hi, I'm Zoey, thanks for taking me in.”

“Hi, I'm Zoey, I promise I'm not a secret serial killer.”

“Hi, I'm Zoey, and I will definitely break at least one of your things within the first week.”

She let out a loud breath and brought up her knee to support the box in her hand as she knocked on the door. Silence. Shit. Was she at the wrong place? No, apartment 317. She had memorized those three numbers in order to save herself some level of embarrassment had she managed to find herself in this exact situation. 

Too far lost in her own thoughts, Zoey didn't even notice the door open. Or the woman standing in the doorway, watching her. Her expression was mostly blank, her eyes analyzing every inch of Zoey. “You’re here,” the woman said as she side stepped and held the door open. Her tone was flat, not unfriendly, but not exactly what you’d consider welcoming either.  Zoey took a step inside, pausing in the doorway to soak in the environment surrounding her. The apartment was… neat. The kind of neat that looks intentional, not just empty. A blanket hung perfectly on the back of a chair. The spice rack on the kitchen counter was alphabetized – alphabetized – and there was a laptop open on the table, screen casting a soft glow into an otherwise dim dining room. 

Her chest tightened. God, what had she signed up for? Clearly this girl had her shit together. Zoey shuffled over to the kitchen, where she carefully slid the fragile box onto the countertop. She tugged self-consciously at the sleeve of her sweater as she looked back at the woman still lingering in the doorway, her eyes watching intently. The silence began to eat away at Zoey, so she attempted to fill it. “Sorry– I– is it okay if I leave this box here? Just for a minute? I have more in the hall I should go grab. Actually, I can probably leave it–” 

“It's fine.” 

“Oh,” Zoey paused, caught off guard by the shortness of the girl’s words. She had spoken with her many times by now, but they were all online. She knew the girl standing in front of her to be short with responses, but part of her figured maybe it would be different in person. “I– um, I'm Zoey, by the way.” She extended an awkward hand towards the girl in front of her, then in an instant became aware of the distance between them. She hurriedly dropped it again to her side.
“Yeah, Mira.”
Her voice was even, clipped, like she was confirming a reservation instead of introducing herself. Zoey nodded too quickly, rocking back on her heels.
“Right. Mira. Got it.” She tried for a smile, but it wobbled. She took another moment to soak in her surroundings. “So, uh… nice place. Very… clean. Like, magazine clean. You could probably eat off these floors.” Mira’s brow ticked up, just faint enough to go unnoticed. 

“I wouldn't recommend it.” 

“Right.” Zoey let out a soft laugh, her cheeks slowly warming. “Joking. Totally just a joke.” Silence again. Heavy, but not hostile– just filled with all the words Zoey wished Mira would say, and the ones Mira refused to. Desperate to fill it, Zoey drifted toward the counter adjacent to her. Her gaze landed again on the spice rack, every label lined up perfectly. “Okay, I just have to ask,” she said, tilting up one shaker to read the label on it. “Alphabetized?”
Mira glanced at it, then back to Zoey, “It's efficient.”
“Efficient,” Zoey repeated, drawing the word out. “Right..” She leaned sideways on the counter, eyes fixed on the girl in front of her. “I love that you said that with a straight face. Do you, like, audit the pantry too? Make sure the rice isn't, I don't know, fraternizing with the pasta?” 

Mira blinked once. “Rice goes on the bottom shelf. Pasta goes on the second.” 

Zoey snorted, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. “Oh my god, you're serious.” Mira didn't answer, just crossed the room and adjusted the shaker Zoey had left crooked in the rack, turning it so the label lined up perfectly again. Zoey watched, biting the inside of her cheek before speaking, “Okay so you might hate me. Let’s just say, I'm organized in spirit. Which means I can find my things, but no one else can. It's a system. Chaotic genius kinda vibe.”

“So… chaos.” 

“Controlled chaos,” Zoey corrected, “with personality, I like to say.” Mira exhaled through her nose, a sound that might’ve been amusement, if she’d let it be. Zoey grinned, heart easing just a bit. 

Okay, maybe this wasn't a total disaster. 

She reached for her box, misjudging the weight of it. The bottom dipped, glass clinked violently, and the whole thing nearly tilted off the counter. Before she could react, Mira’s hand shot out, steadying the box with precision. Their fingers brushed– warm, brief, startling. 

Zoey froze. So did Mira. 

For a second, their eyes met. Zoey’s chest tightened, her pulse tripping over itself at the warm brown stare holding hers. It wasn't much– barely even a moment– but it was sharp, electric, something she couldn't name. Mira was the first to look away, quickly retracting her hand like she had touched fire. “You should tape the bottom better,” she said, voice flat.

Zoey swallowed, forcing a laugh that sounded nervous even to her own ears. “Yeah. Good note. I'll, um, add that to my list of skills to improve on.” The air between them hummed with everything unspoken, and Zoey tugged at the hem of her sleeve again, retreating into chatter. “So, uh… thanks for letting me stay here. I promise I’ll try not to get in your way. I mean, I probably will, but, like– not intentionally. And I’ll… you know. Pay rent on time. Clean my dishes. Try not to ruin your alphabetized utopia.” 

Mira stood quietly for a long moment, taking in the sight of the shorter girl stood in front of her, then turned on her heel toward her bedroom. “We’ll see.” 

Zoey lingered just a moment too long after Mira disappeared down the hall, the words ‘We’ll see’ still hanging in the air. Not exactly a warm welcome, but not ice cold either. Somewhere lost in between. Zoey could handle that. Maybe Mira just needed some time to warm up to her. She huffed out a breath, then headed back into the hallway outside her new home, scooping up more boxes from the floor and made her way to the smaller of the two bedrooms. The space was bare– just boring cream walls, a narrow walk in closet, and an echo of whoever had lived there before. Across the room sat a queen sized bed, perfectly pressed into the corner. A mattress laid on top of the frame, still wrapped in its plastic from delivery. Once all the boxes from the hallway had made their way into her room, Zoey got to work.

Unpacking gave her something to do with her hands. Old sketchbooks, filled with past projects, went neatly onto the shelves below the tv. New books, waiting to be used, went in a stack on top of the desk. A black wired cup with an assortment of pencils sat next to it. Then she got to work on the bed. She carefully ripped the plastic from the mattress, letting it fall to the floor behind her as she stretched the fitted sheet across. After the bed had been fully made up, she reached into a box for the old quilt her mother had insisted she bring with. She flattened the wrinkles out of it, then nicely folded it and laid it at the foot of the bed. 

For a couple of hours, it was just Zoey and the sound of cardboard tearing and scraping against itself as the girl continued to find a home for all of her things. Outside her room, it was quiet. Almost too quiet. She was almost done hanging a couple frames above the space on her desk when a soft knock echoed against her door. “Im making dinner,” Mira said in the same unreadable tone from earlier. “If you want to… help.”

Zoey blinked at her. That was more words than she expected. Maybe even the longest sentence Mira had said since Zoey’s arrival. “Oh,” she said, nervously wiping her palms against her sides before gripping the end of her sleeves. “Yeah, I’d– uh, sure. Yeah. Help. Definitely. As long as you don't mind a mess.” 

Mira’s immediate expression remained stoic, but there was a slight shift in her eyes that went unnoticed by Zoey. “C’mon.” 

Zoey followed a few steps behind Mira toward the kitchen, where an assortment of ingredients, pots, pans, and utensils already sat waiting, organized to perfection. All of the pots were stacked by size, smaller ones inside the larger ones. Vegetables organized by type, and then sub-organized by size. It was amusing to say the least. That someone would put so much thought into something simple like this. I mean, they’re just making dinner, right? Who cares if the peppers are organized from smallest to largest.
“Can I ask you something?” 

Mira turned to Zoey, one eyebrow slightly raised. The first reaction Zoey had seen from her. “You just did,” Mira said matter-of-factly. 

“Huh? I mean– no. I was going to ask what's with all of the– you know– it just seems kind of over-the-top I guess.” Zoey’s brow furrowed as she awaited a response. 

“It's my job. Just used to it.” 

Zoey tilted her head just slightly, a teasing smile playing at her lips. “Your job? What are you, some kind of closet organizer?” Mira didn’t flinch at the jab, already moving through the vegetables on the cutting board, her knife slicing with effortless precision, like the motion had been built into her muscle memory.

“No…” she paused for a long moment before continuing, “I work for a consulting firm.” A moment of silence passes as Zoey nods, leaned against the counter opposite of Mira. “What about you?” 

The question caught Zoey off guard, like she didn't expect Mira to care enough to ask any questions. She expected dinner to go as her move-in earlier did. Mostly silence. “I, uh, I'm still in school. My last semester actually.” 

Mira turned to look at the girl, signalling her to come over and help. Mira took a step to the side and carefully handed the knife to Zoey. Their hands brushed as Zoey took it, that same feeling from earlier creeping back, except this time Mira seemed unphased by it. No lingering looks, no charged silence, nothing. “What are you studying?” 

Zoey paused for a second, attempting to re-ground herself in the moment. “Art,” she said, a wide grin on her face as she lined the knife against the cutting board, though her cuts were uneven, more like chunks than slices.
Mira’s gaze flicked down for a moment, a hint of disbelief lingering in her expression, then back up. “That’s… generous.”

Zoey laughed, “Generous?”

“As in, generous interpretations of what a pepper should look like,” Mira said, her voice still unwavering.
“Oh my god,” Zoey dramatically set the knife down on the cutting board, and turned toward the taller girl. “Did you just insult my chopping skills? Our first day as roommates and you’re already bullying me?” Mira shrugged nonchalantly when Zoey noticed it. Mira’s lips pressed together, almost allowing a small smile to form, but catching herself beforehand.
“Just… pointing out the inefficiency.” 

“There it is,” Zoey teased, playfully wagging the knife at her. “Consultant word of the day. Inefficiency. How many powerpoints does it take to fix a bell pepper?” Mira shook her head, exhaling through her nose, but there was that flicker again– something softer, almost amused, before she pulled it back again. For a while they worked side by side, a comfortable silence forming as they worked in rhythm together. Zoey hummed quietly under her breath as Mira methodically combined ingredients in the pan, stirring with precise movements, like she was searching for a glimpse of perfection somewhere. 

“Are you always so serious? So.. dialed in?”

Mira shrugged again, eyes not moving from the stove in front of her. “I like order,” she said simply. 

Zoey tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched the girl next to her. Their eyes met for a second, something unsaid lingering in the air between the two, before Mira cleared her throat, looking back down at the pan. 

Minutes passed, no words spoken between the two girls. It didn't feel necessary. Eventually, Mira reached down to a dial and flicked the stove off as Zoey reached for the two plates that had been placed off to the side earlier on. She handed one to Mira, who meticulously loaded a bed of rice onto the plate. Then, with that same recognized precision, perfectly laid the mixture of chicken, veggies, and sauce on top. Mira handed the plate back to Zoey, “Go sit.” 

Zoey looked up at Mira, a hint of disbelief written on her face, “I can dish my own food you know..”

Mira just shook her head, “Just go sit down.”  

Zoey hesitated, caught between rolling her eyes and doing what she was told. Something about the certainty in Mira’s voice made her feet move before her brain caught up. She carried the plate to the small table in the corner, sliding into one of the mismatched chairs. When Mira joined her a moment later, she set her own plate down with the same neatness she’d shown in the kitchen– knife and fork lined up parallel to her plate, napkin laid perfectly on her lap. Zoey glanced down at her own plate, the food perfectly arranged, and snorted. “You, uh… you plated dinner like it’s a five-star restaurant.”

Mira raised an eyebrow, lifting her fork as she glanced over at the younger girl, “Would you prefer chaos on your plate too?” 

Zoey grinned, shrugging her shoulders playfully. “Honestly? Maybe. Adds character I think.” For a few minutes they ate in silence, though it wasn’t the heavy kind that had filled the apartment earlier. This was… different. Easy, almost. Zoey found herself watching the way Mira cut her food with careful precision, how her shoulders relaxed slightly now that the meal was done.

“You know,” Zoey said, breaking the silence, “for all the alphabetized spices and the rice versus pasta drama, this is actually really good.” Mira’s lip twitched slightly, the closest thing to a smile she’d let on yet.
“It’s edible. That’s the goal.” 

Zoey leaned back against the chair, a content smile on her lips. For the first time since her arrival she didn't feel like an intruder here. Across the table, Mira set her fork down with practiced precision, and for just a moment, Zoey swore she almost looked at ease. The thought settled warm in her chest, fragile but real, and she let herself believe it, just a little, that maybe she could feel at home here too. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Zoey padded into the kitchen in an oversized sweater that nearly swallowed her hands, her hair still pulled into the same messy bun from the previous night. She was determined to make breakfast– or at least try to. Past experience told Zoey she would be better off just picking something up on her way to class, but something about the new environment she found herself in had inspired her. ‘New apartment, new roommate, new me,’ she thought to herself. 

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, fumbling with the handle of the pan that was clearly too small for the task. “This is fine. Totally fine. Breakfast is just… abstract art, really. You don't criticize the brushstrokes, you just… taste the vision.” The smell of the burning toast stung sharp in her nose, and the bubbling of the eggs in the pan filled the silence. 

She jumped at the sound of quiet footsteps behind her. 

Mira was leaning against the archway, her hair still slightly damp from a shower, the sleeves of her button-up shirt had been neatly rolled up just below her elbows. Her eyes swept over the scene in front of her without a word– the smoke rising from the toaster, the eggs threatening to pour over the edge of the too-small pan, and a puddle of coffee at the base of the machine creeping slowly across the countertop. Still, she said nothing. She took a small exhale through her nose and stepped forward. Without missing a beat, she unplugged the toaster from the wall, causing the bread inside to shoot up dramatically. “Hey– what are you..” Zoey began. Mira didn't pay the girl any mind as she turned her attention to the stove, flicking the dial off and moving the pan onto a colder section of the stovetop. She grabbed the towel that hung at the front of the oven and laid it atop the pooling coffee. “Mira you don't have to–” 

“Your toast was burning.”

 Zoey huffed, tugging her sleeve over the palm of her hand and taking a step back from the scene in front of her. “Well, I– that was just part of the charm. Lightly charred disaster, you know? Yum.” Mira glanced at her, and for just a second something softened in her expression. Not exactly a smile, but the ghost of one, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. Zoey blinked, caught off guard, and let out a small laugh. “Wait, was that– Did I just catch you enjoying yourself for half a second?” 

Mira’s lips pressed into their usual flat line, but not before the faintest curve tugged at the corner of her mouth— gone so fast Zoey almost questioned if she’d imagined it. “Don’t push it,” she muttered quietly, her voice low as she fixed her gaze back on the chaos in front of her. She scrubbed at the counter as if it were the only thing that mattered, determined to push the moment out of reach.

Zoey leaned against the counter, amusement dancing openly across her features. She stayed quiet, letting her eyes follow the precise way Mira moved, how she carefully salvaged the eggs from the pan and set them onto the waiting plate. For all her sharpness, there was something unexpectedly gentle in the way she handled even a small mess like this— something Zoey wasn’t sure she was supposed to notice.

Zoey picked up the plate of salvaged eggs and fresh toast, wrinkling her nose at the sight of her failed attempt. “I should probably just stick to cereal.”

Mira slid the pan into the sink. “Probably.”

Zoey hesitated, “Hey, um… thanks. For saving breakfast. And me.”

Mira didn’t look up from rinsing the pan. “Just saved the eggs.” 

The deadpan delivery made Zoey laugh anyway. She slung her bag over her shoulder, tucking the plate under one arm. “Well, at least I’ve got class to fall back on. Try not to alphabetize the fridge while I’m gone.” Mira gave no response, just a flick of her eyes. But when Zoey left, she could’ve sworn she heard the faintest sound of a laugh behind her.

The campus buzzed with early morning energy– students scattered across the quad, the smell of coffee drifting from the nearby cafeteria. Zoey hurried along the crosswalk, a warm cup of coffee in hand that she had picked up after her disaster back home. She was halfway lost in thought when a familiar voice called out behind her. 

“Nice perfume,” Mystery teased as he matched her pace, “Let me guess, you stopped by a campfire on the way over here? Or did you try cooking again?”

Zoey groaned, hiding her face behind the sleeve of her sweater. “Don't. I was trying to make breakfast, but… ended up with abstract performance art instead. Smoke and all.” 

Mystery wrinkled his nose, an exaggerated look of disgust apparent. “Toast?”

“May it rest in peace,” Zoey sighed, taking a sip from the cup in her hand. “Mira had to intervene.” 

Mystery nudged her shoulder playfully. “Ah. So she swoops in to rescue your breakfast, and now you're blushing about it on day two. Definitely not a story, right?” 

“Huh? I'm not–” she fumbled over her words, “It wasn't– She's just very… precise. You know? Like the kind of person who alphabetizes spices and judges your life decisions based on the way you slice peppers.” 

“And yet you're still telling me all of this like it's something fascinating. Zoey, admit it. You're intrigued.” 

Zoey paused for a moment, her grip tightening on the cup in hand, diverting her attention to anything that wasn't Mystery. “I'm just– listen, I'm just not trying to get evicted within the first week, okay? That's it. Nothing else.” 

“Sure,” Mystery said, unbelieving as he drew out the word with feigned seriousness. 

Zoey shot him a look, the heat rising in her cheeks. She muttered something under her breath as Mystery swung open the door to their building, a smirk written across his lips as if he had just won an argument Zoey didn't even realize they were having. 

Class passed in its usual haze of drawn out lectures and fluorescent lighting, broken only by Mystery’s whispered commentary. He had a talent for sketching odd characters of the professor in his notebook. Today's version featured bug eyes and wild hair. Zoey snorted halfway through the lecture and had to smother her laugh with her sleeve, earning a sharp glance from the front of the room.

By the time class ended, her stomach was loud enough to rival the shuffle of backpacks and chatter in the hallway. Mystery slung his bag across his shoulder. “Lunch? My treat. You clearly used up all your calories battling the toaster this morning.”

Zoey groaned but followed him toward the cafeteria anyway. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not in a million years,” he said with mock seriousness.

They ended up at a table by the window, trays piled with greasy fries and sandwiches that looked better than they tasted. Zoey pulled out a notebook almost immediately, flipping to a blank page while Mystery shoveled fries into his mouth.

“So,” he said through a mouthful, “what’s the verdict on the new apartment? Other than the fire hazard breakfast.”

Zoey chewed her lip, twirling her pen between her fingers. “It’s… nice. Maybe too nice.”

Mystery shot her a curious look. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s clean,” she said with exaggerated emphasis. “Like, freakishly clean. Alphabetized-spices clean. Organized-socks clean.”

Mystery leaned forward, amused. “Ah. So she’s one of those people.”

Zoey groaned, slumping back in her chair. “Yes. And apparently I’m the chaos goblin who’s going to ruin it all.”

He smirked, poking at his sandwich. “You talk about her a lot for someone who insists she’s terrifying.”

“What? No– I do not!”

“You do,” he countered immediately. “She saves your breakfast one time and suddenly you know her spice rack better than your own middle name.”

Zoey flushed, tugging at the cuff of her sweater. “I just… notice things, okay? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Uh huh.” Mystery didn’t push, but the knowing grin on his face made her want to shove him out of his chair.

Grease-stained trays cleared, the cafeteria’s hum of voices felt heavier than before. Too much laughter, too many footsteps. The quiet of the library suddenly sounded like heaven. A quiet corner table tucked between the shelves became their makeshift office. Mystery sprawled his notes across the table like he was plotting world domination, while Zoey filled the margins of her sketchbook with diagrams and doodles.

For a while, it was easy. Banter traded between bursts of concentration, Mystery’s offhand jokes pulling laughter from her chest until her cheeks ached. The hours slipped by faster than she realized, sunlight fading into gold across the tall windows.

It wasn’t until she checked her phone that she jolted upright. “Seven?!”

Mystery stacked his papers leisurely, unbothered. “Time flies when you’re with me.”

“More like you never shut up,” she teased, but noted the familiar warmth in her chest. Comfortable. Safe. She slung her bag over her shoulder, muttering, “I should probably head home before my new roommate thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”

Mystery chuckled under his breath, “Alphabet lady keeping tabs already?”

“Shut up,” Zoey said, feeling that warmth surge across her cheeks once again. 

By the time Zoey finally made it back to the apartment, the hallway was dim, the light cracking through the doorways already off for the night. She slipped her key into the lock as quietly as she could, like maybe she could sneak back in without drawing attention. The lights inside were on. 

Mira was at the table, laptop open, papers stacked in tidy columns around her. She didn’t look up right away, just said, “You were gone a while.”

Zoey froze in the doorway, guilt tugging at her chest even though she wasn’t sure why. “Oh. Yeah. I lost track of time with a friend. We were working on a project.”

Mira’s eyes flicked up for just a moment, cool and unreadable, before returning to the paper in front of her. “Mm.” A simple sound, but it carried more weight than Zoey wanted it to.

