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The velvet curtain felt heavy between Emi's fingers. She twisted the fabric, then released it, watching it fall back into place. Behind her, the small backstage area smelled of dust and old wood. Ahead, beyond that curtain, she could hear the low murmur of the bar's Friday night crowd–clinking glasses, scattered laughter, conversations that had nothing to do with her.
Her dress was simple, soft blue cotton that she'd found at a thrift store two years ago. It still fit well enough, though the hem had started to fray. Emi smoothed it down over her hips, took a breath that didn't quite fill her lungs, and tried to remember why she did this every week.
The money was terrible. The audience barely listened. But something about standing under those lights, singing words she'd written herself, made her feel like she existed in a way her daytime job never could.
"Next up, we have Emi Thasorn!"
The announcement crackled through the old sound system. Emi plastered on her practiced smile–warm, inviting, just shy of desperate–and pushed through the curtain.
The lights hit her immediately, hot and blinding after the dim backstage. She squinted, letting her eyes adjust as she made her way to the microphone stand. The bar stretched before her: sticky tables, neon beer signs, people who'd come here to drink and forget, not to listen to struggling artists bare their souls.
"Hi everyone," she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "I'm Emi. Thanks for having me tonight."
A few people near the front offered polite applause. Most didn't look up from their drinks.
The band started playing–guitar, bass, a gentle drum beat. Emi closed her eyes for just a moment, found her center, and began to sing.
The song was about heartbreak, because all her songs were about heartbreak. A relationship that had ended badly two years ago, leaving her with a catalog of melancholy lyrics and minor chord progressions. Her voice was good–she knew that much. Strong and clear, with an emotional quality that could make even strangers feel something if they'd just pay attention.
But they didn't. Not really. A couple swayed together near the bar. An older man nodded along, but his eyes were glassy with alcohol. Everyone else continued their conversations, their lives, as if she were just background music.
It didn't matter. She sang anyway, pouring everything she had into the words: "You left me standing in the rain , Said you'd come back but never came , Now I'm just echoes of the pain , Calling out your forgotten name."
The final notes faded. Scattered applause. Someone whistled, but it felt more reflexive than genuine. Emi smiled wider, thanked them again, and retreated backstage before anyone could see the smile slip from her face.
Her bag sat where she'd left it, propped against a stack of milk crates. She pulled out her worn pair of black heels–the ones she always changed into after performing because they were easier to walk in than her stage shoes. Or they would be, if they weren't falling apart.
The left heel had broken weeks ago. She'd taped it back together with duct tape she kept specifically for this purpose, winding it around and around until it held. Barely. The tape had started to peel at the edges, and she could feel the heel wobble with each step.
New shoes, she thought for the hundredth time. I need new shoes.
But new shoes cost money, and money was something she never quite had enough of. The singing gigs paid for exposure and occasionally free drinks. Her real income came from the diner, where she spent six days a week smiling at customers who complained about cold eggs and didn't tip.
Emi sighed, slipped her feet into the broken heels, and headed for the back exit.
The alley behind the bar was dark, lit only by a distant streetlamp that cast long shadows across the cracked pavement. The air was cooler out here, a relief after the stuffy heat of the stage. Emi adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking toward the street.
"Hey!"
The voice came from behind her. Emi's steps faltered. She wasn't sure if whoever it was meant to her, and she'd learned long ago that turning around for every random shout in the city was a good way to invite trouble.
"Emi, right? You in the blue dress."
That stopped her. She turned slowly, heart picking up speed.
A girl leaned against the brick wall of the building, one leg crossed over the other in a posture of studied casualness. She had dark hair cut short, sharp cheekbones, and an expression that managed to look both bored and intensely focused. A cigarette dangled from her fingers, and as Emi watched, she brought it to her lips and inhaled.
"What?" Emi asked, keeping her voice neutral.
The girl exhaled smoke into the night air. "Did you write those songs?"
"Yes." Emi lifted her chin slightly. She'd learned to be proud of her work, even when people didn't appreciate it.
"They could use some improvement."