She stepped further inside, slipping off her shoes. “I didn’t mean to worry you or anything.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Mira’s tone was flat, but her jaw tightened just slightly as she rearranged a pile of papers, almost as if to contradict her own words. 

Zoey lingered a moment, unsure if she should press or just disappear into her room. Before she could decide, Mira shut her laptop with a soft click and rose from the chair. “You’ve still got boxes. Want help?”

Caught off guard, Zoey blinked. “Uh— yeah. Yeah. Sure. If you want.” Without waiting for more explanation, Mira headed toward Zoey’s room, her presence steady in a way that felt difficult to name.

Zoey trailed behind Mira into her bedroom, balancing another box against her hip. The space looked less bare now, but it still carried that hollow, just-moved-in energy. Mira crouched beside one of the unopened boxes near the desk, tugging it open with efficient precision.

“Careful,” Zoey said, settling onto the floor beside her. “That one’s… kind of a mess.” Mira didn’t respond, already pulling out a stack of worn sketchbooks. She brushed the dust off one and flipped it open, her eyes scanning the lines without expression. Zoey immediately felt her chest tighten. “Oh— um, those are— yeah, they’re not, like, technically perfect. Or professional. Or whatever. I just… yeah, I’ll shut up now.” Mira turned another page, her gaze steady. The silence stretched long enough that Zoey wanted to shrink into the floor. Finally, Mira spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

“They’re not perfect.”

Zoey sighed, deflating. “Yeah, I know—”

“But they’re alive,” Mira said, cutting her off. She looked up then, meeting Zoey’s eyes. “That’s harder to get right.”

The words landed heavy. Zoey blinked, caught off guard, warmth rising in her cheeks. For a moment, Mira didn’t look like the unreadable girl she’d met yesterday. She looked like someone else entirely, someone softer. Then, just as quickly, Mira closed the sketchbook and set it down too carefully, stepping back like she hadn’t meant to say anything at all.

Zoey tugged another notebook from the box, the worn cover catching at the corner of her sleeve. She flipped it open without thinking—then froze. Tucked between the pages was a folded letter, edges softened from being read too many times. Her breath hitched. 

For a second, she traced the crease with her thumb, her chest tightening with something she didn’t want to name. Then she shut the notebook quickly, sliding it to the bottom of the drawer a little too forcefully.

The sound made Mira glance up. Her eyes lingered on Zoey, searching, though her expression stayed even. “You slam all your drawers like that, or just the ones with secrets?”

Zoey’s laugh came thin, brittle. She tugged at her sleeve, eyes fixed on the fabric against her skin. “Old stuff,” she muttered, tone deliberately casual. “I really need to learn how to throw things away.” Mira’s gaze stayed fixed on the girl, but she didn’t comment, didn’t even move. Her hands slowed slightly on the books she was stacking, her silence heavier than words.

Zoey forced a smile, grabbing one of the older sketchbooks from Mira’s pile and plopping it into her lap. “See this one? Freshman year project. It’s… terrible. But, uh, terrible in a charming way, right?”

Mira’s expression barely shifted. “It’s… busy.”

Zoey groaned, dropping her forehead onto the cover dramatically. “Busy. Wow. Brutal honesty. Thank you, Mira.” For the first time that evening, Mira’s mouth twitched like she was fighting back a smile. She didn’t let it through, but the trace of it lingered.

Chapter Text

Mira liked mornings best when the world was still half asleep. The apartment was quiet. No faint music coming through the walls, no clatter of dishes as Zoey attempts to burn the apartment down. Morning light filtered weakly through the blinds, stretching long, pale stripes across the kitchen counter. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, steady and low. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just… sharp. The kind of quiet that made Mira too aware of her own breathing. She leaned against the counter, one hand curled loosely around a mug of coffee. Her laptop sat open on the island behind her, the screen lit brightly with rows of emails she had already sorted but deemed not yet worthy of her attention. 

The faint smell of burnt toast lingered from the previous day– barely there, but still impossible to miss. Her eyes drifted towards the toaster. It sat harmlessly now, unplugged, a reminder of yesterday’s mishap. And yet her lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost. She exhaled quietly, shaking it off. 

Her gaze flicked toward the sink adjacent to her. Two mugs sat on the drying rack– hers, clean and neatly aligned, and Zoey’s, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom edge. Across the island from her sat an open sketchbook and a pencil that had rolled dangerously close to the edge of the counter, and next to it a faint smudge of graphite. Mira reached out, thumb brushing over the mark before she could stop herself. It came away dark, soft against her skin. She wiped it off on a towel,quietly setting the pencil back down in its place. 

Across the room, Zoey’s jacket hung lazily off the back of a chair. Mira adjusted it absently, tugging the sleeve into place before she even realized what she was doing. It wasn't out of irritation, but habit. Quiet correction in the name of order. She took a step back, eyes scanning over the shared space for any further adjustments needed. 

“Better,” she murmured to herself. 

Her phone buzzed from the countertop across the room.

Abs: 7:30 meeting moved to 8. Don't yell at me. 

Mira: Not yelling. 

Abs: Yet.

Mira: Keep testing me. 

Abs: There she is. My favorite killjoy. 

She rolled her eyes, but a faint warmth tugged at the edge of her composure. Typical Abby. Always pushing. Always talking in circles until she either laughed or snapped. Usually both. She set her mug down and grabbed her keys, slipping her laptop into her bag. The apartment door clicked softly behind her as she stepped out into the bare hallway, ready for the day ahead. 

Mira’s office building towered over the surrounding area. The inside always smelled faintly of printer ink and coffee that was a bit too strong. Her desk was sat in a corner of the twenty-third floor, providing a perfect view of the rising sun outside. She liked this space– the precision of it. It was predictable. Professional. People spoke in measured tones here. 

“Mira.” 

Mira glanced up from her screen to see Abby, her colleague– sharp suit, charming grin, and sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless but still intentional. He leaned against the wall of her cubicle with practiced ease. “You’re in early,” he said, eyeing the already half finished spreadsheet on her screen. 

“I like quiet,” she replied simply. 

He smirked. “So, you mean you like avoiding human interaction before nine.” 

Mira’s lip twitched, the ghost of a smirk threatening to form. “Something like that.”

Abby gently dropped a folder onto her desk, tapping it once. “Client revisions. They moved the timeline again. Thought you’d want a head start before the chaos begins.” 

“Thoughtful of you,” she said, already opening the folder. 

“Don’t sound too touched. I just didn't want to be the one dealing with the meltdown later.”

Mira shot him a flat look. “You’re terrified of confrontation.” 

“Correct,” he said easily, unbothered. Then, after a beat, “So, how’s the new roommate situation going? She kill you with glitter yet?”

Mira didn't look up from the papers in hand. “Not yet.”

“Sounds promising.”

“She’s… messy,” Mira admitted after a pause. “But not careless.”

Abby raised an eyebrow, the grin softening into something genuine. “That’s basically affection, coming from you.” 

Mira ignored the comment, her focus returning to the spreadsheet on her screen. “Shes an artist. That explains the chaos.” 

“Does it explain your sudden tolerance for it too?” 

Mira’s hand paused mid scroll, her brows furrowed. “It's manageable.”

Abby leaned back on his heel, “Right. Manageable.” He left her with that word hanging in the air– half teasing, half something else. She wasn't sure what yet. Mira’s eyes lingered on the spreadsheet a moment longer before drifting toward the empty space beside her mousepad. There, faint but visible,was a small smear of graphite on her thumb she hadn't noticed before. 

She rubbed it away quietly on her sleeve. 

By the time noon rolled around, Mira had already answered seventeen emails, revised three proposal outlines, and refilled her coffee twice. She didn't look up once until Abby lightly tapped his knuckles on her desk. “Come on,” he said, nodding towards the door. “You’ve been staring at that screen since nine.” 

Mira glanced at the clock on her screen, “Lunch is in thirty.” 

“Perfect time to practice taking breaks like a functional human.” He didn't wait for her to argue, already halfway down the hall. Against her better judgement, Mira grabbed her coat and followed. 

They ended up inside a small cafe across the street– one of those places with wobbly tables and too many people talking at once. Abby carried both coffees, handing hers over without asking what she wanted. She didn't have to tell him, he’d worked with her long enough to know exactly how much sugar she’d never admit she liked. They sat at a table closest to the window, the sun shining through and onto the surface between them. The chatter of people around them filled the silence, but Abby spoke like none of it existed. 

“So my last client,” he began, making a small gesture towards her with his coffee, “– owns chain of gyms, right? He wants to ‘redefine the customer experience.’ Which apparently means twelve brainstorming sessions about towel quality.” 

Mira took a sip of her coffee. “Riveting.”

“Oh it's a thrill,” he said dryly. “Yesterday they argued for forty minutes about which floor plan would have the best feng shui.”

Her eyebrow twitched upward. “You stayed for that?”

“I’m paid by the hour.” 

Mira hummed, not quite a laugh, but close enough. Abby tilted his head toward her. “You know, you could just try relaxing. Just once. The world won't implode if you leave an email unanswered for an hour.”

She looked at him over the rim of her cup. “Thats statistically unlikely.”

“Not impossible, though.”

Her phone buzzed. She turned it over, the screen unlocking automatically. A message from Zoey lit up the top of the display. 

Zoey: dont freak out.. but i might have reorganized the mugs. they were all facing different directions and it was hurting my soul. (photo attached) 

Mira stared at the image — every mug turned with the handle facing outward. Uniform, sure. But not her system. Her lips pressed into a thin line but something tugged at the corner of her mouth. Abby leaned slightly to peek. “Ah,” he said, spotting the faint flicker in her expression. “There it is. The legendary almost smile.” 

“Youre insufferable,” Mira replied without looking up. 

“And yet,” he said, smirking, ‘here we are.”

She ignored him, typing back quietly:

Mira: They were fine before. 

It only took a few seconds for Zoey’s response to appear.

Zoey: fine is subjective.

Mira’s thumb hovered over the screen for a moment longer before she locked the phone and set it back down onto the table. Abby was watching her, a knowing tilt to his head. “You like her.” 

“I tolerate her,” Mira corrected. 

“Same thing in your language.”

Mira rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee, hiding the faintest hint of a smile that she refused to let surface. 

The door clicked shut behind Mira with a soft finality. It was late, and the hum of the city outside had already dulled to a low, distant rhythm. She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door, their clatter the only sound that greeted her. 

The apartment smelled faintly of paint. Not the harsh, industrial kind, but the softer scent of acrylics and cheap brushes. She slid off her shoes, eyes scanning over the room. A mug sat half full on the coffee table, a few brushes propped inside like flowers in cloudy water. A corner of the coffee table had been smudged with a pale blue hue. Mira exhaled slowly through her nose. Of course. She didn't say anything, didn't roll her eyes– just crossed the room, gathering the stray things with quiet precision. Brush. Cap. Mug. Each movement steady, deliberate. They way she always reset order after the world nudged it off balance. 

But then she saw her.

Zoey was curled on the couch, head tilted against the cushion, sketchbook still open on her lap. The lamp nearby cast a soft glow across her face, and shadows that perfectly caught the curve of her cheek. A pencil rested loosely between her fingers, hovering over a half finished sketch– a city skyline, maybe, or a dream of one. 

Mira paused.

Something in her chest tightened, small and unfamiliar. She should’ve looked away, should’ve just turned off the light and gone to her room. Instead she stood there, watching the rise and fall of Zoey’s breathing. She finally stepped forward. The mug went onto the counter. The pencil she lifted gently from Zoey’s hand and set beside the sketchbook. Then, after a hesitant beat, she reached for the throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch. Her movements were careful– like touching something fragile. The fabric fell softly over Zoey’s legs. 

Mira’s hand lingered for half a second longer than it should've. Then she drew it back, jaw tightening. She reached for the lamp switch. The room dimmed, the edges of everything dissolving into the dark. Mira stood there one more moment, unreadable, still– before she turned and disappeared down the hall. 

Mira sat with her legs stretched out on her bed, laptop balanced in her lap. The glow of the screen casted a faint blue shadow across the room. Tabs lined the top edge– spreadsheets, reports, and half written emails. She typed something, stopped, deleted it, then started again. Her eyes burned, but she didn't notice. The quiet was heavy. Only the low hum of the refrigerator in the other room and the faint tap of her keyboard filled the air. Her phone buzzed beside her.

Abs: Just making sure you didn't start another email thread after 10pm. Don't forget to sleep.

Mira stared at the message for a second before huffing softly through her nose– something between a sigh and a laugh. She typed out a reply, deleted it, then set the phone face down on the nightstand beside her. 

From the other room came a faint rustle– Zoey turning over in her sleep, mumbling something indistinct. Mira glanced toward the wall that separated them, her fingers hovering above the keyboard before slowly closing the laptop and setting it aside. The hum of the city bled through the window, soft and distant. After a pause, she reached for her phone again—not to answer Abby, just to scroll back to the picture of the mugs Zoey had sent earlier. The corners of her mouth twitched, barely. The room fell into darkness, but the image stayed– rows of crooked mugs, and the girl who’d made them that way.

Chapter Text

The rain hadn't stopped all day. It drummed lightly against the windows, a steady, unhurried rhythm that turned the city outside into a blur of watercolor. The apartment was wrapped in a soft kind of gray lighting that made everything seem quieter, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and acrylic. Zoey sat cross-legged on the living room floor, her sketchbook opened flat on the coffee table in front of her along with an assortment of pencils and a mug of half finished coffee. She wasn’t really drawing anything in particular—just lines, loops, the suggestion of shapes that might become something later. The sleeve of her sweater brushed the paper every time she leaned forward, leaving faint trails of graphite along the edge of the page. She hummed a half remembered melody under her breath– low, wandering, and just enough to cut through the sound of the rain. 

At the table, Mira worked. Her laptop screen cast a cold glow against her face, the only sharp thing in the room. The rhythmic tapping of her fingers against the keyboard matched the rain for a while, until her focus began to slip. She kept finding her gaze pulled away from the screen, tracing the quiet rhythm of the other girl’s movements– the absent tuck of hair, the steady tap of her pencil against her knee, and the faint hum that kept slipping through the sound of the rain. Mira told herself she was only distracted by the noise. 

Zoey glanced over her shoulder suddenly. “You ever notice how quiet you are when you work?”

Mira didn't look up. “It's called concentration.”

“Right,” Zoey said, grinning. “And do you ever, I don't know, talk while you concentrate? Or would that cause some kind of internal systems failure?”

Mira’s mouth twitched. “I prefer silence.”

“Yeah I'm getting that,” Zoey teased, flipping a page. “It's like living with a ghost who pays rent on time.” 

That earned the smallest exhale from Mira– not quite a laugh, but close. Zoey caught it, smiling to herself. “You know, I've been trying to figure you out.” 

“Don’t,” Mira said flatly. 

“Oh come on. You alphabetize spices and color code files. You drink coffee black, but I swear you'd like it better with sugar.” 

Mira finally looked up. “You’re very observant for someone who burns toast.”

“Everyone’s good at something,” Zoey said brightly. “Yours is control. Mine is chaos. Together, we balance the universe.” 

Mira’s gaze lingered for a second too long before she turned back to her laptop. “That’s not how balance works.”

“Sure it is,” Zoey said, smiling down at her page. “Just depends on your definition.” 

A soft rhythm settled between them after that– the quiet, comfortable kind. Rain patted the window, filling the space the conversation had left behind. Zoey’s pencil continued to move in lazy loops, her foot tapping out of rhythm against the floor. Mira typed a few lines, erased them, then tried again. 

Zoey broke the silence first, glancing up at her. “You know, you do that thing when you're thinking– the little frown.” 

“Occupational hazard,” Mira said, voice dry and unreadable. 

“Of what, being human?”

“Of working with idiots,” Mira said, deadpan.

Zoey laughed under her breath, shaking her head before turning back to her sketchbook. The sound lingered just long enough to soften the air again.

“Do you ever paint?” Zoey asked suddenly, not looking up from her sketchbook.

Mira didn't glance away from her screen. “No patience for it.” 

Zoey’s smile curved, small and knowing, before a soft laugh filled the air. “Yeah. That checks out.” 

Mira sighed lightheartedly-- though she stopped before it could surmount to more. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee and made a face. The rain outside deepened, wind rattling faintly against the glass. 

After a minute, Mira stood to refill her mug. The kettle hissed as it boiled, the sound breaking the comfortable quiet. When it clicked off, she poured herself a fresh cup– and without thinking, poured one for Zoey too. She didn’t say anything, just set it beside the sketchbook as she passed. 

Zoey blinked, surprised. “Oh– thanks. You didn't have to.” 

“You left it unfinished,” Mira said, matter-of-fact.

“Thats kind of my brand,”  Zoey replied, a small grin tugging at her lips. 

Mira hummed under her breath– not agreement, not disagreement– and sat back down. For a while, the apartment breathed around them. The rain filled the silence. Every so often, Mira’s fingers paused on the keyboard, eyes flicking towards the girl on the floor. 

The afternoon slipped by quietly. The rain hadn't let up, turning the windows into sheets of blurred gray. Zoey eventually set her sketchbook aside, stretching out her legs with a soft groan. “Okay,” she said, voice breaking the silence, "I'm declaring a break from being productive. You ever take those?” 

Mira looked over  for just a moment before redirecting her attention back to the screen. “Occasionally.” 

“Define occasionally,” Zoey countered.

“When I'm unconscious.” 

Zoey snorted, grabbing the remote off the coffee table. “Tragic. We're watching something. Doctor’s orders.” 

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Good,” Zoey said, flipping through the streaming options. “You’d have terrible bedside manner.”

Mira shot her a look, flat and unimpressed, but she didn’t argue as she stood from her place at the table and made her way over to the couch. 

“You pick,” Zoey said finally, holding out the remote. 

Mira blinked. “Why me?” 

“Because you’re definitely someone who has opinions about everything.” 

That earned the faintest lift of an eyebrow. Mira took the remote without a word, scrolling for a moment before stopping on a title– a muted, slow paced drama neither of them had heard of. Zoey looked back at her, curiosity written across her face. “Wow. Shocker. You picked something depressing.” 

“It's not depressing,” Mira said, settling back into the couch. “It's quiet.” 

“Same thing,” Zoey muttered, but she smiled as she curled up on the opposite side of the couch from Mira, pulling her knees to her chest. 

The rain softened into a steady rhythm against the windows, quiet enough that it blended with the low hum of the movie. Zoey had claimed the corner of the couch, blanket draped haphazardly over her lap, a bowl of popcorn balanced beside her knee. Mira sat on the opposite end, one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture far too straight for someone watching a movie. 

Halfway though, Zoey sighed dramatically. “You realize no one’s smiled in this movie for like… an hour?” 

Mira didn't look away from the screen. “You’ve been counting?” 

“Someone has to,” Zoey said, stretching her arms overhead. “If I start crying, it's your fault.” 

“You picked it.”

“I picked you to pick it,” she countered. “Big difference.” 

The smallest flicker of amusement spread across Mira’s face– not quite a grin, but a tiny shift, enough to make Zoey notice. It spurred her on, like a challenge she didn't know she’d accepted. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, curling sideways until her legs brushed against Mira’s thigh. When Mira didn't immediately move, she let herself ease into it, pretending it was just for comfort. “Hope you don't mind. You just have a pretty convenient lap.” 

Mira went still. Her eyes didn't leave the screen, but her hand paused mid reach for her mug. “You could use the pillow,” she said, voice carefully neutral. 

“Nah,” Zoey said softly, grinning without looking up. “This is better.”

For a moment, neither moved. The air shifted– not awkward, not even heavy, just… aware. The kind of stillness that feels fragile. Mira’s breath caught, imperceptibly, before she forced her focus back on the TV. 

Zoey, sensing it, changed the subject gently. “You know, I think this director just hates joy. Like maybe he saw a rainbow one time and took it personally.” 

Mira’s exhale came out quieter than a chuckle, but it was there. “You’re very dramatic for someone who voluntarily watched a two hour indie film about grief.” 

“I contain multitudes,” Zoey said, mock serious. “Also, I thought there’d be a dog. There's no dog.”

“There’s usually never a dog,” Mira replied. 

“Yeah- but there should be,” Zoey said, letting her head tip back against the cushion. “Every sad movie should at least have one happy animal.” Mira finally turned her head toward her, eyes catching the faint smile on Zoey’s lips. Something about the way she looked– soft, unguarded– made Mira’s chest tighten. She stood abruptly, needing movement. 

“Tea?”

Zoey blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Oh– uh, sure.” 

The kettle hissed, filling the silence between them. When Mira returned, she set a mug in front of Zoey before sitting back down. Zoey smiled, hands wrapping around the warmth as her legs instinctively laid across Mira’s lap again. “You always do that,” she said quietly.

Mira looked at her. “Do what?” 

“Take care of things before anyone asks.” 

For a heartbeat, Mira didn't respond. Her gaze flicked toward the window, where the rain had begun to ease into a mist. “Habit,” she said simply.

Zoey nodded, the faintest smile still lingering. “Well… it's a good one.” They went back to watching, the last stretch of the movie fading into silence. When the credits rolled, Zoey didn't move right away. Her legs still rested across Mira’s lap, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. 