The words hit like a slap. Emi felt her defenses slam into place, her shoulders going rigid. "Excuse me? What gives you the right to judge? I don't see you up there performing."
The girl smirked–actually smirked–and took another drag from her cigarette. Then she pushed off the wall with fluid grace and crushed the cigarette under her boot heel. "I write things too. Like you. I just perform differently." She met Emi's eyes directly. "If you want my advice, write about something less sappy. Heartbreak is overrated."
Then she turned and walked away, hands in her jacket pockets, leaving Emi standing alone in the alley with her mouth open and anger burning hot in her chest.
Emi slammed her apartment door hard enough to rattle the frame. She kicked off her broken heels without bothering to align them properly and stalked through the dark apartment to her bedroom.
The nerve. The absolute nerve.
She didn't even bother turning on the lights. Just stripped out of her dress, pulled on an oversized t-shirt and soft shorts, and flung herself onto her bed face-first.
"Write about something less sappy." Who the hell did she think she was?
Emi rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling where shadows from the street below played across the plaster. Her apartment was small–a studio, really, with a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom that barely fit a shower. But it was hers. She'd worked hard for this place, for the independence it represented.
And her songs were good. They were. People just didn't appreciate art anymore, didn't understand the vulnerability it took to stand on stage and offer up your pain for others to witness.
They could use some improvement.
Emi squeezed her eyes shut, but sleep wouldn't come. The stranger's words kept circling through her mind, mixing with her anger until she couldn't separate the two.
At 3:32 AM, according to the red digital numbers on her nightstand clock, Emi gave up on sleep. She turned on the lamp and pulled her journal from the drawer–pink, with a decorative "E" embossed on the front. She'd had it for three years now, and most of its pages were filled with lyrics and half-formed song ideas.
She flipped to tonight's setlist, scanning the words she'd sung just hours ago.
"You left me standing in the rain..."
It was about heartbreak. All of her songs were about heartbreak–about loss and loneliness and the particular ache of being left behind. And yes, maybe it was a common theme. But it was her theme, her experience, her truth.
Wasn't it?
She turned to a blank page, pen poised over the paper. New words. Different words. Something that wasn't about romantic loss.
Nothing came.
Emi sat there for twenty minutes, pen hovering, mind blank except for the echo of that stranger's criticism. Finally, frustrated, she closed the journal and turned off the light.
She had to work in a few hours anyway.
Emi made it to the diner with exactly one minute to spare, breathless and disheveled from sprinting the last three blocks. She punched her time card, grabbed her apron from her locker in the back, and tied it around her waist while speed-walking to the main floor.
"Morning, Emi!" called Sandra, the other waitress on shift. She was in her fifties, with kind eyes and the efficiency of someone who'd been doing this job for decades.
"Morning," Emi managed, still catching her breath.
The breakfast rush hit almost immediately. Emi fell into the familiar rhythm: take orders, pour coffee, deliver plates, smile smile smile even when her feet hurt and her head throbbed from lack of sleep.
"Excuse me, miss? I ordered my eggs over easy, not scrambled."
"I'm so sorry, I'll get that fixed right away."
Back to the kitchen, apologize to the cook who glared at her even though it wasn't her mistake, wait for new eggs, deliver them with another apologetic smile.
"You know, you'd be prettier if you smiled more."
She was already smiling. She smiled wider.
"This coffee is cold."
"Let me get you a fresh cup."
"Hey sweetheart, what time do you get off?"
"I'm working double today, sir. Can I get you anything else?"
By the time the breakfast crowd thinned out around ten, Emi felt wrung out like an old dishcloth. She'd had hot coffee spilled on her apron–thankfully missing her skin. She'd been tipped exactly three dollars on seventy dollars worth of bills. She'd been called "sweetheart," "honey," and "darling" more times than she could count, and not once had it felt anything but condescending.
She collapsed onto a stool behind the counter and pulled out her journal, determined to write something new. Something that wasn't about heartbreak.
The blank page stared back at her.
Emi tapped her pen against the paper, creating little dots of ink. She wrote "politics" and crossed it out. Wrote "current events" and crossed that out too. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt like her.
Maybe that girl had been right. Maybe heartbreak was all she knew how to write about.
The thought made her throat tight.
Her shift ended at noon. She gathered her things, said goodbye to Sandra, and headed home with her journal tucked under her arm, still blank.
That evening, she returned to the same bar for another performance. Different night, same routine. And as she stood backstage, adjusting her dress and preparing her smile, she couldn't help but hope that certain sharp-eyed critics would have better things to do tonight.
But when she pushed through the curtain after her set, stepping carefully down the backstage stairs in her taped-together heels, she heard a familiar voice from the alley.
"What's wrong with your shoes?"
Emi's jaw clenched. She turned to find the girl from last night in almost the exact same position–leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand, that insufferable smirk on her face.
"Those things will kill you," Emi said instead of answering, nodding at the cigarette.
The girl glanced down at her smoke, then back up at Emi. "So will those contraptions on your feet. Honestly, just go buy another pair at the thrift store for like five dollars. They'll at least last longer than that." She stubbed out the cigarette against the brick wall. "They'll definitely look prettier."
"What's your problem?" Emi demanded.
The girl shrugged, pushing off the wall. "If you want, I'll buy you a new pair."
"No thanks." Emi turned on her heel which wobbled dangerously and started walking away.
"Then can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
Emi stopped. For just a moment, something flickered in her chest–curiosity, maybe, or the faint echo of attraction she didn't want to acknowledge. But mostly, she felt annoyed.
"Hmm, no," she said, and yanked her arm free from where the girl had gently caught her elbow.
She made it halfway down the block before exhaustion caught up with her. The adrenaline from performing had worn off, leaving her hollow and tired. But her mind was racing, full of criticism and blank pages and broken heels, and she knew she wouldn't sleep tonight either.
With a frustrated sigh, Emi turned around.
The girl was still visible in the distance, walking slowly in the opposite direction, hands in her pockets.
"Hey!" Emi called out.
The girl stopped and turned, surprise clear on her face even from this distance.
Emi jogged back, her heels clicking unevenly on the pavement. When she reached the girl, she was slightly out of breath.
"Yes," she said. "You can buy me coffee."
The girl's face transformed with a genuine smile–not a smirk this time, but something warmer. "Yeah?"
"But just coffee. And you're going to tell me your name, and then you're going to explain exactly what's wrong with my songs."
The girl's smile widened. "Deal. I'm Bonnie."
"Emi."
"I know." Bonnie gestured toward a coffee shop with a glowing sign two blocks down. "Come on. There's a place that stays open late. Makes terrible coffee, but it's cheap."
Despite everything–the criticism, the broken heels, the exhaustion Emi found herself smiling as they walked side by side through the quiet streets.
Maybe tonight would be different after all.
The coffee shop was called "The Grind," which Emi thought was either ironic or depressing depending on your perspective. At eleven-thirty on a Saturday night, they were the only customers.
The interior was worn but clean–mismatched chairs, tables that wobbled, walls covered in local art that no one had bothered to take down in years. A bored barista with multiple piercings looked up from her phone as they entered.
"What do you want?" Bonnie asked, already heading toward the counter.
"Um, just a latte. Regular milk is fine."
Bonnie ordered–a latte for Emi, black coffee for herself and paid before Emi could even reach for her wallet. Then she gestured toward the back corner. "Go find us a spot. I'll bring the drinks."
Emi wound her way through the empty tables to a booth by the window. The glass reflected the interior lights, making it impossible to see outside. She slid into one side and immediately pulled her journal from her bag, setting it on the table between them like a challenge.
Bonnie appeared a moment later with two ceramic mugs. She set the latte in front of Emi and took the seat across from her, wrapping her hands around her black coffee.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Up close, under the coffee shop's fluorescent lighting, Emi could see Bonnie more clearly. She was probably around the same age–mid-twenties. Her short hair was intentionally messy, shaved on one side. She wore a leather jacket over a faded band t-shirt, ripped jeans, and those heavy boots. Small silver hoops lined her left ear.
She looked like every cautionary tale about bad decisions Emi's mother had ever warned her about.
She was also, objectively, very attractive.