Mira didn't move either. The rain had subsided, but the room still carried that hazy warmth that comes after storms– something softer, something unspoken that neither of them wanted to name just yet. 

Finally, Zoey broke the quiet. “So… dinner?”

Mira glanced at the clock, “It's after seven.”

“Which means it's the perfect time for impulsive decisions,” Zoey said, already sitting up. “I vote we make something. You can show off your terrifying organization skills, and I’ll… you know. Supervise.”

“Right. Because you're such a professional,” Mira said, dry but with that feeble pull at the corner of her mouth again.

Zoey grinned. “Exactly.” 

They migrated to the kitchen– Zoey barefoot and trailing the blanket around her shoulders like a cape, Mira already rolling up her sleeves. It was easy, the way they moved around each other now. Mira chopped vegetables with precise, methodical movements. Zoey hummed and leaned against the counter, pretending to read the recipe, but clearly improvising. 

“Do you ever just not measure things?” Zoey asked, watching Mira’s careful work. 

“I like things to be right.” 

“Maybe ‘right’ is overrated,” Zoey said, tipping a little too much olive oil into the pan. 

Mira’s eyebrow arched, “And maybe smoke alarms are underrated.”

Zoey laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. The kind that reached into corners Mira usually didn't let people touch. The kitchen smelled warm– garlic, oil, something slightly burned but not ruined. Zoey shifted her weight along the counter, her hip brushing lightly against Mira’s as they stood side by side. It wasn't intentional– just small kitchen proximity– but it was enough to make Mira’s shoulders stiffen for a second before she forced them to relax. 

“See?” Zoey said, nudging Mira’s elbow with a grin. “Cooking’s just controlled chaos. You of all people should respect that.”

“Controlled,” Mira echoed, muttering the word like she was testing it. “That’s generous.”

Zoey’s grin widened. “I contain multitudes.” 

Mira huffed out something between a laugh and a scoff. “You contain smoke, at least.” 

Zoey bumped her shoulder again, feign offended. “Wow, the gratitude in this house is unreal.” 

“Gratitude would imply success,” Mira replied, but her tone eased, dulling into something almost fond. They moved effortlessly together– Zoey reaching around Mira to grab the salt, Mira steadying the pan when Zoey stirred too hard. Their fingers brushed once, neither of them acknowledging it, though Zoey’s laugh faltered just slightly afterward.

By the time they sat down to eat, the apartment felt still– that post rain calm that makes every sound feel louder than it should. The faint drip from the balcony railing outside, the soft clink of silverware, the low hum of the refrigerator. 

Zoey took the first bite and winced. “Okay, maybe not my best work.”

Mira tried hers. “You overdid the salt.”

“Hey,” Zoey said, pointing her fork at her, “that’s the flavor of passion.”

“Poor seasoning choices are not passion,” Mira deadpanned.

“Tell that to the greatest artists of our time,” Zoey countered, then leaned back with a soft smile. “You know, for someone who claims to hate chaos, you're surprisingly good at surviving it.”

Mira’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Maybe I've had practice.”

Zoey tilted her head. “You say that like there's a story there.” 

Mira didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the table for a beat too long before she finally looked up again. “There’s not.” 

“Uh-huh,” Zoey said quietly, but she didn't push. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It felt… suspended. Mira almost smiled again, almost said something more– but the sound of Zoey’s phone buzzing face down on the table next to her cut through the moment. 

Zoey glanced toward the table, her hand hovering over her phone for a second too long before flipping it face down again. Whatever name or message she’d seen flashed behind her eyes– something small but sharp, enough to shift the air between them. 

Mira caught it. “Something wrong?”

Zoey shook her head too quickly. “No. Spam. Happens all the time.” Her voice was light, but it didn't reach her eyes. She took another bite she clearly didn't taste.

Mira didn't buy it. “Spam that makes you stop breathing for a second?”

Zoey’s chuckle came out uneven. “Guess I'm just dramatic.”

Mira’s eyes flicked down to her plate. She took another slow bite, the fork scraping faintly against the ceramic. “Guess so,” Mira murmured, tone unreadable.

The silence that followed wasn't the same as before. It pressed in– not hostile, just heavier. Zoey tried to fill it, rambling about the movie they’d watched, about overcooked pasta, anything to make it sound like nothing was wrong. Mira listened, far too patient and perceptive for Zoey’s comfort. When words finally ran out, the only sound was the familiar hum of the fridge. 

Zoey’s fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve, eyes fixed on the fabric. “You ever get that thing where someone from your past just… pops up? And it's like–” she caught herself, shaking her head. “Nevermind. That's dumb.”

Mira’s tone was soft, steady. “Yeah. I get it.”

Zoey blinked, caught off guard. “You do?”

Mira nodded once. “You can talk about it if you want. Or you can pretend it's nothing. People do that too.”

Zoey’s smile faltered, tired around the edges. “I’m good at pretending.”

“I know,” Mira said– not sharp, just honest. 

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Zoey stared down at her plate, Mira at her. Two people both pretending they weren't trying to understand each other. Then Mira leaned back in her chair, the corner of her mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. “Finish eating before you spiral.” 

Zoey huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re bossy.”

“Efficient,” Mira corrected.

The tension broke– not gone, but gentler now, softened by something that neither of them could name. 

—-

The apartment was still. Only the muted flow of the city filtered through the window– car tires on wet pavement, a horn fading somewhere far away. Mira sat on her bed, laptop open but forgotten, its glow washing her face in cold light. She scrolled through a spreadsheet for the third time without processing a word. 

Her gaze lingered on the door, the silence on the other side pressing just enough to make her notice it. She exhaled, leaning back against the headboard. It should've felt peaceful. It didn't. She told herself it was the caffeine, the long day, the dozens of unanswered emails sitting in her inbox. But her chest was tight in a way that didn't feel like work. Her gaze lingered on the door just a moment longer before she closed her laptop and set it aside. 

She stayed seated, not working, not thinking– just waiting for the noise in her head to settle. 

—-

Zoey sat cross legged on the floor, her sketchbook open beside her but untouched. The phone in her lap glowed once, a message she’d already read sitting there on the screen.

Still think about you.

Her throat tightened. She stared at the words until they hurt, until the letters seemed to fade into the light bleeding from the screen. Then she locked the phone and sat it face down on the rug. 

Her pencil moved before she could think about it– fast, uneven lines across the page, something messy and dark. The sound of graphite on paper was sharp against the quiet. She stopped, staring at what she’d made– not a drawing, not really. Just noise. 

For a moment, she wished the walls between them weren't there. That she could just… say something. Anything. But she didn't even know what she would say. She set the pencil down, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, and pulled her knees to her chest. The air smelled faintly of rain through the cracked window, cool against her skin. The light flickered across the page before she turned it off, letting the room dissolve into darkness. 

Night had settled over the apartment– quiet, but tense. The city murmured beyond the glass, a sympathetic reminder that life went on elsewhere. Inside, the air held still, the kind of silence that lingered between two people who hadn’t said enough, but had already said too much.

Chapter Text

The morning light came in pale and weak through the blinds, painting long stripes across the kitchen counter. The smell of leftover paint and coffee still lingered in the air from the night before. Zoey stood by the sink, pouring herself a glass of water she didn't actually want. The sound of the faucet filled the otherwise empty space– steady, too loud. Her reflection caught briefly in the dark surface of the microwave, washed-out and tired, hair falling loose from its bun. She exhaled sharply through her nose and turned away.

The phone sat on the counter beside her, dark screen face down. It hadn't buzzed since last night. She told herself that was good– that she wanted it quiet. She didn't need distractions. She had school, deadlines- a life. Things that were supposed to make her feel okay. 

The sound of a door opening pulled her attention up. Mira stepped out from her bedroom, already dressed for work: crisp shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, expression unreadable as always. She moved with a quiet precision, filling her mug, adjusting something on the counter that wasn't out of place to begin with. “Morning,” Zoey said, too brightly. Her voice cracked slightly in the middle of the word, and she forced a laugh to cover it. 

Mira’s eyes flicked up from her mug. “Morning.”

Zoey reached for the bread sat neatly beside the toaster. “You want toast? I promise not to burn it this time.”

“No time,” Mira said, setting her mug down. “Meeting in twenty.” 

Zoey nodded, pretending not to notice the way Mira’s gaze lingered on her a second too long. “Right. Big important consultant things. I get it.” 

That earned the smallest twitch of Mira’s mouth– half a smirk, there and gone again. Zoey turned back to the counter, stirring sugar into her coffee like it required precision. “One, two, emotional stability.” 

Mira didn't look up. “You’re over the daily limit.”

Zoey’s grin came quick, automatic. “Guess I'll crash early then.”

Mira hummed, the sound barely there. “You already look tired.” 

It wasn't cruel– just a simple observation. But it landed, quiet and close. Zoey’s stirring slowed for a moment before she forced a light laugh. “Yeah, you too.” The silence that followed felt stretched thin. Mira didn't press– she never did– but her eyes lingered, reading the small cracks Zoey was trying to seal over with jokes and too much energy. Finally, Mira straightened, grabbing her keys. 

“Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone.”

Zoey mustered a small smile. “No promises.”

When the door shut behind her, the apartment seemed to exhale all at once. The sound of the city drifted unsteady through the window. Zoey leaned her palms against the counter, letting the cool surface ground her. Her gaze drifted toward the phone again. The silence around it felt overwhelming. After a beat, she pushed it into her bag, grabbed her jacket, and stepped out the door. 

The morning air hit colder than she expected. Damp from last night’s rain, the sidewalk still gleamed in patches of dark gray. Zoey pulled her jacket tighter, tucking one hand into the pocket and keeping the other on her phone, thumb hovering over the screen but not doing anything with it.

Music hummed low through her headphones– something upbeat enough to pretend it matched her mood. She counted the steps between streetlights, just to have something to focus on. Every few seconds, she’d glance down at her phone again, checking for a notification she wasn't expecting. The city was in motion– cars rolling past puddles, someone laughing too loud across the street, the hiss of a bus pulling away, but none of it seemed to reach her. She let the noise fill the space where her thoughts should've. At the next crosswalk, she caught her reflection in the cafe window. Her hair pulled up messier than usual, eyes a little too tired. She smiled at herself, testing it, but it didn't stick. 

By the time she reached campus, the sky had brightened just enough to make everything look normal again. Students trekked across the courtyard in clusters, heads bowed toward screens or conversations. Zoey slipped through them easily, another face in the moving crowd. 

Her phone buzzed once in her pocket.

Mystery: Open studio night tonight, I'll save you a spot.

 She stared at the message for a few seconds before unlocking her screen– and immediately caught the old text still pinned at the top of her inbox. 

Still think about you.

The words blinked at her, small and ordinary, but they tightened something in her chest all the same. Zoey inhaled sharply through her nose and closed the message.

Zoey: yeah ill be there

She slipped the device back into her jacket and headed toward class, forcing her thoughts into the motion of the day ahead– projects, homework, anything but that message. 

The apartment was motionless when Zoey got home. The kind of stillness that felt too aware of itself. She kicked her shoes off by the door and set her bag on the counter, the soft thud echoing in the stillness. Mira wasn't home yet– no laptop hum, no shuffle of measured footsteps. Just the residual smell of coffee from that morning and the slow tick of a clock in the next room. Zoey stood there for a second, jacket half off, unsure what to do with the silence. Eventually, she moved, headed for her room- pulling her hair loose as she went.

Her desk was cluttered in the way she liked it– paint tubes scattered across one side, a cup of brushes leaning precariously on the other. The sketch she’d been working on for a few weeks lay open in the middle– a figure half formed, reaching for something just out of frame. The pencil lines dug deep into the paper, dark and uneven, like she'd been trying to carve the feeling out instead of draw it. She sat down and reached for her brushes, trying to shake off the static in her chest.

After a few minutes, she realized she’d forgotten the smaller sketchbook she used for rough outlines. She leaned down to the lowest drawer of the desk, sliding it open without a thought and started digging through it– old supplies, scrap papers, a folded smock– until her fingers brushed the worn corner of a familiar notebook.

She froze. 

It took her a second to remember why it felt heavy. The same notebook Mira had accidentally unpacked with her that first night. The one she hadn't opened since. Zoey hesitated, thumb tracing the bent edge of the cover. Then she opened it. 

A folded note slipped out, landing face down on the carpet. Her pulse jumped. She reached for it, slow, like it might disappear if she moved too fast– and unfolded it.

The lines of text blurred before she even finished reading them. She’d read these words before– enough times to know they’d still hurt anyway. Her breath hitched– she pressed her thumb hard against the paper like pressure might stop it from hurting.

After a moment, she folded the note again– neatly this time– and slid it back where it came from. She tucked the notebook back into the desk drawer, out of sight. Then she just sat there, hand still resting on the closed drawer. Her reflection in the darkened window looked back at her– faint, blurred by the city lights outside. Someone smaller than she remembered being. Finally, she stood, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, and whispered to no one, “Get it together, Zo.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. 

Zoey stayed there for a long moment, the echo of her own voice still hanging in the quiet. The room felt too full– with air, with memories, with the sound of her pulse thumping in her ears. Eventually, she stood and crossed to the nightstand, grabbing her phone, if only to give her hands something to do. The screen’s glow painted her face in a pale blue. A few notifications blinked up from earlier in the day– nothing urgent, nothing she wanted. Her thumb hovered over the messages app, as if to brace herself for some sort of impact. She opened the app, hesitantly, then scrolled down to Mira’s name. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment, typing out a message and hitting send before she could second guess herself. 

Zoey: hey theres an open studio night thing downtown. you should come with. paints, snacks, people. the holy trinity. 

It only took a few seconds for a reply to light the screen.

Mira: Hard pass. 

Zoey let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, half amusement, half disappointment. 

Zoey: wow.. didnt even pretend to consider it. bold choice.

Mira: I'm not the “art night” type. 

Zoey: youre barely even the “night” type. 

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared again. 

Mira: Have fun.

The text stung more than she wanted to admit it. She stared at the words, then locked the phone and set it down on her desk beside the forgotten drawing in front of her. 

The apartment was quiet again. Too quiet. After a long breath, she pushed herself to her feet, grabbed her jacket from the chair it had been hung lazily on, and slung her bag over her shoulders. Her reflection caught briefly in the mirror by the entryway– tired eyes, and a forced half-smile. “Fun,” she muttered to herself, testing the word like it might fit if she said it enough times. She stepped out into the hallway, letting the door close softly behind her.

The city had already set into its evening tempo– the low bustle of traffic, the buzz of streetlights flickering on one by one. The air was cold– sharp even– against Zoey’s cheeks, a reminder that she was alive. 

The Loft sat at the corner of a narrow block, its tall windows glowing amber against the gray. The faint sound of music and laughter spilled onto the street. Mystery was waiting outside, hunched in his usual half casual, half freezing stance, hands buried in his pockets. He grinned when he saw her.

“Wow. You actually showed up. I was fully expecting a ‘rain check’ text followed by radio silence.”

Zoey smiled– small, but real enough. “You’re lucky I like art more than socializing.”

“Tragic for me, considering this place is full of both,” he said, holding the door open for her. “You good?” She hesitated a fraction too long. 

“Yeah. Just a long day I guess.” Mystery didn't call her on it. He just nodded, his grin softening with something warmer. “Then you're in the right place. Nothing a little jazz and overpriced paint can't fix.”

Inside, the studio was already buzzing– half workshop, half gallery. Tables lined with canvases, jars of cloudy water, and splattered palettes filled the open room. The air smelled of acrylics and coffee, and someone had hung a string of warm lights overhead that made the whole space glow. They found an empty table near the back, tucked between a drying rack and a display of local prints. Mystery set his bag down and rolled up his sleeves with a theatrical sigh. “All right, Zo. What’s tonight's masterpiece? Abstract chaos or emotional breakdown disguised as color theory?”

Zoey laughed under her breath, grateful for the ease he brought with him. “Little bit of both, probably.”

“Good,” Mystery said, passing her a brush. “I brought snacks too. Fuel for artistic suffering.” 

For a while it was easy again. The wind outside faded into a faint hiss, blending with the sound of conversation and clinking jars. Zoey dipped her brush into a deep red, dragging it across the canvas in wide, uncertain strokes. Mystery hummed tunelessly beside her, working on something that already looked like it belonged in a student exhibition. Every so often he’d glance at her– not prying, just checking. And every time, Zoey would give him that practiced, reassuring half-smile that said, I'm fine. Don't ask. 

He never did. 

After a while, the heaviness that had clung to Zoey all afternoon had started to slip away. The studio buzzed with low chatter and soft music. Brushes clicked against jars, laughter drifted between tables. Mystery was in rare form, narrating his painting process like a cooking show host. 

“And here,” he said dramatically, dabbing at a streak of teal, “we witness the artist ruining an otherwise acceptable composition.”

Zoey snorted. “Bold of you to assume it was acceptable to begin with.” 

He clutched his chest. “Wounded. Truly.” The air between them was easy, the kind of rhythm that only came with years of friendship. Zoey dipped her brush into a warm yellow, blending it into a smear of orange that bled across the canvas like a sunrise. 

“You know,” Mystery said, leaning closer, “you look like a person again. I was starting to think the grayscale version of you was permanent.” 

Zoey rolled her eyes but smiled, soft and genuine. “I just needed to get out for a bit.”

“Mm.” He didn't push, but his gaze lingered, quiet concern written in his eyes. Zoey brushed another line of color across the canvas, letting her shoulders relax. The paint glowed under the lights. For the first time that day, she wasn't thinking about the message, or the drawer, or the ghost of what it meant. Just color. Just motion.

Then something shifted. The sound of the door opening barely registered at first– a faint scrape of hinges beneath the music. But something about it made Zoey glance up. A figure stepped inside, framed by the golden light from the hall. 

Mira. 

She stood out immediately– tall and lean, the kind of posture that looked instinctively composed. Her pink hair caught the amber glow, turning strands of it almost copper at the ends. The faintest wave framed her face, softening the sharpness of her jaw. Her brown eyes swept the room– clear, sharp, taking everything in at once, and yet there was always that flicker behind them, that distance that made her hard to read. She was still dressed from work– pressed slacks, a dark button-down tucked neatly into her waistband, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest she’d let herself unwind halfway. 

Mira looked completely out of place amongst the paint splattered tables and art students in thrifted clothes, and yet- somehow- she didn't. She didn't shrink from it or hesitate, she just stood there, quietly belonging in a way that made no sense at all. Her gaze found Zoey, and stayed, unwavered by the environment surrounding them. For a moment, the rest of the room dissolved– the chatter, the music, even Mystery’s running commentary. Zoey felt something twist in her chest, warm and unfamiliar. Mira wasn't supposed to be here. She’d said no. She’d chosen distance as she always did. 

But she’d come anyway.

Mira’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly when Zoey smiled– that small, hesitant thing that said you didn't have to come, but I'm glad you did. 

Mystery followed Zoey’s gaze and arched a brow. “That’s the terrifying roommate?”

Zoey didn't look away. “That’s her.”

“She looks… less terrifying than advertised.”

Zoey chuckled under her breath, "Don't let her hear you say that.” 

Mira crossed the room, calm and deliberate, until she stood beside their table. “You’re out late,” she said. Her tone was casual, but the faint crease in her brow said she’d noticed. 

Zoey set her brush down, trying to sound equally nonchalant. “You said hard pass.”

“I reconsidered.”

Mystery grinned between them, sensing the undercurrent instantly. “Welcome to the chaos. You painting or just here for moral support?”

Mira’s mouth twitched. “Observing.”

Zoey lifted an extra brush from the jar and handed it to her anyway. “Then observe productively.” For a moment, Mira only looked at it– as if the very idea of holding something that wasn't a pen or a coffee cup required mental adjustment. Then, reluctantly, she took it, moving to the empty seat beside Zoey.

“See?” Mystery said, grinning. “Teamwork already. You're a natural.”

Mira glanced down at the canvas. “Youre using six different shades of blue.” 

“That’s called expressionism,” Mystery said, mock-offended. “Ever heard of it?”

Mira’s eyebrow arched. “Expressionism doesn't mean color anarchy.”

Zoey tried to suppress a laugh but failed, nearly snorting out loud. “Color anarchy,” she repeated, teasingly. “You sound like an art teacher who failed a student for smiling too loud.” 

Mira’s lip curved, just slightly. “Then maybe I'd have failed you first.”

Zoey pretended to gasp. “Rude.”

Mystery leaned closer to Zoey, whispering, "She's flirting.”

Mira’s eyes flicked to him, sharp enough to silence him instantly. “She’s observing,” Zoey corrected. 

“Sure,” Mystery murmured smirking behind his brush. 

The three of them fell into a strange sort of rhythm after that. Zoey and Mystery filled the air with half serious artistic debate, and Mira added dry commentary in between– never quite blending in, but never stepping away either. She sat close enough for Zoey to smell the faint trace of her perfume– something clean and understated, like linen and rain. At one point, Zoey leaned back to look at their canvas. “Okay, I think we’ve achieved something truly profound here.”