"So," Emi said, pushing that thought away. "You said my songs could use improvement."
Bonnie took a sip of her coffee, made a face at the taste, and nodded. "They're technically good. You can sing, the melodies are decent. But the content..." She tilted her head. "It's all the same, isn't it? Lost love, broken hearts, being left behind."
Emi's fingers tightened around her mug. "That's what I write about. It's authentic. It's a real emotion."
"Sure. But so is anger. So is frustration with the world, with systems that don't work, with inequality and injustice. So is joy–genuine, complicated joy. When's the last time you wrote a happy song?"
"I–" Emi stopped. When was the last time? "Happiness doesn't make for good art."
Bonnie laughed, sharp and brief. "That's bullshit and you know it. You're limiting yourself. You're taking the safe route–writing about what you know will make people feel something easy and uncomplicated. Sad is easy. Everyone knows sad."
"And you're an expert?" Emi shot back. "You said you write. What makes your stuff so much better?"
Instead of answering, Bonnie reached into her jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a small black journal. It was battered, held together with what looked like willpower and spite. The edges were torn, the cover scratched and faded.
She set it next to Emi's pristine pink one.
The contrast was almost comical.
"Read it," Bonnie said. "Then tell me what you think."
Emi hesitated, then pulled the black journal toward her and opened it.
The first thing she noticed was the handwriting–chaotic, slanting in different directions, sometimes print and sometimes cursive, occasionally both in the same word. The pages were unlined, which meant the text wandered across the paper in organic waves. Some pages were neat. Others looked like someone had vomited words onto the page in a desperate rush to get them out.
But the words themselves...
Emi found herself drawn in immediately. These weren't songs–they were poems, raw and visceral. The first one she read was about police brutality, about a mother burying her son, about rage that had nowhere to go but into the streets. The language was harsh, uncompromising.
She flipped the page. This one was about gender and identity, about the boxes society tried to force people into. Then another about poverty, about going hungry while watching others waste food.
Nothing was about romantic love. Nothing was safe or comfortable.
"These are intense," Emi said finally, looking up.
Bonnie shrugged. "I told you. I write about the real world."
"But they're so..." Emi searched for the right word. "Angry. Dark."
"The world is angry and dark. I'm just honest about it." Bonnie leaned forward slightly. "Look, I'm not saying heartbreak isn't real or important. I'm saying you're using it as a shield. You're writing about pain that's personal and internal because it's scary to write about pain that's external and systemic."
"That's not–" But Emi stopped because maybe it was true. Maybe it was easier to write about her own broken heart than about the man at the diner who couldn't afford to tip because he was working three jobs. Maybe it was safer to sing about being left than about the women who came in with bruises they tried to hide.
"Your turn," Bonnie said, nodding at Emi's journal. "Let me read yours."
Emi pulled it back protectively. "You already heard them tonight."
"Hearing and reading are different. Come on. Fair is fair."
After a moment's hesitation, Emi slid her journal across the table.
Bonnie opened it carefully–more carefully than Emi had with hers and began to read. Her expression was hard to decipher. Sometimes she nodded slightly. Sometimes her lips twitched like she was suppressing a comment. Once, she smiled, and Emi felt an embarrassing surge of pride.
"Okay," Bonnie said finally, closing the journal. "You're good. Really good. The imagery is beautiful, the emotional honesty is there. But it's all looking backward. Every song is about something that already happened, something you've already lost."
"That's what makes it meaningful," Emi protested.
"No, that's what makes it safe. You're mourning the past instead of engaging with the present." Bonnie took another sip of her terrible coffee. "When's the last time you wrote about something happening right now? Today? This moment?"
Emi opened her mouth, then closed it. She couldn't remember.
"Write about tonight," Bonnie suggested. "Write about sitting in this shitty coffee shop with a stranger who insulted your art. Write about those death-trap shoes you're wearing, or about the guy who spilled coffee on you–yeah, I can see the stain on your bag. Write about now."
"I don't know how," Emi admitted quietly.
Bonnie's expression softened. "Then learn. That's the point. You're talented enough to do it–you're just scared."