“Tragic?” Mira suggested.

“Exactly.”

Mystery tossed his brush down on the table, “A masterpiece of mutual delusion.”

Zoey laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, spilling into the corners of the room. Mira’s eyes flicked toward her, drawn by the sound before she could stop herself. For a brief second, the edges of her composure softened– not a smile, not quite– but something warm enough to make Zoey forget every other sound around them.

When the event started to wind down, Mystery drifted off to chat with someone from another table. Zoey lingered, rinsing brushes at the sink. Mira stood nearby, sleeves rolled just a little higher now, a faint smear of blue paint on the back of her hand– the only evidence she’d actually joined them.

Zoey nodded toward it, smirking. “You’ve been initiated.”

Mira followed her gaze, studying the small streak like it had personally offended her. “Fantastic.”

“You’ll live,” Zoey said softly.

Mira’s eyes lifted to hers. “Apparently.”

It wasn't much– barely a sentence– but it landed heavier than it should've. The air between them felt charged again, quiet but deliberate. Mystery called Zoey’s name from across the room, breaking it. She turned toward him, and when she looked back, Mira was already glancing away– like she’d caught herself standing too close to something she couldn’t name.

The air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain still trapped in the pavement. The streets glimmered under the glow of the streetlights, puddles catching bits of the city in fractured reflections. They didn't plan to walk home together. It just… happened. Mystery had peeled off toward the train, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and some teasing remark Zoey didn't quite hear. When she turned, Mira was standing beside her, hands in the pockets of her coat, gaze fixed somewhere ahead. 

For a while, they walked in silence– the good kind this time. Shoes scuffing lighting against wet concrete. The steady rhythm of their steps syncing without effort. Zoey glanced at Mira out of the corner of her eye, catching the sheen of the streetlights against her hair– strands of pale gold softening the edges of her sharp profile. 

“Didn’t think open studios were your thing,” Zoey said eventually.

“They’re not.”

“So why’d you come?”

Mira hesitated for a moment– a pause that felt like it carried more weight than it should. “Curiousity,” she said finally. 

Zoey tilted her head, “About art?”

“About you–” Mira said– too honest, too fast– and immediately looked away, jaw tightening. “And about why someone would voluntarily spend their Friday night surrounded by paint fumes.”

Zoey’s laugh broke through the air, quiet and genuine. “Good save.”

Mira’s lip twitched, glancing momentarily at the shorter girl before fixing her gaze ahead of her. “Wasn’t a save.”

“Sure,” Zoey said, smiling to herself as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. They turned onto their street, the city noise dimming behind them. The apartment complex came into view– lights glowing faintly from a few scattered windows. Zoey slowed a little as they reached the door, letting Mira step ahead to unlock it. “You know,” she said, voice softer now, “for someone who doesn't like chaos.. you didn't seem too miserable tonight.”

Mira pushed the door open, glancing at her over her shoulder. “I survived.”

“High praise.”

“Dont get used to it.”

Zoey smiled as she stepped into the apartment. “No promises.” For a moment, the door stayed open behind them– hallway lights spilling softly into the space before Mira closed it with a soft click.

The apartment was still warm when they stepped inside, the faint scent of paint and dish soap lingering in the air. Zoey dropped her bag by the door, toeing off her shoes before heading straight for the kitchen. “Im starving,” she said, rummaging through a cabinet. “Do we have anything that doesn't require adult supervision?”

Mira leaned against the counter, smoothing the crease in her sleeve before folding her arms. “Depends on your definition of edible.”

“So… cereal?”

“Cereal,” Mira confirmed.

Zoey shook her head playfully, pulling two bowls from the shelf. She poured without measuring– an avalanche of loops spilling everywhere. Mira reached for a dish towel automatically, catching stray pieces before they hit the floor. 

“Youre like a reflex,” Zoey teased, brushing her arm lightly against Mira’s.

“Occupational hazard,” Mira said dryly, but her tone had softened.

They ate leaning against the counter, the sound of spoons against ceramic echoing faintly in the quiet. For a moment, it felt domestic in a way that neither of them wanted to acknowledge– easy, steady, too natural for two people who had only just begun to know each other. 

When Zoey finished, she rinsed her bowl, humming under her breath again– the same low, wandering tune from the previous day. She glanced back at Mira. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

Mira met her eyes, then looked away just as quickly. “You’d have texted play-by-play updates if I didn't.”

Zoey grinned, leaning against the counter. “True.”

“Consider my attendance an act of self-preservation,” Mira said, rinsing her own bowl. 

“Uh-huh,” Zoey replied, smiling faintly. “Sure it was.”

Mira didn't answer, but there was a small, quiet curve at the edge of her mouth that had stayed even after Zoey turned toward the hall.

“Night, Mira.”

“Night.”

Zoey’s door shut softly behind her, the sound lingering like a breath the space didn't want to let out. Mira stood there for a while longer. Her gaze drifted toward the counter– toward the sketchbook Zoey had left there, its corner peeking out from beneath a pencil case. For a long moment she didn't move. Then she reached for it. 

The cover was worn, the edges smudged with graphite and paint fingerprints. She opened it carefully, half expecting the pages to feel off-limits. Most were quick sketches– city streets, half finished portraits, the occasional still life. But near the end, one page stopped her. It wasn't like the others. The lines were sharper, darker– frantic strokes that built into something heavy and unclear. Not a person, not a place, just raw shape and motion. The kind of image that looked like it had been pulled out instead of drawn.

Mira’s chest tightened.

She stared at it for a long time before closing the book again and setting it exactly where it had been. Her eyes flicked toward Zoey’s closed door, just visible down the hall, a faint crack of light glowing from underneath. For a second, she almost moved– half a thought toward knocking, saying something.

But she didn't.

She just stood there, the weight of what she hadn’t said pressing harder than she wanted to admit.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled faintly of butter and coffee– warm, lived-in, the kind of scent that lingered in the air long after the pan had cooled. Morning light pooled against the floorboards in pale stripes, catching on the edges of paint jars sat on a coffee table. Somewhere under it all, a soft melody hummed through the speaker on the counter– one of Zoey’s weekend rituals. She liked when the space felt like this– quiet, but not empty. Like the place had learned her habits and grew comfortable in them.

Mira leaned against the island, half awake, hair pulled back in a low ponytail that had started to come loose. The old gray T-shirt she wore was creased from sleep, the hem brushing against the waistband of her joggers. It was so unlike her work self– no precision, no pressed edges– that for a moment she almost looked like she belonged here. 

At the stove, Zoey hummed along to the music, shoulder swaying just slightly. Her sweater hung off one side, paint stains lingered near the cuff. She was flipping something in the pan– french toast, the edges just shy of burnt but golden enough to smell like comfort. 

“You’re awake early,” Mira said finally, voice low, still rough with sleep.

Zoey turned, grin half-formed, wooden spatula in hand. “And you're not in business casual. Miracles all around.” 

Mira’s lips curved as she slid into the stool beside her, "Don't get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Zoey said, sliding a plate toward her. “You want?”

Mira hesitated– she always hesitated– but the smell was warm and the space between them small. “Sure.”

Zoey tried to play it off, though the quick lift of her eyebrows gave her away as she reached for another plate. “That might be the fastest yes you’ve ever given me.”

“I’m trying new things,” Mira said, taking a sip of the coffee mug sat in front of her.

“Like what? Breakfast with people?” 

“Like breakfast in general.” 

Zoey laughed, the sound small but bright enough to fill the room. She plated her own slice, added a drizzle of syrup that immediately pooled along the edge, and slid into the stool beside Mira. The counter between them was a patchwork of coffee rings and crumbs, but neither of them seemed to mind. 

They ate there, shoulder to shoulder, bare feet against the cool metal of the seat beneath them, and the soft hum of the music that filled the air. The silence wasn't awkward– just easy, which seemed pretty rare lately. 

Zoey broke it first, tapping her fork gently against her plate. “You know, I think we’re getting good at this.”

“At what?”

“Existing in the same space without you flinching every time I breathe.”

Mira gave a slow blink, pretending to think. “Debatable.”

Zoey grinned into her coffee mug. “Progress though.” 

“Sure,” Mira said, but her tone was softer than her words.

When Zoey brushed past her to grab a napkin, her shoulder grazed Mira’s arm– a faint passing touch that neither of them acknowledged. Mira’s breath caught just enough for her to notice it, but she turned back to her mug before the moment could hang.

“Big plans today?” Zoey asked, still pretending the contact hadn't happened. 

Mira shook her head. “Errands. Laundry. The thrilling stuff.”

Zoey leaned an elbow on the counter in front of her, turning her attention towards Mira beside her. “Exciting. I was gonna get groceries. You should come. Could be fun.” 

Mira raised a brow. “That’s a bold claim.”

“C’mon,” Zoey said, voice dipping into something between playful and earnest. “You need sunshine. You're starting to blend in with your laptop.” 

Mira exhaled through a quiet laugh, the kind that surprised her as it left. “Fine. But you're pushing the cart.”

“Obviously,” Zoey said, smiling. “Wouldn’t want to mess with your system.” That earned a real smile this time– barely there, but it stayed. Mira reached for her keys, and Zoey was already pulling on her jacket. 

The drive was quiet at first, comfortable. Zoey leaned her forehead against the cool window, watching the city blur past in muted streaks of color. Mira’s hands rested steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. A song played low through the speakers– something soft, guitar and static– and the air between them felt easy in a way neither of them had noticed happening.

At a red light, Zoey glanced over. “You always drive this carefully?”

Mira’s mouth curved faintly. “You always narrate everything you see?”

“Occupational hazard,” Zoey said, smiling into the glass. The light changed, and the car rolled forward again. 

The rest of the ride passed in an easy rhythm– quiet music, passing streets, sunlight flickering through the windshield. When Mira pulled into the parking lot, Zoey was already halfway out of the car before it had fully stopped. “Impatient much?” Mira said, locking the doors behind her.

“Efficient,” Zoey corrected.

The automatic doors sighed open, letting in a rush of cold air that smelled faintly of detergent and citrus. The bright lights hit them all at once– too sharp after the soft morning outside. Zoey reached for a cart, the metal wheels squeaking in protest as if it knew what it was in for. “Look at that,” she said, grinning. “I’m a woman of my word.”

Mira slipped her hands into her coat pockets, trailing beside her. “Let's see if that still holds when you run over someone’s foot.”

“Your confidence in me is so flattering,” Zoey said, steering sharply toward the produce section. She stopped by the strawberries, leaning forward to inspect them like she was selecting fine art. “See? Grocery shopping can be fun. Instant serotonin.” 

Mira raised an eyebrow, amusement written across her face. “You’re basing that on fruit.”

“Yeah,” Zoey said with mock pride. “And yet here you are, willingly in public with me.”

Mira hummed quietly. “A lapse in judgement.”

They walked slowly along the lines of fruit, Zoey stopping over a pile of apples, inspecting them closely. “You can tell a lot about someone by how they pick fruit, you know,” she said absently.

Mira tilted her head. “How so?”

“Like you go for the symmetrical ones, right? No bruises, perfect shape.”

“Obviously.”

Zoey nodded like she’d proven a point. “Control issues.”

“And you?” Mira asked.

Zoey picked up one with a dented side, holding it up between them. “I like the ones that look a little messed up. More personality.”

Mira studied her for a second too long before replying, "You're projecting onto fruit.”

“Maybe,” Zoey said, smiling faintly, “But at least I'm self aware.”

They turned down the next aisle– cereal, pasta, snacks– the cart filling with contradictions. Zoey hummed under her breath as she walked, bumping the cart into Mira’s hip once, deliberately. 

“Watch it,” Mira said, steadying the cart automatically. 

“Sorry,” Zoey said, not sounding sorry at all. 

The hum of the store filled in the quiet– muffled conversations, beeping scanners, the hum of a refrigerator unit somewhere nearby. Every few steps, Mira would grab something practical– olive oil, rice, cleaning supplies– and Zoey would immediately offset it with something unnecessary. Ice cream. A candle shaped like a cat. A box of cereal that looked like pure sugar.

“Those cancel each other out,” Zoey reasoned. “Healthy and unhealthy. Balance.”

Mira gave her a look, "That's not how balance works.”

“Sure it is,” Zoey said, tossing another item into the cart. “Just depends on your definition.”

They rounded a corner near the bakery, and Zoey slowed, distracted by the smell of fresh bread. “You ever noticed how grocery stores always smell like comfort and capitalism?”

Mira raised a brow. “That's… a combination of words.”

Zoey grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

Mira shook her head, but there was that tiny shift again– the corner of her mouth softening, her shoulders relaxing just enough to betray her amusement.

When they reached the checkout, Zoey insisted on unloading the cart herself. “I need to contribute something,” she said, stacking items on the conveyor in no particular order. Mira followed behind her, rearranging everything into neat, organized rows. 

“You have a system for this too?” Zoey asked.

“Efficiency.”

“Uh-huh,” Zoey said, fighting a grin. “It’s adorable that you think that's a normal word.”

Mira didn't rise to it– just handed her a paper bag when the cashier finished ringing them up. Their hands brushed, and it was barely a second, but Zoey’s breath caught before she masked it with a small laugh. 

Outside, the sunlight had softened, the afternoon stretching wide and golden across the pavement. The cart wheels clicked rhythmically as they crossed the parking lot. Zoey was the first to break the silence. “That was almost… domestic.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Mira said, unlocking the car.

Zoey laughed as she loaded the bags into the backseat. “Too late.”

Mira shot her a look, but the edges of it didn't hold– not really. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet you keep hanging out with me anyway,” Zoey said, closing the door with a soft thud. 

Mira paused, one hand still on the door handle, a hint of a smile flickering before she caught it. “A lapse in judgement,” she said again, quieter this time. 

They got into the car, the scent of groceries filling the air– coffee, fruit, something floral from the cat candle Zoey refused to leave behind. For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside buzzed– horns, laughter, life– but inside, it was just them. 

The ride back was quieter, softer somehow. The late afternoon light cut through the car windows, flickering gold across their faces as the city passed by in muted colors. The grocery bags rustled in the back seat, every turn making them shift and settle. Zoey leaned her elbow against the window, chin in hand, watching the world drift by. “You ever notice how grocery stores have this weird time warp thing? You go in at noon and come out at dusk like you just survived a trial.”

Mira’s mouth twitched. “You spent fifteen minutes debating which granola to buy. That's not a time warp– that's user error.”

“Excuse you- flavor profiles are important,” Zoey said, half turning toward her.

Mira shot her a look. “You bought the same one you always do.”

“Consistency is part of my charm,”  Zoey said, smiling. “You’d miss it if I ever changed.”

Mira didn't argue, but her expression softened– a rare, quiet kind of acknowledgement. “Maybe.”

When they got back home, Zoey dumped the grocery bags onto the counter with a dramatic sigh. “Okay that's enough adulting for one day.”

Mira began unpacking immediately, lining up items in neat rows. “We still have to cook.”

“Or,” Zoey said, leaning against the counter, “We could be spontaneous and eat somewhere that doesn't involve cleaning dishes.”

Mira hesitated, glancing toward her like she was waiting for a punchline. “You’re suggesting dinner out?” 

“Scary, I know.” Zoey grabbed her phone. “But there's that little diner near campus– the one with the flickering sign that makes it look like its perpetually haunted.”

Mira exhaled through a laugh. “You’re really selling it.”

“Come on,” Zoey said. “It’ll be fun.” 

The diner’s windows glowed subtly against the fading light, their reflections ghosted by passing headlights. Inside, it smelled like coffee and old linoleum– the kind of place where the waitstaff knew everyone by face, if not by name. They took a booth near the window, the table slightly sticky from whoever had been there last. Zoey slid into the seat opposite Mira, chin resting on her hand. 

“This feels… ordinary,” Zoey said after a moment, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Like, next thing you know we’ll be fighting over whose turn it is to buy paper towels.”

Mira smirked faintly. “I don't fight over paper towels. I win.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

The waitress came by, dropping off two menus with practiced disinterest. Zoey didn't open hers. “You look like a soup-and-salad type,” she said.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “And you look like someone who forgets to order until the waitress is already walking away.” 

“Okay, that happened one time.”

They ordered– sandwiches, coffee, something simple. Conversation drifted in and out of silence. The clink of cutlery filled the space between them until Zoey spoke again, her tone lighter than before. 

“So… the mysterious consultant. What do you actually do when you disappear into spreadsheets for hours?”

Mira stirred her coffee, not looking up. “Mostly damage control.”

Zoey tilted her head. “Sounds dramatic.”

“It's not. Just messy people and money pretending to be logical.”

“Spoken like someone who secretly loves it,” Zoey said. 

Mira’s lip curved faintly. “You think I love chaos that much?”

“I think you like fixing it,” Zoey said softly. 

Mira didn't respond at first– just looked at her, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “And you?” she asked finally. “Why art?”

“Because nothing else made sense,” Zoey said, smiling faintly. “When I was a kid, drawing was the only thing that made things… quieter. I didn't really grow out of that I guess.”

Mira nodded slowly, her expression gentling. “That makes sense.”

They ate quietly after that, but it wasn't an awkward quiet– more like the kind that came from two people who had stopped trying to fill every silence. Outside, the city pulsed in soft amber light, car headlights sliding across the window in slow motion. 

When they left the diner, the air was cool, carrying the smell of rain still clinging to the pavement. They walked side by side, their steps syncing naturally. Zoey pulled her jacket tight around herself. 

“Thanks for coming,” she said finally, her voice low. 

Mira looked over at her, expression unreadable but soft at the edges. “You’d have dragged me either way.”

“Maybe,” Zoey said, smiling. “But you came without a fight.”

“Consider it personal growth,” Mira said. Zoey laughed, the sound bright against the night. For once, Mira didn't look away– just let herself smile back. 

The apartment was dim when they got back, the soft hum of the city filtering through the windows. Mira dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and slipped off her shoes with a sigh that was half exhaustion, half contentment.

“Feels later than it is,” Zoey murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Mira followed her into the kitchen, setting the paper bag of leftovers on the counter. “Probably because we spent half the afternoon arguing over cereal brands.”

“Healthy debate,” Zoey said, pulling out the takeout container and popping it open. “Democracy in action.”

Mira huffed under her breath, the sound almost a laugh. She reached for two mugs from the shelf. “Tea?”

Zoey nodded. “You really are trying to turn me into you.”

“Not possible,” Mira said, filling the kettle. “You talk too much.”

“And you think too much,” Zoey shot back, hopping up onto the counter while Mira moved around the kitchen. The motion between them was easy– practiced, like they'd done it a hundred times before without realizing it. The water hissed softly, the air thick with the smell of mint and chamomile.

When Mira handed her the mug, their fingers brushed– barely, but enough for both of them to feel it. Zoey looked down quickly, pretending to blow on her tea. “You know,” she said after a beat, voice quieter, “You’re… different when you're not working.”

Mira looked up from her mug, one brow lifting. “Different how?”

“Less… structured,” Zoey said, searching for the right word. “Like you remember what air is.”

Mira huffed a small breath through her nose– not quite a laugh, but close. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

Zoey glanced up at her, the smile fading into something softer. “You don’t really let people in, do you?”

Mira blinked, caught off guard. “That’s a bit of a leap.”

“It’s just an observation,” Zoey said, tracing her finger along the rim of her mug. “You watch everyone like you’re collecting data. You listen, but you don’t really… offer much back.”

Mira’s jaw flexed, her eyes flicking briefly toward the window. “That’s not on purpose.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Mira said after a pause, quieter now. “It’s easier to understand people when you’re not trying to be understood at the same time.”

Zoey studied her for a moment, the faint reflection of light catching in her eyes. “That sounds lonely.”

Mira’s mouth curved just slightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s efficient.”

Zoey let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, not arguing– just letting it sit between them. The kettle clicked as it cooled, the only sound for a long stretch.

Then Zoey said, “When I was little, I used to draw on the backs of homework pages. My mom hated it. Said it looked messy.”

Mira looked over. “Did you stop?”

“Not really. I just started hiding them better,” she said, smiling faintly. “Guess some habits stick.”

Mira’s gaze softened, her thumb brushing absently along the side of her mug. “And now you make a living out of the mess.”

“Trying to,” Zoey said. “Some days it feels like I’m getting there.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy– it was warm, tentative, threaded with the quiet rhythm of understanding.

When Zoey slid off the counter, her bare feet padded lightly against the floor. She set her mug in the sink, half-empty, and turned toward Mira. “You know,” she said, “You’re not as scary as you act.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Scary?”

“In the ‘intimidating, mysterious stranger’ kind of way.”

Mira tilted her head slightly. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Accurate, though,” Zoey said, smiling. “You’re just good at pretending you don’t care as much as you do.”

Mira went still for half a second, then looked away, setting her mug down beside Zoey’s. “You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe,” Zoey said, her tone light but knowing.

She hesitated like she might say more– but didn’t. Instead, she smiled softly, half tired, half something else. “Goodnight, Mira.”

Mira nodded, watching her disappear down the hall.

When the door clicked shut, the apartment fell back into its usual stillness. The tea had gone cold. Mira stood there for a moment, eyes lingering on the spot where Zoey had been– the counter, the faint ring her mug had left, the trace of laughter that still clung to the room.

She exhaled slowly, reaching to turn off the light, and for the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel quite so empty.

Chapter Text

The apartment had learned the shape of their days. A thin, steady calm had settled over everything– coffee stains ghosting the countertop, a blanket permanently draped over the arm of the couch. Weeks had a way of smoothing the edges off a place, and this one felt softer now, like a shirt worn enough times to forget it was new. 

Mira sat at her desk, the door to her bedroom cracked open, the lamp throwing a clean circle of light across her notes. She wasn't working, not really. She had an open spreadsheet she’d already read twice and a cluster of emails she’d starred and then un-starred because the color was more distracting than the content. Her thoughts ran a small circuit and came back empty. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe ticked as it cooled. A car outside exhaled its bass through the window. Normal sounds. Safe ones. 

A phone started ringing just as she told herself to refocus. Not hers– Zoey’s, muffled and insistent from across the hallway. She didn't look up at first. Zoey got calls. People like her. Friends, gallery assistants, the occasional commission inquiry that made her eyes flash bright. Mira tracked the tone of things more than the content. You learn, when you manage disasters for a living, to listen for the weather before the rain. 

A click. Then Zoey’s voice, distant, the shape of one word indistinct and then another, the cadence too quick for casual. Mira’s hands hovered over the keyboard but didn't move.

“--no, I heard you.”

Not loud, but sharp. That was new. Zoey rarely sharpened at people; she softened. She filled the air with laughter, with gently angled teasing, with questions that made you feel like you were interesting when you were being boring. Sharp meant cutting through something that wanted to stick. 

The email in front of Mira had become a distant thought. She rose before she had even finished deciding to, the chair legs rasping softly against the floor. The lamp’s halo collapsed behind her as she slipped into the hall. 

The living room was dim– the kind of evening dim that made outlines of furniture. Zoey’s door was half open, the light from inside pooling just enough to silver the edges of the floorboards. Mira stopped at the threshold without stepping in, not eavesdropping so much as trying to put a shape to the air.

“Mom– please–” There was a pause that meant to hold back the rising argument at once. “I'm not having this conversation again.” 

Mira’s chest went tight in the way it sometimes did around sirens. An old reflex, maybe. Not fear. Readiness. Her hand braced lightly on the doorframe. 

“I’m not– no. I'm not calling Rumi.” Zoey’s voice punched through the quiet and then thinned again, like she'd realized the volume too late. “Were not– why would you even–”

The rest of it tumbled and blurred, but the names were bright enough to give the rest context. Rumi. A family that pushed, or prodded, or pretended. Mira could fill in the blank spaces there. It didn't matter which script they were using– major, money, girls, just be easier, we know what's best– she knew the rhythm of it. People talked to their children like they were puzzles with missing pieces, then wondered why everything rattled.

Another pause, longer. Zoey tried to laugh and didn't make it halfway, "I'm not unhappy,” she said, and the words skidded, catching something Mira couldn't see. “Can you just– can you please stop making this mean–” her breath hitched quietly but with an edge that made Mira step forward without meaning to.

There was a kind of boundary in the doorway, and she had crossed it.

Zoey was curled up at the side of her bed, knees up, phone pressed to the side of her face like it was the only thing holding her together. Sketchbooks were spread messily across her desk, a box of pastels open and bleeding a fine dust onto the surface. She’d forgotten to clip her hair back, a dark strand stuck damply to her cheek. Her eyes were bright and glassy in the way that comes just before, not after. She looked smaller seated like that, like the room had grown. 

“I– yes, I'm listening.” A swallow. “I am.” Her free hand gripped the edge of a sketchbook hard enough to bend the corner. “I just– I need to go. Mom, I need to–”

Mira couldn't hear the other voice. She didn't need to. Something in the back of her brain tried to sort the moment into steps. Step one: interrupt the call. Step two: triage. Step three: stabilize with tea, coffee, something warm. But that part of her was loud at the wrong times. This wasn't a pipeline with levers; this was a person.

Zoey’s eyes flicked to her and away just as fast, but Mira had seen the hurt that lingered in her expression. She shook her head– not at Mira, at the air. “I have to go,” she said into the phone, then again without waiting for permission. “I have to go.”

Whatever her mother said last didn't land softly. The call ended with a mechanical click that sounded too loud in the small room. 

“Zoey,” Mira said softly, stepping carefully into the room. 

Zoey turned her head sharply, startled. Her eyes were glassy, wide, furious– not at Mira, but at being seen like this.

 “Go,” she said, the word more air than voice. 

Mira froze, hesitating for a moment, deciding whether to comply or push. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I– just go.” Zoey wiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist, smearing a dark streak of paint across her cheek. “I'm fine,” she said again, too fast, too sharp. “It's just– God, Mira, please– just go.”

The tremor in her hands betrayed her before her voice did. She pressed her palms to her eyes like she could hold herself together by force. A sound clawed up her throat– half sob, half curse– and she pushed back against the bed frame as if she could disappear into it. 

“You shouldn't have to see this,” she said, louder this time. “You shouldn't–” The sentence collapsed into air. “I said go!” She surged to her feet too quickly, catching the corner of the desk with her hip. The impact jarred a cup of brushes. It toppled, clattering against the floor, paint water bleeding dark through the rug. 

Mira didn't flinch. She’d seen anger before, but this wasn't anger– it was something fragile attempting to protect itself. Mira didn't move. She couldn't. The sight of her– the trembling, the tightness in her shoulders, the way she kept trying to fold herself smaller– something about it pulled at her ribs.

“You’re not fine,” Mira said quietly.

“I am.” The words cracked as Zoey finally shifted her gaze toward Mira. “I just need–” she dragged in a breath that hitched halfway through. “I need a second. I can't–” Her hand came up like a wall, palm out. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you pity me.”

“I don't," Mira said. She didn't raise her voice. “I just–”

“You just what? Want to fix me? You can't." Zoey’s voice rose, brittle and uneven. “You can't fix this, Mira! You can't fix me!” She was pacing now, one arm wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together. “You think I don't try? Every day I try to be someone they can stand to look at. Someone that doesn't make people uncomfortable just for existing!”

The words broke apart around tears. “I've been fine for weeks,” she said, choking on it. “I've been painting and cooking and pretending this– this life– is working, and one stupid phone call and it's like everything inside me just–” 

The sentence hit the wall and cracked on its echo. She shoved the mess of sketchbooks away. They slid off the desk and spilled across the floor like cards. One hit her knee and bounced. She barely flinched. 

“Zoey–”

“Stop saying my name like that!” she was crying now, openly. The sound was jagged, helpless. “Like I'm– like I'm some project you can manage!”

Mira knelt without asking, heart thudding. “I'm not managing you,” she said. “I'm–” She reached out, then stopped an inch away, afraid to push too far. 

Zoey pulled her knees tight against her chest, burying her face against them. “You don't get it,” she choked, "They'll never see me as anything but a mistake that can still be corrected. And Rumi. That’s their favorite. As if– as if the only version of me they were ever interested in was the one that made them look like they weren't wrong about who I should love. Like if I just reached out, I could still be the version of myself that they could love again.” 

Her voice broke fully.

“And I hate that part of me still wants them to.” Zoey sank to her knees before Mira could reach her, both hands gripping her hair, shoulders shaking. “They’ll never see me as anything but wrong,” she whispered, voice shredded. 

Mira’s throat tightened. The urge to touch her was almost physical now. She settled for lowering herself onto the rug in front of her, close enough for their knees to almost brush.

“You don't have to do this alone,” she said softly.

Zoey’s head jerked up, eyes red, furious. “Don't you get it? That's why I want you to go! Because if you stay, you'll see– and you'll run like everyone else.”

“I won't run,” she said, and meant it in a way that surprised her as it settled in her mouth.

Zoey turned her face away. “I don't want you to change your mind about me.”

“I haven't made up my mind,” Mira said before she could soften it into something polite, and Zoey let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh if she had remembered how. “I mean,” Mira amended, gentler, "I'm still learning you. This is part of the map.” 

That broke something. Zoey inhaled sharply, then the fight went out of her all at once– like her body had burned through every reserve. She made a small, strangled sound and folded forward, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook.

Mira shifted down beside her on the rug, the fibers imprinting a faint pattern into her knee. She moved instinctively, catching Zoey before she could retreat. Zoey resisted for a moment– hands pressing against Mira’s side, weakly, like she still wanted to maintain the wall– but the resistance faltered under its own exhaustion.

“I've got you,” Mira murmured, voice steady. “Can you do something for me?” she asked, quietly. “Just breathe with me for a minute. In for four, hold for two, out for six.” 

Zoey made a skeptical noise, but she followed along. It went badly for the first three tries– her inhale snagged, the exhale shot out too quickly. Mira counted anyway, her voice barely there. On the fourth try, something caught in rhythm. In for four. Hold. Out slower than it wanted to be, like smoothing a crumpled sheet. Again. Again. The room changed shape around the sound. 

“I hate that it works,” Zoey muttered. 

They stayed like that until the edges of Zoey’s shaking softened into simple exhaustion. She blinked, slower. The furious red that had climbed high on her cheeks receded a shade. 

Mira let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. “Okay,” she said, almost to herself. “Okay.”

Zoey rubbed her palms on her jeans as if she were trying to wash paint off with friction alone. The smear on her cheek had dried into a soft blue thumbprint. Mira wanted, suddenly and irrationally, to wipe it away, but touching her face felt like an intimacy they hadn't earned while everything was this raw. 

“Can we get off the floor?” Mira asked after a moment, gentler this time. “It's trying to fuse with my bones.”

Zoey huffed what might have been a laugh if she hadn't been so tired. “You make a compelling medical case.”

Mira held out her hands. Zoey stared at them like they were a test and then took them, not gracefully. Mira anchored her weight and pulled, letting Zoey rise at her own pace. She was lighter than Mira expected and heavier in all the places that counted– limbs leaden with the aftershock, head bowed with the kind of ache that starts in the chest and migrates.

“Up,” Mira said, a soft joke to keep the world simple for one more second. They maneuvered together, an awkward tangle of knees and carpet and breath, and then Zoey was sitting at the edge of the bed, and then she was leaning back against the headboard, and Mira was there too because moving away felt like breaking something delicate they’d only just managed to put down.

The bed dipped under their combined weight. The headboard was cool against Mira’s shoulder blades. She registered, with a little clarity, that she’d left her door open and her lamp on, but that none of it mattered. 

Zoey exhaled. It sounded less like breaking this time and more like emptying. Her hands worried at the blanket, and then stilled, fingers pinching the fabric lightly like she needed the texture to remember where she was.

“Do you ever wish you could be easier?” Zoey asked, eyes fixed on the fabric in her fingers. “Like you could just… fold where people want you to fold and not feel it?”

Mira watched the shadow of the ceiling fan crawl slowly along the wall. She considered telling the truth and did. “Sometimes,” she said. “But it never works when I try. I just end up being difficult in a different direction.”

At some point, their arms had aligned along the same plane, upper arms warming where they accidentally pressed together. It was such an ordinary point of contact, yet her body couldn't ignore it. She could feel, suddenly, the heat of Zoey’s skin through cotton like a memory. She was aware of all her joints at once, of the shape of her ribs under her T-shirt, of the exact distance between their hands on the blanket.

Zoey shifted. There was a small, brave uncertainty to the movement, as if she were testing gravity. She tipped her head sideways and let it rest on Mira’s shoulder. 

Mira went still the way a deer goes still– everything flaring wide and silent. The reflex to move away flashed like heat under her skin, trained and immediate,  but she didn't obey it. She breathed. In for four. Hold. Out for six. 

Zoey’s hair tickled her jaw. The weight wasn't heavy. 

“I can move,” Zoey murmured, voice already drowsy around the edges of exhaustion. “If this is–” 

“It's fine,” Mira said, the word coming out too fast, and then again, softer, “It's fine. Stay.”

Zoey made a quiet sound that wasn't quite relief and wasn't quite disbelief. Something in the shape of both. She let herself settle. Her breath brushed Mira’s collarbone in a rhythm that Mira tried and failed not to count.

The quiet wasn't empty. It was dense, layered with small noises: a neighbor’s music as distant as weather, the building’s plumbing humming like a throat clearing itself, a car door somewhere below them thudding shut with a muted finality. In the room, there was the rasp of fabric as Zoey’s fingers finally released the blanket, the slow and uneven return of breath to normal. Mira’s heartbeat calmed by degrees, like easing a car down from the highway.

She looked straight ahead and told herself that she was inventorying the room because it was what she knew how to do. The lamp on Zoey’s desk had been left on, a ring of tired yellow. A half-finished sketch leaned against a teacup that threatened to fall; she’d fix that later. On the dresser, a postcard from an exhibit Mira pretended not to have Googled sat tucked into the edge of the mirror. There was a small nick in the headboard at shoulder height. She was making a map again. She always made maps when she didn't know what else to do.

Zoey breathed out longer. Her body gave up one last tremble, and then none. Mira felt the exact second the tension left her shoulders. It made something in Mira’s chest squeeze, painful and sweet.

You should say something, the managerial part of her whispered. A reassurance. A plan. She searched the mental catalogue and found nothing that would crack the quiet open and let the cold in. 

She adjusted instead– barely, carefully– so that Zoey’s head had a better angle against her. It was such a small decision. It felt, to her, like a hinge. She let herself think about everything she wasn't supposed to think about. Not in sentences, exactly. In impressions. The way Zoey’s mouth telegraphed jokes before she made them. How she narrated grocery stores like documentaries. The defiant softness with which she loved flawed things on purpose. The inexplicable way the apartment sounded different when Zoey wasn't in it– a quiet that had edges. 

She didn't name any of it. 

“Mira?” Zoey’s voice was too soft to be anything but reflex, like a name against sleep. 

“Mm?”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and there was no space left to make the usual deflection. Not necessary. Not a big deal. Don't worry about it. The thanks landed and stayed.

“You're welcome,” Mira said, and felt the words thread themselves into something that would last longer than the night.

They stopped talking altogether after that. It wasn't silence so much as permission to stop performing. The city did its slow breathing outside the window. The lamp hummed. Somewhere in the building, a door closed and then opened and then closed again, a distant stutter that didn't reach them.

Zoey’s head grew warmer where it rested. The dried paint on her cheek would leave a faint smudge on Mira’s T-shirt; Mira hoped it did. Proof of contact. She could wash it in the morning. She wasn't even really thinking about the morning.

This, she realized, was the first time in a very long time she wasn't planning her exit while she was still in the room. She wasn't planning her next steps at all, really. 

She thought of how she’d found Zoey on the floor and how her body had moved before her mind made a case for it. She thought of all the scaffolding she’d spent years building– the boundaries, the controlled expressions, the preemptive strategies to avoid needing anyone for anything– and how none of it had been even slightly useful here. What had mattered was the simplest thing. Stay. 

Zoey’s breath evened into her sleep. The weight of her head changed in the way sleep changes weight, subtle and absolute.

Mira stared at the nick in the headboard until it blurred and then came back into focus. The room smelled faintly of acrylic and something floral from Zoey’s shampoo. Her arm had gone from alert to warm to tingling, a slow progression her body would complain about in an hour if she let it. She didn't move. 

She imagined, briefly, what it would look like from the hallway if someone walked past and saw the two of them like this– saw the bed, the proximity, the care that might be mistaken for something else. The thought felt less like embarrassment and more like a recognition that she wasn't ready to hold up to the light. She let it pass for now.

A low creak in the building’s bones made it sound like the place was settling deeper into itself for the night. The lamp remained warm at the edge of her vision. She wondered if the dried paint smudge would print a faint mirror on her shoulder, like a little accidental signature. She liked the idea more than she meant to.

Zoey made a small sound– a dream shifting under water. Mira’s hand moved before she could judge the movement, smoothing a wrinkle from the blanket near Zoey’s chin. Nothing more. The kind of touch that says I'm here without asking for anything back. 

If anyone had told her that all she’d have to offer in a moment like this was the discipline to remain still, she would’ve doubted it. She was a fixer. She strategized. But staying was harder than fixing, she realized. It asked her not to reach for what made her feel capable, but to choose what made Zoey feel safe. 

The thought should have felt noble,  but it felt ordinary, and that made it mean more. 

Outside, a siren threaded through the night, fading off into the distance. A car alarm chirped twice, apologetic. Mira’s eyes prickled with the tiredness that arrives not when you stop moving but when the person beside you finally does. 

She angled her chin down, careful not to disturb the weight at her shoulder. Zoey’s eyelashes lay dark against her skin. Mira was suddenly, intensely conscious of the line between the part of her that catalogued details and the newer part that wanted to keep them.

She let the catalogue win for now. It felt safer.

Somewhere between one breath and another, the room’s quiet stopped feeling like something that might break and became something holding them up. The lamp hummed. The building breathed. Mira stayed where she was and didn't measure the time. This feeling asked for presence, not minutes.

The phone that had started all of this lay facedown on the floor beside her, like a small, silenced animal. It would ring again some other day. People didn't change scripts because you hated the story. But that was a problem for a day with more distance in it.

Mira lifted the edge of the blanket and tugged it higher, not enough to keep. Zoey settled into the ridge of her shoulder with a tiny sigh that Mira felt in her bones more than she heard with her ears. 

She didn't think about leaving.

The city thinned itself to the hour when streets belonged to trucks and runners and people who had decisions to make. The light from the desk lamp guttered once like it wanted attention and then remembered it didn't matter. Mira let her head rest lightly against Zoey’s hair and closed her eyes, not to sleep, just to be inside the same darkness for a minute. 

The paint would wash out, or it wouldn't. The nick in the headboard would still be there tomorrow. The call would mean what it meant, and they would not solve it tonight. None of that asked anything of her right now. All the moment required was the thing she’d already chosen to give.

She stayed. 

Chapter Text

The studio always smelled the same. Turpentine in the vents, heat trapped under clamp lights, a sweet undertone of dust and paper that never fully left no matter how many times the place was swept. Late afternoon pressed itself against the tall windows in slanted bars, laying pale rectangles across the concrete floor. Taped X’s ghosted every other tile– old installation maps that outlived the projects they once anchored. Someone’s bluetooth speaker clicked and failed to connect, then surrendered to silence. It was probably better that way.

Zoey rubbed a thumb along the edge of her canvas. Paint lived under her nails no matter how long she stood at the sink. Today, it was a soft Payne's gray tucked into the half moons, a yellow that looked like it had once been happy. She had stopped trying to scrub it all. She liked the proof. 

On the lower table she’d claimed, brushes stood in a mason jar, their tips splayed into familiar bad habits. A rag lay folded beside the jar. She tugged it to straighten the crease and told herself she wasn't stalling. She was respecting surface tension. There was a moment right before critique, always, where time felt stretched thin over a wire. Like if you touched it wrong, something bad would happen.

Her earbuds rested around her neck like a loose necklace. She’d been murmuring along earlier– lyrics learned by repetition, not faith– until the room got crowded enough with voices that her mouth forgot to pretend. People were here with their families– dads in polo shirts pretending not to read the price lists, moms wearing their good necklaces and serious nods. The sound of them gathered at the far end came in waves, praise poured into the shape of questions, questions poured into the shape of feedback. Zoey watched it crest and break from her quiet island and tried to keep her breath where it belonged. 

The sweatshirt she wore didn't belong to her. She knew because it didn't slouch where hers slouched, didn't stretch where she stretched it. The cuffs were intact. The collar sat properly, as if instructed. Mira’s. Borrowed, technically. A casualty of laundry timing. It had the same scent Zoey had become familiar with– nothing fancy, just clean. A soft, reliable scent that made the room feel comfortable. She had told herself it wasn't a big deal when she pulled it on. It warmed her shoulders and made her feel a certain sense of security she’d grown fond of. “Not a big deal,” she had told herself again when she looked in the mirror and saw her own face soften a few degrees. 

Her phone buzzed where she’d left it, face down near the blue tape and staple gun. Group chat: Mystery was already roasting their professor’s “critique voice” (a nasal drone, he claimed, like an air conditioner that had opinions). A campus alert came through after that, and then a calendar chime she ignored on principle. The screen went dark. A beat. It buzzed again. Unknown number. She didn't move. 

“Are we allowed to lean these against the wall until rotation?” a first year asked from somewhere to her left, hugging a canvas like it might jump.

“Yeah,” Zoey said without looking up. “Just not on the baseboards– they’ll smudge your whites.” She realized she sounded like a person who actually knew what she was doing and felt fraudulent, but comforted by the line of her own voice. She set the panel upright on its easel and stepped back two paces to where she’d always stood for the first read. Too close and she’d overcorrect edges. Too far and she’d pretend not to see the things that are wrong.

The panel looked like it had been dreaming of water and then remembered it didn't know how to swim. Thin veils layered over graphite scaffolding, a transparency that invited the eye and then refused to resolve. She had chased this feeling for weeks: quiet– not as absence, but something with shape. The negative space did most of the work, which felt like cheating and also like the truest sentence she could write with paint. 

Her phone buzzed again. The same unknown number. She turned it so the camera lens looked at the ceiling and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. Balanced, she thought. Not fixed– never the right word– but steadier. The hum in her ribs that used to speak in static had been lowering its volume lately, like someone in the other room remembered there were people here trying to sleep. Mira’s voice sometimes carried into that other room– maybe that was part of it. Not the words– Mira rationed words like salt– but the evenness. How her presence didn't crowd the air. 

Zoey slid her brush into the jar and watched the rinse water bloom faintly gray. “Don’t be nervous,” she told herself under her breath, the way her figure-drawing instructor used to. She pressed a palm lighting against the canvas’s corner to test tack. The top glaze stayed tacky, not wet– like if she touched it with the wrong softness it would lift. If she touched it with the wrong certainty it would scar.

Her earbuds buzzed again with a half-connection. She let them die. Somewhere at the far end, someone laughed in a way that clearly meant nerves. The professor’s shoes clicked, a metronome crossing the room, followed by the murmur of names being checked against a list. The clamp over Zoey’s station hummed so faintly that it felt like a trapped insect. She tilted it a degree warmer and watched the panel’s blues fall into themselves. 

Unknown number again, sharp against her table– a small vibration that shook the mason jar a millimeter to the left. She exhaled, long, a stream she could see in her head like breath on a cold day, and left it. She could ignore calls. She’d been ignoring calls since she was fifteen and learned that you could survive not picking up.

“Hey.” Mystery’s voice popped up at her shoulder. He was chewing something– always– and wearing a hoodie with an ironed-on joke from a club Zoey had never seen him attend. He tipped toward the canvas. “Your negative space is flirting with me.”

“That’s weird,” she said, grateful for the easy tether. “Don’t flirt back. It gets clingy.”

He snorted. “You good?”

“Yeah.” She was surprised by how much truth sat comfortably inside the word. “I’m good.”

He wandered off to tape a placard straighter on a classmate’s wall. Zoey’s left hand found the hem of the sweatshirt and folded it. Unfolded. Folded. She let the fabric sit smooth. The seam at the wrist bore one tiny loose thread she’d noticed when she put it on, but she didn't pull it. She liked that the sweatshirt had the audacity to be almost perfect and then not.

Her phone buzzed. Not a vibration this time– a ring. Sharp, insistent, the old ringtone she hadn’t bothered to change because she didn't want to admit there was anything in her life that deserved a different sound. “Unknown Number” lit the screen again, bright against the gray afternoon.

She glanced at the hallway door. No one was looking at her, not specifically. Crits had a way of making everyone selfish for a little while. She picked up the phone and thumbed it open, already calculating the moves: decline, block, or answer with the armor of indifference and hang up when the scripted cadence started– “Hello we’ve been trying to–”

“Hello?” she said, because sometimes she wanted to be braver than to decline.

A breath on the line. Not long enough to be creepy, but long enough to mean intention. Then, “Hey.” The voice was like sun-warmed honey poured slowly. Familiar. “Sorry to call out of nowhere. Your mom gave me your new number.” 

Zoey’s body knew the voice before her brain formed the name. Every small muscle between her shoulder blades went tight and pulled her posture straight like she’d been called to the front of the room. The studio seemed to step away in an instant. Her panel retreated. The clamp light’s hum all but silenced. 

“Rumi,” she said, barely audible into the phone. 

“Yeah.” A quiet laugh came through the call, “Hi, Zo.”

No one called her that anymore. The nickname slipped and stuck the way paint stuck to the back of your hand when you reached where you shouldn't. She didn't sit down, she didn't run. She pressed the corner of the rag into the rim of the mason jar to keep it from vibrating. 

“I– your mom said you've been working on a new series,” Rumi went on, her voice still soft and careful, like she didn't want to interrupt something sacred. “Painting about– everything.”

The words landed warm. Rumi always had a way of making simple things sound like they mattered. Zoey stared at the panel’s lower left corner, where a wash she’d pulled too quickly last night had dried with a hairline mark. She’d decided to keep it. Of course Rumi would notice– even from a distance, she thought to herself. Of course she’d still see her. 

“It's the senior crit,” Zoey said, a beat of confidence restored in her voice. “I can't really–” 

“Right, right. I know.” Rumi’s tone softened further, something like a smile hidden in it. “I just wanted to say I'm proud of you. You sound… different.” 

Different how? Zoey’s throat tightened before she could form the question. The sweatshirt’s collar touched the skin at her neck and reminded her of warmth. She stood exactly where she had been standing before the phone rang and felt the whole world lean slightly toward that voice.

“Thanks,” she said, and hated how small the word sounded on her tongue. She could hang up, but something deep inside didn't want to. 

“So,” Rumi continued, “maybe we can talk after? I'm around. I'd love to– catch up.”

Catch up. It sounded harmless, like sunlight through a window you hadn't realized you missed. Zoey looked down and realized her right hand had found a brush and pressed a hair-flat line of the same gray into the panel along the place where two translucent fields met. She hadn't meant to touch it. The line shivered and settled into a soft, unwanted edge. Now wet. Impossible not to see. She didn't move.

“I– uh, ye– I gotta go,” she said, because the alternative was saying something that would pull her backward. “They’re starting.”

“Okay,” Rumi said, gently. “I’m proud– really.”

The call ended with a small click. The studio’s air rushed back into shape, like it had been waiting outside the door to be invited in. Zoey kept the phone to her ear a second too long, then set it down face up without meaning to. The screen held her reflection, thin and distorted. The brush in her hand left a faint smear where she didn't want it. Her breath climbed her throat and shifted halfway. She glanced at the smear.

She stared until the hum of the clamp light separated back into a sound and not a feeling. Her fingers shook exactly as much as it took to make the bristle tremble. Enough to write something she’d have to live with. She didn't lift it. She let the mark exist and told herself she’d decide later if it was a mistake or the thing the painting was missing.

From the doorway, a familiar shadow fell long across the concrete, clean lined and steady like a ruler set down beside everything that had just gone crooked. Zoey didn't turn yet. She knew who it was by the way the room calmed around the silhouette. 

The voice in Zoey’s ear still echoed long after the call ended. It lingered– not loud– just steady– the kind of sound that didn't stop when you hit “end call.” It buzzed under the noise of the room, under the scrape of metal easels and shuffling of paper, like her body hadn't realized it should let go yet.

She set the brush down, bristles first, and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. The paint smear she’d made on the panel was already drying in uneven streaks– an accidental shadow that didn't belong, but couldn't be undone without wrecking the whole layer. She stared at it too long, trying to decide if that counted as honesty.

“Everything okay?”

The voice came from behind her, low and even. Mira.

Zoey blinked, her heart skipped the half-beat that separates solitude from company. When she turned, Mira was leaning lightly to one side, a hand in her pocket, the other holding a thermos. Always that same stainless steel one– the one she’d brought everywhere like a small ritual.

Her presence was quiet, but complete, the kind that made the edges of a room feel sharper, steadier. Mira’s hair was half tucked behind her ear, a few strands having slipped free. Her expression didn't ask much, but her eyes– those rich brown ones that never seemed to miss anything– had already clocked something off. 

“Yeah,” Zoey said quickly, a reflex more than an answer. “Fine. Just– pre show nerves.” She smiled, and it felt like pressing a wet fingerprint onto glass– it left a mark but didn't hold shape.

Mira nodded once, the sort of acknowledgement that didn't quite believe her but didn't call her out either. “You forgot lunch,” she said, taking a couple small steps toward Zoey.

“I didn't forget,” Zoey said, though she probably had.

“Uh-huh.” Mira unscrewed the thermos and set it on the table beside her. “Drink. It's the good kind.”

Zoey smirked subtly. “You have a bad kind?”

“The one you make.”

“Wow,” Zoey said, feigning offense. “Confidence in your roommate, zero.”

“Just observational accuracy.”

Zoey rolled her eyes, taking the thermos anyway. The lid was still warm, a soft curl of steam fogging up the rim. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and something citrus– Mira's idea of balance, probably. She sipped and let it sit on her tongue a moment longer than necessary, the heat grounding her, dragging her back into the present.

Across the studio, the professor was rearranging chairs in preparation for critique. Canvas edges thudded softly against walls, and students’ voices blended into one restless current. Zoey could feel Mira’s eyes on her for a second longer than casual observation allowed. 

“You don't have to stay,” Zoey said finally, setting the thermos down.

“I know.”

“But you will anyway.”

Mira’s mouth curved at the corner– not quite a smile, more an acknowledgement of the obvious. “Someone has to make sure you eat after.”

Zoey huffed under her breath. “You sound like my mom.” 

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Do I?” 

That pulled a real smile from her– thin, but real. “Less nagging. More… efficiently concerned.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” Zoey said softly.

The room started to settle– voices lowering as everyone found their seats, the professor clapping once to get attention. Mira lingered near the back wall, arms crossed loosely, content to fade into the edges. Zoey turned back to her panel. 

The brushstroke she’d ruined was still there, darker now that it had half-dried. It wasn't catastrophic, but it felt like proof of something she couldn't explain. Rumi’s voice had been soft, careful. “Proud,” she’d said. Like she still knew her- and that hurt in a way that didn't make sense, because it wasn't supposed to.

She glanced toward Mira again, who had found a spot by the windows, half shadowed by the afternoon light. Calm. Constant. The sort of stillness that didn't need to be disrupted.

It should have been enough to breathe steadiness back into her, but Zoey could still feel that small tremor in her fingers when she picked up her brush. Like her body remembered something she hadn't given it permission to recall. 

“Alright, everyone,” the professor called out, “let's start.” 

The sound drew her forward, back into motion. Zoey straightened, wiped her palms once more, and positioned herself beside her easel. Mira’s gaze flicked toward her– a silent anchor in a sea of noise– and Zoey let out a breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding. 

The critique began with the usual shuffle– students rearranging chairs, the professor’s voice carrying over the scrape of metal against concrete. Zoey barely heard any of it. Her own pulse filled her ears, constant but a touch too loud. It always was– right before she had to talk about herself in public.

They started down the lines of easels: polite nods, jargon that sounded rehearsed, the occasional forced laughter. Each student offered up their work like a confession disguised as a statement of intent. Zoey tried to listen– she always did– but her focus slipped in and out, catching only fragments. Gestural confidence. Visual rhythm. Negative space as a narrative. 

When her name was called, she felt her stomach cinch. She stepped forward anyway. The panel looked different now under fluorescent lights– flatter somehow, every layer visible in ways she hadn't planned for. That one misplaced brushstroke still glistened faintly, refusing to dry.

She cleared her throat. “Uh… this piece is part of a larger series,” she began, the words coming out thinner than she wanted. “It’s about… transparency, I guess. About how you can see through something and still not know what's underneath.”

Her professor tilted her head thoughtfully. “And what's underneath here?”

Zoey hesitated. She hated when people asked that like there was an answer. “Maybe… the part that doesn't want to be seen.”

A few students nodded. Someone scribbled notes. Zoey’s fingers tightened around the hem of the sweatshirt, twisting the fabric in small circles. Rumi’s voice– I'm proud of you– echoed again, soft and undeserved. Proud of what? For moving on? For pretending? For building something she couldn't show her?

“Your color balance is stronger than last term,” the professor said, gesturing toward the left half of the canvas. “You’ve learned restraint. But there's an intimacy here that wasn't present before.”

Zoey blinked. “Intimacy?”

One of her classmates, a girl named Ji-yoon, who always managed to have paint on her sleeves, spoke next. “Yeah. It feels… confessional. Like someone's looking in instead of out.”

The words hit too closely. You've been painting about everything. Rumi’s voice. The same phrasing, even the same cadence. Her chest tightened as if someone had pulled a string through her ribs. She wanted to laugh it off, to say something deflective– “that’s dramatic” or “maybe it’s just overexposed lighting”-- but her throat locked. 

Her gaze flicked automatically toward the back of the room. Mira stood where she’d been before– arms crossed, posture relaxed, but her eyes found Zoey’s instantly. Just a small glance. Steady. A tether. It wasn't a rescue– it was permission to breathe.

Zoey drew in a slow breath through her nose, trying to quiet the static. “I think…” she said, forcing her voice to even out, “I think it's less about confession and more about… letting things show through, even if they weren't meant to.” 

Her professor hummed in approval. “Transparency in honesty, then.”

“Something like that.”

She gestured toward the translucent blues bleeding into each other. “Sometimes you add too many layers and it muddies everything. Sometimes it makes the color truer. I'm still figuring out which this is.”

The class nodded along. Someone murmured something about emotional depth. Zoey smiled– small, automatic– but she could still feel that single brushstroke behind her, refusing to dry, catching the light in all the wrong ways. 

The conversation drifted onward– talk of composition, proportion, the tension between structure and instinct– but it all blurred into white noise. She heard Rumi in every pause: I'd love to catch up. You sound different.

Different how?

The professor finally moved on to the next student. Applause followed, polite and brief. Zoey stepped back, her body remembering how to exhale.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mira uncross her arms. Just a fraction of a movement, subtle, enough to break the droning hum in Zoey’s head. Mira’s expression didn't change from before, but the smallest tilt of her chin said, “You did fine.”

Zoey nodded to no one in particular, pretending to take notes in her sketchbook. Inside, she was still replaying Rumi’s voice– gentle, almost loving, threaded with all the things she hadn't learned how to unhear.

Her hand brushed the edge of her canvas again. The misplaced stroke had dried. She pressed her thumb against it anyway. It felt rough beneath the pad of her finger, like a scar. 

The critique ended the way they always did– too many people talking at once, chairs scraping against concrete, someone laughing too loudly to make the silence after feel comfortable. Zoey gathered her things slowly, brush by brush, as if precision could make the weight in her chest less sharp. The air smelled faintly of varnish and paper– thick, chemical, and clean- all at once.

She needed air that didn't taste like feedback.

Zoey slipped her phone and sketchbook into her bag, nodding through the goodbyes that weren't really meant for her. The hallway outside was colder, washed in the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights. The echo of the studio followed her halfway down before the door swung shut, sealing it off. 

She found the stairwell more by instinct than choice– the same one she’d retreat to a dozen times before when her head got too full of sound. The concrete walls were cool enough to press her back against, grounding. The hum of the building filled the silence in low, mechanical breaths. She sat halfway down the steps, elbows on her knees.

“You left this behind.”

Mira’s voice came soft, almost level with the echo of the stairwell. She was standing two steps above her, a faint shadow cutting through the gray light. She held the thermos out, and Zoey took it, fingers tightening around the metal.

“Thanks.”

Mira descended quietly, each step placed like a decision. She didn't sit right beside her– left a small, breathable gap. Close enough to share the space, far enough not to press.

Zoey tried to sip but the tremor made the rim clatter against her teeth. Mira reached out– slowly, carefully– and steadied it, her fingers supporting the metal instead of taking it away. Her hand didn't cover Zoey’s, it framed it, steadying the tremor without taking control.

“Here,” she murmured.

Zoey exhaled, long and shaky. The warmth of the tea bled through both their hands. She focused on that– the small circle of heat, the weight of shared stillness. 

After a beat, Zoey slid her hand down slightly, her fingertips finding Mira’s wrist. She didn't know why she did it– maybe to prove something still moved steadily somewhere. Mira didn't pull back. The pulse under Zoey’s fingers was calm, unbothered by the mess of her own heartbeat.

She matched her breath to it– inhale, exhale, keep pace. 

After a long moment, Mira turned her hand over, palm open. A small invitation. Zoey’s fingers slipped naturally into the space there, resting lightly, as if afraid to test the offer. 

“You did fine,” Mira said quietly.

Zoey’s mouth curved into something resembling a smile. “I was honest,” she whispered back.

“That’s harder.”

They let the quiet stretch between them. It didn't ache this time– it just existed. The sound of the building, the faint hiss of the air vent, the muted buzz of someone’s conversation two floors above– it all folded into the shape of peace. Zoey stared at her hand. The smudge of paint from earlier– gray-blue and uneven– had dried along the inside of her palm. Rumi’s voice flickered somewhere in the back of her mind, soft and familiar: I'm proud of you. She wondered if the paint would wash off later. 

“Someone from before called,” she said finally, the words falling out small.

Mira didn't move. “Do you want to talk about it or pretend it didn't happen?”

Zoey let out a weak laugh, shaking her head. “Both.”

“Okay.”

That was all. No more questions, no reaching for pieces Zoey wasn't ready to hand over yet. Just okay. 

They sat that way for a while, shoulder to shoulder, the distance between them dissolving as the minutes passed. The world outside the stairwell carried on– doors opening, voices drifting– but in here, it was just warmth and quiet awareness. 

Zoey’s head found Mira’s shoulder before she realized it was happening. The fabric of Mira’s coat was smooth against her cheek, smelling faintly of clean air and coffee. Mira didn't pull away. She adjusted slightly, enough to make room for the weight.

It reminded her– suddenly, vividly– of that night. The one she didn't let herself think about too often because it still ached. The night she’d fallen apart on her bedroom floor, voice breaking against words that didn't even sound like her own. How Mira had stayed through all of it. Not talking her down, not fixing it, just staying.

Zoey remembered the sound of her own sobs, how raw and too loud they'd felt in the small space. How she’d told Mira to leave, again and again, because the idea of being seen like that had felt unbearable– but Mira hadn't moved. She’d sat on the floor beside her, steady as gravity, letting Zoey come undone without trying to gather her back up too soon.

And then– when Zoey’s body finally gave out, when she’d folded in on herself and couldn't make words anymore— Mira’s arms had been there, unflinching. Not a cage, not even comfort in the usual way, just a quiet boundary against the dark. She’d held her through it as if she was something breakable, but worth handling anyway. 

Zoey had felt something shift in her that night. Not fixed, not healed– just… known. Like someone had read the parts of her she didn't even realize were visible, and hadn't looked away. 

Now, sitting here in the stairwell, her head on that same shoulder, she could still feel her heartbeat underneath the surface. Familiar. Patient. A reminder that Mira didn't fill silences, she gave them shape. 

The tremor in Zoey’s hand finally stopped. She breathed in slowly, out slower. Her fingers loosened around the thermos.

Somewhere against the concrete, her phone buzzed again. An impatient sound. She didn't move at first. When she did, it was only to flip it over.

Rumi (1 missed call)

The light from the screen painted a pale reflection on her wrist. For a moment, Zoey just looked at it– the name, the familiarity, the ache that didn't know if it wanted to stay or go. The ghost of Rumi’s voice seemed to hum under her skin, the same soft reassurance that used to sound like love.

She locked the screen and set it facedown on the step beside her. The smudge of paint on her palm caught the light- dull, dry, but still there.

Mira shifted beside her, just enough for their shoulders to press more fully together. Neither of them spoke. Zoey closed her eyes. For once, she didn't try to chase the noise out of her head. She let the silence hold her instead– trying to replicate the way Mira’s hands had been that night. Her pulse evened out against Mira’s. The paint stain stayed.

Chapter Text

The apartment hummed with the kind of quiet that didn't come from peace, but from pause. Outside, rain thinned itself against the windows, slipping down the glass in crooked lines that caught the last bit of daylight and broke apart. The air smelled faintly of paint and black tea, an odd mix that had somehow become hers. The radiator ticked in soft irregular beats, keeping time with nothing. 

Zoey stood near the easel, one hand hovering over the canvas, the other clutching a brush like it was a question she hadn't decided how to answer. The painting looked halfway alive, halfway abandoned– smudges of gray and faint yellows that didn't quite speak to each other. Her wrist ached from indecision. Every movement she made felt rehearsed, like she was pretending to be someone who still knew how to create instead of someone trying to remember what that used to feel like. 

The studio critique from the day before hadn't left her head. Confessional. Someone looking in instead of out. The word confessional had sounded like both praise and accusation– the kind that made you want to apologize for honesty. She’d smiled when they said it, nodded like she agreed, but something in her chest had recoiled. It hadn't stopped since. Now, even alone, she could still feel their eyes somewhere over her shoulder.

Her thumb brushed absently across the smear of gray paint still marking her palm– the one she hadn't washed off after the critique. She’d tried, but it had settled deep into her skin, like it wanted to stay. The color looked different in this light, softer, almost blue. She told herself she kept it as a reminder. Of what, she didn't specify.

The apartment was too still. Every small sound expanded to fill the space– the hum of the fridge, the click of a pipe, her own shallow breathing. It used to calm her, that quiet. It used to mean she was safe. Now it felt like waiting– like the silence was holding its breath, listening for something to happen.

Mira wasn't home yet. The absence didn't bother her, not really, but it drew a shape anyway– a faint outline pressed into the air, made of small domestic ghosts; the neatly folded blanket on the couch, the mug drying by the sink, the sweatshirt she still hadn't given back draped over the chair. The scent of Mira’s detergent still clung to it– clean, warm, something like cedar. It steadied her for a second before she made the mistake of noticing it.

She set the brush down, ran a hand through her hair, and looked back at the canvas. The paint hadn't moved without her. It never did. She could feel the day shifting toward evening– the light dimming into that gray-blue lull before lamps turned on. It pressed against her skin in a familiar, weightless way. Like the moment before confession, before contact, before everything broke the surface. 

Her phone sat on the counter beside a mug she hadn't finished, the tea had gone cold enough to film over. The screen stayed black until it didn’t– until that small square of light bloomed against the dim kitchen, cutting through the stillness like it had something important to say.

Rumi (1 missed call)

It had been there since yesterday, a quiet badge she hadn't dismissed. She told herself she was keeping it as proof of restraint– that not answering meant progress. But progress had a strange way of feeling a lot like hesitation when you were alone. The longer she looked at the name, the more the silence between them started to feel rude. 

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Delete. Ignore. Forget. Each option sounded decisive in theory, but none of them felt kind. That was the problem– Rumi had always been careful in her tone, soft enough that guilt could hide inside the edges of politeness. It made pulling away feel like meanness, like walking out of a room without saying goodbye.

Zoey exhaled through her nose, small and steady, and before she could change her mind, she typed: 

Zoey: hey sorry i missed your call yesterday. its been a minute.

The message looked too short, too careful. She added a period, deleted it, then added it again. When she finally hit send, her chest felt tight in the same way it did right before a critique– the part where everyone was still looking but no one had spoken yet.

The sound of rain filled the pause. It wasn't loud, but it was there– every drop a tiny tick against the window, marking seconds she couldn't take back. She flipped the phone facedown and returned to the easel. The brush felt wrong in her hand. Too tight, too blunt, too… something. She told herself she’d give the text five minutes. Just five. Enough time to start a stroke, enough time to pretend she didn't care.

The five minutes lasted maybe thirty seconds.

The phone buzzed once. The sound cracked through the room, clean and deliberate, like a string snapping. She didn't mean to check it immediately, but her hand moved before her thoughts caught up.

Rumi: Hi, Zo. I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk. I'm really glad you did. 

Zoey’s stomach flipped at the nickname. No one called her that anymore. Zo. It lived somewhere private, somewhere soft, like a page from a past she’d folded down instead of tearing out. She didn't correct it, though. She couldn't. The sound of it in her head felt like warmth sneaking in under a door she thought was closed. 

Her thumb hovered again– she didn't know what to say that didn't sound like too much or too little. Finally:

Zoey: it’s okay. how’ve you been?

The reply came fast, the typing bubble fluttering like breath:

Rumi: Busy, mostly. I started a new job– art admin work, it's dull but it pays. Your mom mentioned you've been showing again. That's amazing. I'm proud of you. 

There it was again– proud. The word landed softly, but it still burned. Zoey read it three times. Rumi always knew how to sound genuine– like she’d been waiting to care this whole time. She typed something noncommittal, deleted it, then tried again: 

Zoey: yeah.. the semester’s been wild.

She almost added you'd like the new pieces, but that felt like stepping too close to something she wasn't supposed to want. 

Rumi’s next message blinked before she’d even set the phone down. 

Rumi: Been thinking about those old paintings lately. The ones you did in our place. You always captured light better than anyone I know. 

Zoey’s pulse tripped over itself. Our place. The phrasing slid through her like a memory she hadn't invited. She laughed quietly under her breath– the kind that didn't reach her face. “Don’t start,” she muttered to no one. 

She smiled anyway. It was stupid. She told herself it was harmless. Just two people catching up. Just art talk. 

The phone buzzed again. 

Rumi: Would it be weird if I called? Easier than typing. 

Zoey froze, thumb hovering again. Her heartbeat felt too loud– a dull, rhythmic knock behind her ribs. She stared at the question until the blue light on the screen dimmed. Then she stared at her reflection in the black glass– tired eyes, the faint paint streak still ghosted on her skin, a sweatshirt that wasn't hers. 

Would it be weird?

Probably. 

But what if it wasn't? 

Her thumb moved before she decided. 

The phone only rang once before she picked it up. The sound cut through the room like a blade through cloth– clean, quiet, inevitable. She hadn't realized how much she missed that tone, the faint rasp in Rumi’s breath before a word, the careful lilt that made everything sound like it was meant to be said gently. 

“Hey,” Rumi said. That was all it took. The air shifted, thickened. It was ridiculous how easily her body remembered the shape of that voice. Like a song she’d stopped listening to but could still hum from memory. 

“Hey,” Zoey said back, and hated how small it came out. She cleared her throat. “Sorry– I wasn't sure if you had my new number.” 

“I didn't," Rumi said softly. “Your mom gave it to me again. I hope that's okay.”

Zoey laughed once, because that's what she did when she didn't know what else to fill the silence with. “Yeah, no, it's fine. She gives out my number like party favors.”

Rumi laughed too, and the sound landed where it always had– a half-step above kindness, smooth enough to pass for comfort. For a moment, Zoey forgot she was standing in her kitchen. She leaned her hip against the counter, eyes tracing the streaks of rain outside. The city beyond the glass looked like someone had smudged it with their thumb. 

“I heard about your senior show,” Rumi said. “Your mom sent me the flyer.”

“Of course she did.”

“She said you've been painting about– well, about everything.”

Zoey froze just a little. The phrasing caught her off guard. She exhaled slowly through her nose. “I guess,” she said. “Kind of just… painting what I know.”

“That’s brave,” Rumi said. “You always had that in you. You just didn't believe it yet.”

Zoey felt her chest tighten at that. Not painfully– just enough to remind her there was still something in there that could respond. 

“I don't know if it's brave,” she said. “It’s just different now.”

“Different can be good,” Rumi replied, voice dipping low. “You sound different too. Happier.” 

The word “happier” hung there, gentle and heavy all at once. It shouldn't have mattered– but it did. Because Rumi wasn't someone who said things she didn't mean. Or at least, Zoey never thought she did. And the way she said it– quiet, like she’d earned the right to notice– made it land like truth. 

Zoey laughed again, a weak sound that barely passed for humor. “I don't know. Maybe.” 

“I’m glad,” Rumi said. “You deserve that. I always wanted that for you.” 

There was a pause. A long one. The kind where you could hear the breath on the other side, the small shift of fabric against a phone. Zoey didn't realize she was gripping her own sleeve until her fingers started to ache. 

“So, school’s good?” Rumi asked, voice softening again.

“Yeah,” Zoey said quickly. “Busy. A little chaotic. You know how critiques are.”

Rumi laughed– low, throaty, fond. “You mean how you are before critiques.”

“That’s fair.”

“You’d stay up all night repainting a corner because you didn't like how the light hit it.”

“I got better about that.” 

“Did you?” Rumi’s voice curved upward, teasing– but not unkind. 

Zoey smiled despite herself. “Mostly.”

A small warmth spread through her chest, the kind that pretended to be safety. She let herself believe it for a second. It was easier than fighting it. Rumi’s tone dipped quieter, more careful. “Do you ever miss it? The old place, I mean.” 

Zoey’s throat went tight. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “It was… it was a good space for painting.” 

“It was a good space for you.”

She didn't respond. The silence between them stretched thin– the kind of silence that remembered too much. 

Rain pattered harder against the windows. She wandered into the living room, phone cradled between her shoulder and ear, one hand tracing the edge of the bookshelf. The place felt smaller suddenly, as if Rumi’s voice had filled it, pressing against the corners.

Rumi spoke again. “I’ve been thinking about those old paintings– the ones with the window light. You used to sit there for hours, remember? You said it was the only place that ever looked honest.” 

Zoey closed her eyes. She could see it perfectly– the soft afternoon glare spilling across canvas, Rumi sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, sketchbook open but mostly forgotten. The world back then had felt… narrow, but certain.

She swallowed. “Yeah, I remember.”

“They were beautiful, Zo,” Rumi said. “You were beautiful.”

The words weren't meant as anything dangerous. Not here. Not now. But they still hit like something fragile she didn't know how to hold. Zoey tried to keep her tone light. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

Rumi laughed softly. “Sorry. Habit.” 

“It's fine.”

Another pause. Another long, patient breath. 

“Would it be weird if I saw you sometime?” Rumi asked finally. “No pressure. Just– coffee maybe? To catch up?”

Zoey’s pulse stumbled. “I don't know. Things are busy.”

“I know,” Rumi said. “You don't have to decide. I just… wanted to ask.”

It wasn't a demand. Rumi never demanded. That was the thing about her– she made everything sound optional, even when it wasn't. Zoey didn't notice that part. All she heard was softness. 

“Maybe,” she said quietly.

“Okay.” Rumi’s tone lightened again smiling through the word. “That's enough for me.”

They lingered there– both knowing the call should end, neither wanting to move first. 

“Hey, Zo?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I always believed in you, right?” 

The line went quiet after that, the kind of silence that left echoes behind it. Zoey stood in the middle of the living room, the phone still pressed to her ear, and for a long moment, it didn't feel like regression. It felt like remembering how to breathe. Zoey let the silence stretch a bit too long, the phone still warm against her cheek. Rumi’s words lingered– you know I always believed in you, right? – spoken with that careful softness that made everything sound true. 

Her mouth moved before her mind caught up.

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet, almost tender. “I know.”

It wasn't a lie. Not in the way she meant it. Once, Rumi’s belief had been the only thing that made her think she was worth anything at all. Maybe a part of her still held on to that. 

Through the rain, a sound interrupted; the faint rattle of a key in the lock. The click of the door. Her breath caught, like she’d been caught saying something she shouldn't have.

“I should go,” Zoey said quickly, straightening where she stood. “My roommate just got home.”

Rumi’s voice softened again. “Of course. I'll let you go, then.”

A beat. 

“I’m really glad we talked, Zo.”

Zoey’s throat tightened. “Me too.”

And she meant it. Or she wanted to.

The call ended with a soft click– but the silence it left behind was different this time. Heavier. Still warm from where the voice had been. 

Mira stepped through the doorway, shaking rain from her umbrella. Her hair was damp at the ends, jacket darkened from the weather. The apartment’s faint lamplight turned the wet fabric silver. She froze halfway out of her shoes when she saw Zoey, phone still in hand.

“You okay?” Mira asked, her tone even, the kind that didn't pry, but noticed everything. 

“Yeah,” Zoey said too fast. “Just– cleaning up.” Her voice sounded wrong even to her own ears, too bright. She set the phone face down on the counter.

Mira’s eyes flicked once to the screen before it went dark. Rumi’s name had still been visible for that half-second. She didn't comment. She just hung her umbrella on the rack, the sound of dripping water filling the silence between them. 

“Want tea?” Mira asked after a pause.

“Sure,” Zoey said, grateful for the lifeline of routine.

Mira moved through the small kitchen like she always did– efficient, quiet, every motion deliberate. The kettle filled, clicked on, began to hum. The scent of black tea and citrus began to push through the stale air, softening the edge of the moment. 

Zoey leaned against the counter, hands pressed flat to the cool surface. Her chest still felt off-balance, like two different rhythms were trying to live in the same space. Rumi’s voice echoed faintly somewhere behind her ribs, still warm, still present.

You sound happier now.

You deserve that.

The words nestled themselves into her like tiny, dangerous comforts.

Mira’s voice broke the thought. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” Zoey said. “Just tired.”

Mira nodded, not asking more. She poured the tea, and slid one of the mugs toward her. The ceramic was hot against Zoey’s palms. She focused on that– the heat, the small cloud of steam rising. Something solid to hold onto. 

From across the room, the rain began again– steadier now, a dull percussion against the windows. The apartment dimmed into that kind of evening where everything felt softer than it was. 

Zoey sat on the couch. Mira joined her after a moment, curling her fingers around her own mug, gaze turned toward the gray light outside. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the quiet hiss of the kettle cooling and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the other room. 

On the counter, Zoey’s phone buzzed once– a single vibration, small but sharp enough  to cut through the calm.

The preview lit the glass just long enough to read it:

Rumi: I'm really glad you picked up. I've missed your voice.

Mira didn't turn her head, but her voice came low. “You don't have to answer that now.”

Zoey blinked. “What?”

Mira nodded toward the counter without looking. “Your phone.”

“Oh.” Zoey swallowed, heat rushing up her neck. “Yeah, I know.”

Mira’s attention stayed on the world outside. “You don't owe anyone a response the minute they ask for one.” Zoey stared into her tea. The steam made the room look softer. Less defined.

“I know,” she said again, quieter– but she wasn't sure she did. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It just sat there, full of all the words neither of them needed to say.

Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, Zoey sat cross-legged on her bed with the lights still off. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the smell of wet pavement. Somewhere beyond it, the rain had slowed to a drizzle– the kind that barely made a sound, just shimmered when it caught the streetlight. 

Her phone glowed faintly on the blanket beside her, the last message still waiting.

Rumi: Made it home okay. It was really good hearing your voice again. Sleep well, Zo.

The words sat there like they were breathing. Zoey scrolled up through the conversation– the small talk, the half jokes, the careful nostalgia that felt almost medicinal. Each message read the same way Rumi had always spoken: deliberate, soft, just enough warmth to sound safe. 

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She wasn't planning to reply. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But she didn't delete it either. 

The thought of doing that– of removing the proof that someone had once said they missed her– felt almost cruel. Instead, she scrolled once more to the top and stopped there. Then, she tapped the screen twice– once to scroll, once to silence the thread. The blue light dimmed. Her reflection disappeared. She reached over and turned off the lamp. 

The dark settled in slow, wrapping the edges of her vision like watercolor bleeding into paper. The apartment was quiet again. That used to be her favorite part of the night– when the world finally stopped asking her to be anything– but lately, the quiet didn't feel empty. It felt crowded with everything she didn't say out loud. 

Through the wall, she could hear the faint rhythm of Mira’s footsteps in the other room– a soft, steady pace that moved like thought. It was grounding in a way Zoey didn't know how to name. She closed her eyes, and matched her breathing to it– slow and steady. 

In. Out. 

The air moved through her chest like it was relearning how to stay. Her fingers brushed against a dry streak of paint on her wrist– the same gray-blue that had followed her since the studio. It had cracked now, flaking slightly under her touch. She didn't wipe it away.

For a long moment, she just sat there, her palms resting on her knees, the phone still beside her like a half open door. She wasn't sure what she wanted– only that Rumi’s voice had left something humming inside her, soft and persistent, and that Mira’s steadiness had made it bearable. 

Outside, a car passed, its headlights sliding across the ceiling like moving water. Zoey’s breath evened out again. The quiet held her, not gently, but firmly– the kind of stillness that didn't ask her to explain herself. Her eyes drifted closed. The phone screen stayed dark. The paint stain stayed. 

Chapter Text

The door stuck for half a second the way it always did when the weather turned. Mira lifted it with her hip, keys still in the lock, and the apartment breathed out a warm, lived-in exhale that met her at the threshold; rain off the city, garlic turning sweet in oil, the faint citrus of a shampoo she did not own. Her shoulders, cinched into their usual commuter brace, loosened a notch without permission.

“Hey,” came from the kitchen– unforced, like the light above the stove that pooled yellow over chrome and a cutting board. Zoey didn't turn right away. She was swaying an inch off the beat to music from a little speaker– some soft guitar thing Mira had never requested, yet always wanted. Hair up, curls tamed by a claw clip that couldn't quite win, a smear of something green on her forearm. Basil, probably- the smell gave it away.

“Hi,” Mira answered, closing the door with her heel. Her voice came out lower than she expected, roughened by a day of not being asked for anything simple. She set her bag on the bench, coat on the hook, and stood a second with her palm flat to the wood– an old habit, making sure it latched. Control disguised as care.

Zoey reached for the pan, wrist loose, shoulders easy. The shirt she wore was unfamiliar in a way that tightened and softened Mira at once. It was Mira’s– ancient, washed to slate by a hundred laundries. A neckline that had once fit snug now slouched wide and soft against Zoey’s collarbone. She had “borrowed” it during some laundry stalemate and never returned it. Mira didn't ask. She told herself it was because the shirt fit the concept of house clothes better this way. That it had nothing to do with how it looked draped over a person who made rooms feel larger.

She diverted her gaze to the counter. Knife. Tomatoes beaded with rinse water. The condensation ring of a glass ghosted into the laminate. The apartment smelled like a promise and a trap– everything she wanted within arm’s reach, everything that could go wrong if she reached too quickly.

“You’re late,” Zoey said, not as an accusation. She flipped something with a competent clatter– gnocchi catching sauce, starchy and glossy.

“Subway decided to become a museum exhibit,” Mira said, stepping into the light. “Everyone stopped to admire it, not moving.”

Zoey’s mouth curved without looking up. “A living installation: Man Versus Train Schedule.” 

Mira came to stand behind her, leaving the exact amount of space that counted as polite in kitchens. “How long until we're supposed to be impressed?”

“Give it three stops,” Zoey said. “Or until I burn dinner and we order dumplings.”

“You won't," Mira said, and was surprised to hear certainty. She reached for the cutting board. “What do you need?” 

“Could you slice the cherry tomatoes? Halves. Maybe quarters for the big ones. Please don't make them all exactly the same shape.”

Mira lifted an eyebrow. “A personal attack.”

“An artistic constraint,” Zoey countered, bumping her hip against Mira’s– light, thoughtless. Mira’s body registered it with the care of a witness. “You can be precise tomorrow.” 

Mira washed her hands, the day sliding off in bands of water and lavender dish soap. The faucet thudded off, the room's small noises reemerged- the tin lid of salt as Zoey pinched and scattered, the faint scratch of the speakers cone when the volume nudged up, rain patting on a window across the space. She halved a tomato. The knife moved like a metronome. She slowed it on purpose. “How was studio?”
Zoey hummed a note that could mean three things. “Fine. Strange. Good.” she nudged the pan, tasting, fanning herself with the wooden spoon like it mattered. “Kendall said my blues looked ‘like a secret with manners-’ which is either a compliment or a cry for help. I don't know yet.”

Mira allied the corner of her mouth to move. “It’s efficient language.”

“Don’t infect her,” Zoey said. “I need at least one person there to keep their metaphors.”

Mira set the knife down, and slid the tomatoes into a small bowl. Her hand drifted and caught on a sprig of basil, thumb and forefinger stripping the leaves along the stem. Motion without thought; she’d watched Zoey do it enough to steal the habit. “Want me to toast the pine nuts?”

Zoey glanced over, surprised the way she always was when Mira assumed a step ahead. “Yeah. Back left. Don't let me talk over them and burn them.”

“I never let you burn anything,” Mira said, then wished she’d softened the pronoun. Ownership slipped out of her too easily at home. 

“Mm,” Zoey said. The sound had comfort in it that smudged Mira’s edges. “True.” Domestic choreography found them without discussion. Mira tipped the skillet to a low flame, coaxed the nuts to color. Zoey pivoted to the cupboard, reaching on bare toes even though Mira could have– and did– slide a bowl into her hand without letting the reach finish. Their elbows touched as the pass happened. Heat there, small and bright. Mira’s breath tripped, then pretended it hadn't. 

Zoey didn't pull away. The spark stayed between them as something shared, then polite silence gently smothered.

Music shifted– guitar, a woman’s voice she knew by now but never asked to put on. The playlist that meant Saturday morning or a Tuesday you survived. Mira could name the track order by the way the room felt at each transition. She realized that made her sound sentimental. She was simply cataloguing. That was different. She believed it when she thought it. 

“Wine?” Zoey asked, already opening the drawer where the corkscrew lived.

“Half a glass,” Mira said. “I have a morning.”

“You always have a morning.” Zoey’s smile tilted wry. “You should get a night.”

Mira wanted to say this is mine, but it felt like admitting too much out loud. Instead- “Red okay?” 

“Whatever doesn't taste like wood.” Zoey handed her the bottle and, for a slow second, their fingers tangled around the neck. Not a graze; a hold. Intention could be disguised as accident if you never looked directly at it.

Mira poured. They plated. The kind of meal that looked like it had a thesis without being precious about it– greens, gnocchi edged in gold, basil torn in large pieces because Mira had learned Zoey hated it cut fine. They carried their bowls to the table in the living room because neither of them wanted the formality of chairs tonight. 

“Please don't judge me for what I'm about to do,” Zoey said, and drowned her portion in parmesan. 

“An illogical quantity, but not criminal.” Mira said, sitting opposite. The couch sank them toward each other by design; the table between was low enough to encourage leaning.

They ate in overlapping quiet; the clink of fork to ceramic, rain soft as breath, a lyric Zoey mouthed without seeming to notice. Mira watched her do that and didn't say anything. She wasn't sure what would be revealed if she named how much she noticed. 

“You hungry-hungry or just… present?” Zoey asked, spearing a roasted cherry tomato. “Because I made enough to feed your bad mood too.”

Mira smoothed a napkin over her knee. “Present.”

“Good.” Zoey’s foot brushed her ankle across the couch and didn't apologize for it. “I like you present.”

The words landed where Mira had no padding. She felt the old reflex stir– deflect, categorize, call it a joke– but something steadier overrode it. “Me too,” she said, and heard how honest she sounded, which frightened her. The speaker skipped to a song Mira always stopped herself from naming. She took a sip of wine to give her face something to do. “You put this on on purpose.”

Zoey grinned into her glass. “I would never manipulate the mood.”

“You alphabetize playlists,” Mira said. “You manipulate the mood professionally.”

Zoey laughed, head tipping back a degree. A crescent of throat, the edge of collarbone, the shirt that used to be Mira’s sliding obediently with the movement. Mira’s brain lit up to a dozen conflicting places– want, warning, the muscle memory of restraint.

“Come here a second,” Zoey said, and Mira’s heart misread the invitation until Zoey’s hand hovered in midair, palm up. “There's sauce on your wrist. It's gonna stain the cuff.” Mira extended her arm. Zoey wiped the spot with her thumb. The contact should have counted as miscellaneous, one of a thousand domestic adjustments. It didn't. Zoey’s thumb lingered a second too long, as if to be sure, as if the certainty mattered more than the stain.

Mira did not move. Heat pooled and then pretended to be nothing. “Thanks.”

“Duty of care,” Zoey said, voice playful enough to distract both of them. She set the napkin down and pretended to focus on her bowl. Mira ate another bite she didn't taste. Contentment arrived in her chest like a guest who’d found the spare key under the mat– uninvited by rule, inevitable by routine. It was a problem. It felt like relief and like a trap simultaneously. She’d built a life around being useful, unshakeable, the axis other people rotated on. Nights like this pulled at those ideas from the inside, the way moisture weakened paper.

“Tell me something about work that wasn’t a disaster,” Zoey said, twirling a gnocchi like pasta.

“We had a meeting that ended on time.”

“Liar.”

“We had a meeting that ended ten minutes over. Progress.”

Zoey made the face of granting partial points. “Do they still rely on you to fix everything?”

Mira lifted a shoulder. “Define everything.” 

“That's a yes.” Zoey poked her bowl. “You should let them drown once in a while.”

“And watch?” Mira asked, the question too honest before she could blunt it.

Zoey’s eyes flicked to hers, soft. “Or let someone else play lifeguard for a shift.”

Mira did not know what to do with the image of standing on the shore while waves went over heads. Her job– her usefulness– was how she knew she had a right to stand anywhere. She cut the thought into pieces and arranged them in a line.

They wandered to other topics– Ethan’s latest cursed playlist title, the woman at the bodega who’d started calling Zoey “chef,” the plant on the windowsill that leaned like it had secrets– and the interlocking quiet between subjects carried them without effort. The apartment reduced to essentials: light, sound, comforting heat.

Mira reached for her glass when Zoey reached for hers, the same angle, the same timing, fingers colliding over air.  Not accidental by the calendar of the last few weeks, but unexpected for the moment. Both froze. Both half-laughed to themselves like it was the first day back on land after learning to swim.

“Sorry,” Zoey said, not sounding sorry at all.

“Occupational hazard,” Mira said. Her voice was steady; her pulse had lost the memo. She did not pull her hand back first. She watched Zoey do it– reluctantly, as if convincing herself to.

The spark stayed where the air had been warmed. Neither of them named it. Naming things made them real. Real made them breakable. 

Mira set her bowl down, almost empty now, satisfied with the line under her ribs. This– this was part of the night she could pretend was ordinary and therefore safe. Plates to rinse, mugs to fill, a show queued up they’d talk over and forget to finish. She could live in these tasks the way some people lived in prayers.

“I’ll do the dishes,” she said, already reaching for the bowls.

“We can do them,” Zoey corrected, standing. “Plural. Community effort.”

Mira wanted to argue the efficiency of division of labor. She didn't. She followed Zoey into the kitchen, hip brushing again on the turn around the island. The sink hissed to life. Shirts– hers and not-hers– bumped at the shoulder as if they belonged on the same hanger. The world narrowed to a rectangle of light on porcelain and hands.

She felt– content. There it was again, the terrifying word. It settled like a cat does, all at once and heavier than it looked. And just as she accepted it, just as her body believed in the gentler version of now, the phone in the other room buzzed once against the couch cushion. Neither of them moved. The song on the speaker changed. Steam rose off the plates. Mira rinsed a dish with care that did not match the object’s value and tried not to listen for a second buzz that would mean whatever she feared had also learned their timing. 

She did not blame the phone. Not yet. She did not blame Rumi; Rumi was a person in a fact set, not a ghost in a machine. She did what she always did when something wrong moved beneath a still surface- she checked her own reflection for the distortion. What did you do? Where did you press too hard? 

Zoey’s shoulder touched hers again, lighter this time. “You okay?” Zoey asked, as if it were Mira who had shifted. 

“Yes,” Mira said, and believed it for the length of a breath. “You?” 

Zoey smiled, quick and small. “I’m… here.”

It should have been enough.

Mira nodded and handed her the next plate. The snug hush of the room gathered around them again; with its good smells, steady rain and its simple, shared task. Contentment returned carefully, like a bird testing a ledge. For another few minutes, they existed exactly the way Mira had hoped– close enough to feel like a choice, quiet enough to pretend nothing fragile was at stake. And beneath it, the idea formed that maybe she could stay in this night if she did everything correctly. If she kept the edges neat. If she didn't let her hand shake. 

They finished rinsing the pans like they were wrapping up a ritual. Water off, towel folded, plates stacked to dry. It should have flowed seamlessly into the part of the evening where they drifted to the couch and pretended to watch something while actually watching each other out of the corners of their eyes.

Zoey’s phone buzzed again from the couch. 

A short, sharp vibration.

A second later, another.

Zoey’s shoulders went rigid before anything else did. She didn't look toward the phone. She held still like prey that had just scented the air, the spoon still dangling loosely in her fingers. Her breath snagged– not enough for most people to see, but Mira catalogued details for sport. And for survival. In the span of that single buzz, the warmth of the room cooled.

“I’ll–” Zoey started, too fast, wiping her hands on the nearest towel. “I’ll get that.”

Mira’s chest tightened without permission.

“I can grab it,” she offered gently, already stepping forward.

“No!” Zoey’s voice landed too sharp for the space they were in. She blinked after, as though hearing herself for the first time. Softer, forced casual- “No, it's okay. I've got it.”

She slipped around Mira– an accidental dodge that still stung– and headed for the couch. Mira noticed the way her fingers trembled before she closed them around the phone. Zoey looked at the screen for one second too long, a thousand miles away, though she stood only a few feet from Mira. Then she tucked the phone into her back pocket like she was afraid it might leap out and reveal something she wasn't ready to expose.

Everything in Mira wanted to call her out. Everything wiser in her insisted she didn't have that right. Rain tapped faster against the window, as if the weather had leaned closer to listen. “You okay?” Mira asked. Not a drill. Not a script. 

Zoey nodded. “Yeah. Just– just the studio group chat. They're chaotic. Probably a war about color theory again.” The joke was crooked. A puzzle piece forced into the wrong spot. 

Mira tried a small smile anyway. “I’ll get you noise cancelling headphones for the drama.”

“Mm,” Zoey hummed– distant. Her eyes flicked to the kitchen like she couldn't remember if she’d finished something in there. Mira’s mind spun through possible offenses. Did she move too close? Did dinner go wrong? Did saying “me” too early sound like wanting too much? 

She cleared her throat, steadying her voice like flattening a sheet. “Do you want dessert? I think we still have the mochi.” 

Zoey blinked at her like the words didn’t quite reach her. “Maybe in a minute.” Silence stretched its arms into the room. Not hostile. Not awkward. Just… tense. Threaded. Like it was waiting to see which of them would make it snap. 

Mira leaned casually– too casually– against the counter. “How bad was the group chat meltdown?”

Zoey’s answer came late. “Not bad. Just… constant.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to her pocket. Like she was checking something was still there. Like a touchstone. Like a secret. 

She tried another angle, lighter: “Do we need to stage an intervention?” That earned a tiny twitch at Zoey’s mouth. And then the phone buzzed. Zoey flinched like she’d been caught touching something she shouldn't. 

Mira finally understood. The shift in the air wasn't about her, but she still blamed herself anyway.

“Bathroom,” Zoey said, already walking. “Just.. Give me a sec.” She didn't wait for acknowledgement. Didn't look back. The bathroom door clicked shut– a soft sound with sharp edges. 

Mira stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by all the harmless things they'd built together– mismatched mugs, a half empty bottle of wine, a dish towel patterned with lemons Zoey claimed “felt optimistic.” The space still smelled warm, still looked like safety– but something vital had retreated into a pocket with that phone. She turned off the speaker. The quiet that replaced the music wasn't peaceful. It was absence. Mira dried her hands on the back of her jeans and told herself not to overthink. People get texts. People take calls. People have lives that existed before you. 

Still, her pulse betrayed her– quick, unsteadying, waiting. Waiting for a call. Waiting to confirm that whatever had just entered the room wasn't leaving. 

Mira sank onto the couch slowly, like sitting too fast might shatter something in the room. The cushions dipped beneath her, but her body didn't relax the way it was supposed to. Her heart kept tapping too close to her throat. She sat very still at the center of the couch, hands folded like she was waiting for instructions. The apartment didn't sound like itself anymore– the hush had changed tone, gone thinner and too aware. Not silence. Suspense. 

The bathroom was still quiet. The water didn't turn on. The fan didn't whir. There was no rustle of drawers or cabinet doors. Just… A pause. Long enough to mean something.

Mira stared straight ahead at the blank TV screen. Her reflection warped faintly in the dark glass– shoulders tense, jaw set, as if pretending not to listen’ but the apartment was small, and the walls were thin. Zoey’s voice leaked through– muffled, but enthusiastic at the edges. 

“Hey… No, it’s okay–”

That tone. Light. Soft. Mira’s spine pulled tight like someone had tugged a thread through it. Her hand flexed once against her thigh, nails pressing into denim, just enough to remind her where her body was. 

Silence. Then:

A Laugh. Small and nervous. The kind you only give someone who already knows all your tells. Mira’s throat clicked when she swallowed. She wasn't angry. She wasn't jealous– she didn't have any right to be. She felt… misfiled. Displaced by a person she could neither see nor compete with because she didn't even know what the competition was. 

Zoey’s voice again– quieter, but clearer this time:

“I’m glad you called too.”

Glad. too. Mira closed her eyes. If she didn't see the room, maybe she could pretend she wasn't in it. Don't do this, she warned herself. Don't start trying to solve something that is not yours to fix. 

Another scrap of sound drifted through– just a breathy response– but Zoey’s pause after it said enough. Mira recognized the shape of that silence: a held smile. A memory stirred where it wasn't wanted. 

Then:

“Yeah… Me too.”

Two words. They shouldn't hurt. But her whole chest caved slightly inward, like a shelf buckling under a weight that wasn't visible until it cracked. Me too. “Too” meant someone else had spoken first. Someone else had offered something worth agreeing to. Her stomach hollowed– not dramatic, just… gone. Like a switch had been flipped and the lights inside blinked out in an instant. 

She stared at the coffee table– at the damp ring from Zoey’s glass, at the napkin folded carelessly beside it. She traced every detail because noticing things had always been easier than feeling them.

What did I do wrong? 

What did I miss?

Her default questions. Always assuming that a break must originate with her. The conversation behind the door softened into murmurs again– cadence shifting into something more intimate. She caught only fragments:

“--No, I’m okay…”

“...I’ll tell you…”

“...Yeah, I know…”

Each sentence wrapped in the kind of gentleness Zoey didn't hand out easily. Mira’s pulse pressed hard. The unwavering rain picked up outside– tapping a repetitive warning. The apartment felt smaller than it had an hour ago. As if the walls were starting to choose sides. 

A soft giggle slipped under the door. Zoey’s. The one Mira never managed to earn. She let out a slow breath– steady, controlled– the kind she used in meetings when someone assumed she didn't know what she was doing.

You are fine, she told herself. You are fine. It's fine, but the thought that followed ruined the mantra: It's fine because she doesn't need you right now. She shifted her gaze to the bathroom door– just a rectangle of white wood, harmless and solid. She didn't resent it. But she wished it wasn't shut. 

Mira leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees like she was taking the weight off something that had suddenly gotten too heavy to hold upright. The cushions felt wrong beneath her– a place meant for two people who were in the same moment together. 

Right now, she was alone in the middle of it. 

Her hands curled into loose fists, and instinct to move– to get out of sight, out of earshot, out of range. If she stood up and walked away quietly enough, she could disappear into her room and pretend none of this had been real. Pretend she hadn't caught a glimpse of something she hadn't been invited to see. Pretend she had never cared. Mira shifted forward, preparing to stand. Muscles firing like a silent evacuation. 

And then–

The bathroom lock clicked. Her body stalled– suspended halfway to motion. The door opened, and Zoey stepped back into the room looking… lighter. Color in her cheeks that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. Eyes still bright with a conversation Mira hadn't been a part of. She wiped a hand down her thighs as if smoothing invisible creases. 

A deep breath, too controlled.

A smile– small, but real. 

And Mira– heart tucked back into its box with shaking fingers– sat up straighter, shoulders adjusting into the practiced shape of fine. She let her expression smooth into something easy, nonintrusive, neutral enough to pass as normal. Like she hadn't been listening. Like she hadn't been waiting. Like nothing in the last five minutes had changed a single thing.

“Everything okay?” She asked, her voice almost didn't break on the question. 

Zoey nodded too quickly. “Yep. Just… Kendall sending memes again.” The joke didn't land. Her voice had the shine of something freshly polished, hiding the raw underside. She crossed the room without meeting Mira’s eyes, sitting on the couch– too intentionally– like if she moved with enough confidence, Mira wouldn't notice anything had changed. The cushion dipped between them, but the air tucked a thin sheet of distance where warmth had been. 

Mira tried to shift her brain back into the night she’d scripted– dinner, dishes, show– same softness. Normal. She picked up the remote. “Still want to watch something?”

“Sure,” Zoey said.

It should've sounded simple. It sounded like surrender. Mira flipped through options without seeing any of them. A comedy played– bright dialogue, laughter, canned and artificial– but the sound felt wrong, like putting sunlight over a storm. 

Zoey’s leg bounced. Her fingers circled her phone in a nervous orbit. She stared through the screen instead of at it. Mira pretended to focus on the TV, but she saw everything. The distance. The distraction. The pocket where the phone had rested– like it had taken her place. She tucked one hand beneath her thigh to keep from reaching. Her body wanted badly to bridge the gap– elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder– the way they’d been in the stairwell. 

Zoey made a small sound– not quite a sigh– and shifted closer. Mere inches. Close enough that the warmth brushed Mira’s arm. Like a muscle memory trying to correct the moment. For half a second, Mira’s breath stilled– hopeful.

But then she pulled away. Barely a movement. A reflex, as sharp as flinching from heat. Zoey felt it instantly. Her knees stilled. Her shoulders tensed. Confusion flicked across her face– exposed, quick. Mira hated herself for it. For letting fear steer her hand. For making Zoey wonder if she had done something wrong. She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze to stay neutral on a character laughing too loudly on screen. “Sorry–” she murmured, “just warming up.” 

A lie so thin it nearly tore in the air. 

Zoey gave a polite little ‘okay’ nod, the kind people gave strangers who bumped them in passing. And the space between them– tiny as it was– became miles of something unsaid. 

The living room clock ticked quietly. The laughter on the sitcom felt obscene now. Mira sat with her hands wrapped tight around her knees– trying to keep herself contained– while her mind strangled her with what she wouldn’t ask:

Did she make you smile like that?

Did she make you forget I was in the room?

Am I only good when you're falling apart?

A phone buzz cut through the dead air– short, insistent. 

Zoey didn't move. 

The sound was louder in Mira’s chest than in the room itself. She stared straight ahead. Her voice came out even- “You can answer that.” She hadn't meant for the words to sound like giving up. But they landed that way– flat, stripped of anything hopeful. Stillness followed.

Zoey finally exhaled, shallow. “I don't need to.”

Which wasn't the same thing as not wanting to. 

Mira stood, pretending she had a reason– the empty wine glasses on the table were an easy excuse. “I’ll rinse these.” Zoey didn't protest. She didn't follow. She just watched her walk away. Mira kept her focus on the mundane– turning on the tap, the rush of water filling the space. She scrubbed the rim of a glass with more pressure than necessary, knuckles whitening. Behind her, Zoey’s footsteps approached slowly. Hesitant. Like she was approaching a sleeping animal she wasn't sure wouldn't bite. 

“You don't have to do dishes alone,” Zoey said, voice too bright to be honest.

Mira kept her back turned. “You cooked.”

“And you always clean.” A small laugh– as brittle as leaves pressed too long in a book. “I’m trying to break the cycle.” Zoey stepped beside her– close again– close enough that the edge of her sleeve brushed Mira’s arm. For a moment, Mira let the faucet fill the silence. 

Then the phone buzzed again– this time from Zoey’s pocket. 

Just one vibration.

But it felt like a hand closing around Mira’s ribcage. 

Zoey flinched. That was all the confirmation Mira needed. Her chest tightened. Her voice stayed steady anyway– the cruelest trick she knew. “If you need to talk to her…” Mira paused, letting the word tremble only inside her head, “...You can.” 

Zoey froze. A beat. Then, very quietly-

“Who?” 

Denial so thin it was translucent under the kitchen lights. 

Mira set the glass down. Turned off the faucet. She turned toward Zoey fully– finally. 

“You don't have to pretend with me.” Her voice was soft– too soft to be angry. Zoey’s eyes shone with something fragile and afraid. Not guilt- fear of hurting. Mira swallowed. “I don't want to be a distraction– from someone you want.”

There it was– the exposed nerve. Zoey inhaled like the breath had cut her sharply on the way down. Then she reached out–

–catching Mira’s wrist with both hands. 

The grip wasn't strong. It shook. 

“You’re not a distraction.” 

Mira’s pulse jumped under Zoey’s fingers– loud, traitorous, wanting. Zoey’s voice cracked, barely holding shape. “You’re… You’re not someone I would put aside.” Mira looked down at where they touched. Zoey’s thumb pressed right over the faint paint stain from yesterday– blue-gray softened at the edges. 

That mark shouldn't matter- but it did. It meant Zoey still carried something from the day before– something Mira had helped hold. 

The phone buzzed again. 

Zoey’s fingers flinched… and then tightened. That tiny conflict – wanting to check– wanting to stay– was a knife pressed flat against Mira’s ribs. 

Zoey whispered, “Just stay here with me.”

Mira froze like her body had forgotten how to conduct itself. It didn’t make sense.

Their hands remained locked. Not enough, but too much. Mira didn't step forward- she didn't pull away. Neither of them knew how to move without breaking something, and for a long moment, they didn’t. 

Zoey’s hand was still wrapped around Mira’s wrist, the heat of it a direct line to Mira’s pulse. Her eyes were wide– not afraid, but open in a way that made Mira want to stay exactly here, exactly like this. 

Then– 

A buzz. 

Electric. Small. Cruel. 

Zoey’s phone vibrated once in her back pocket, and her whole body went tense– the way someone tenses right before something breaks. Her fingers loosened on instinct, not intention. The space between them opened a crack. Mira hated how quickly she felt the cold pour through it. Zoey swallowed, gaze darting toward the hallway. “I… I should–” 

She didn't finish. She didn't have to. Mira stepped back first. Not because she wanted the distance– but because she wanted to give Zoey the room to choose her. She forced a small nod. “Go ahead.” The words tasted wrong– too selfless, too practiced. The kind of line you only learn after years of convincing people you don't need anything.

Zoey hesitated, eyes flicking back to Mira like she might say more. Like she might undo the moment. Like she might stay. But the phone buzzed again. Mira’s body screamed to stay, but self protection masqueraded as kindness. 

She stepped away. 

Mira didn't watch her leave– but she felt it. 

Zoey’s bedroom door closed quietly, which somehow made it worse. Mira stood alone in the kitchen again, hands still damp from the forgotten wine glasses, heartbeat still loud from being held. She stared at the space where Zoey had been, long enough that the outline began to fade.

Finally– because nothing hurt worse– she walked to her room. She didn't turn on the light. The dark was easier to explain. The door clicked shut behind her. For a second she stood there, back against the wall, fingers knotted tightly at the hem of her shirt. 

Then through the wall-

Zoey’s voice. 

Soft. gentle.

A whole different temperature. 

“...Yeah… I’m here…”

Another beat– a giggle. 

“...I missed you too…”

Mira felt the words hit her like cold water poured straight down her ribs. Not anger. Just that familiar, terrible belief surfacing again.

Of course she did.

Of course she misses the person she already chose once.

Mira turned and leaned forward, pressing her palm against the drywall– not knocking, not asking– just trying to keep herself from floating away. Her chest ached with something painfully simple:

If she asked me to stay– 

I would. 

Her throat burned with the answer that paralyzed her:

But she's still saying that to someone else.

She stayed like that– hand on the wall, heart in her teeth– listening to a voice that wasn't meant for her- and wishing she could unhear how much it mattered.