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, somewhere in the city, a siren wailed past.
"What kind of performer are you?" Emi asked. "You said you perform differently."
"Slam poetry. Spoken word." Bonnie gestured vaguely. "Different venues, different vibe. Less about melody, more about rhythm and delivery. I'll show you sometime, if you want."
"I'd like that." The words came out before Emi could stop them.
Bonnie's smile was genuine this time, reaching her eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But you have to promise to come to another one of my shows. And actually listen this time instead of just judging."
"Deal."
They talked for another hour, dissecting each other's work, arguing about art and authenticity and whether sadness was overused in pop culture. Emi found herself laughing more than she expected, found herself leaning in across the table, and found herself not wanting the night to end.
Eventually, the barista came over to inform them–politely but firmly–that she was closing in ten minutes.
Outside, the temperature had dropped. Emi shivered in her thin dress, and Bonnie immediately shrugged out of her leather jacket and draped it over Emi's shoulders.
"I'm fine," Emi protested, but she pulled the jacket tighter anyway. It smelled like cigarettes and something else–cologne, maybe, or just Bonnie herself.
"Which way are you headed?" Bonnie asked.
Emi pointed east. "About fifteen minutes from here."
"I'll walk you."
"You don't have to–"
"I want to."
They walked slowly, stretching the fifteen minutes into twenty, then twenty-five. They talked about everything and nothing–favorite books, worst jobs, the weird quirks of their city. Bonnie told her about growing up in the foster system, bouncing between homes. Emi talked about her parents' disappointment when she'd dropped out of college to pursue music.
When they reached Emi's building–a shabby four-story walkup with a broken intercom–Bonnie stopped at the bottom of the steps.
"Thanks for the coffee," Emi said. "And for... I don't know. Making me think."
"Thanks for not throwing your drink in my face when I insulted your art." Bonnie grinned. "Can I get your number? I want to know when your next show is."
Emi hesitated for only a second before rattling off her number. Bonnie typed it into her phone and immediately sent a text–just a wave emoji–so Emi would have hers too.
"Goodnight, Emi Thasorn," Bonnie said, hands back in her pockets.
"Goodnight, Bonnie..." Emi realized she didn't know Bonnie's last name.
"Pattraphas. Bonnie Pattraphas."
"Goodnight, Bonnie Pattraphas."
Emi climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment, Bonnie's jacket still around her shoulders. She didn't realize until she was inside that she'd forgotten to give it back.
Her apartment felt different somehow. Smaller, maybe. Or just emptier.
She hung the jacket carefully on the back of her door, made herself tea she didn't drink, and finally collapsed into bed. Her journal sat on the nightstand, pink and perfect and filled with songs about the past.
Before turning off the light, Emi opened a blank page and wrote: "Write about now."
Then, after a moment's thought, she added: "Girl with cigarettes and criticism. The girl who makes terrible coffee tastes better. Girl who sees right through me."
It wasn't a song. It wasn't even a poem.
But it was a start.
Emi's phone buzzed at nine the next morning, dragging her out of sleep.
Unknown Number: still alive or did those shoes finally kill you?
She smiled despite herself and saved the contact as "Bonnie (Coffee Critic)."
Emi: Survived the night. Barely. My feet may never recover.
Bonnie: tragic. Should I start planning the funeral for your shoes or do they have a few more days?
Emi: Very funny. Don't you have some angry poetry to write?
Bonnie: already done. I wrote three pieces this morning. You inspire me. Well, your terrible fashion choices inspire me.
Emi: I'm hanging up now.
Bonnie: this is texting
Emi: I'm hanging up the PHONE
Bonnie: still texting
Emi: GOODBYE BONNIE
Bonnie: Wait wait. serious question. When's your next show?
Emi checked her calendar. She had gigs most weekends, usually at the same bar or one of two others that rotated local performers.
Emi: Friday night. Same place. 10 PM.
Bonnie: I'll be there. front row. Try not to fall off the stage in those shoes.
Emi: You're the worst.
Bonnie: You like it
The terrible thing was, Emi was starting to think she did.
They texted constantly over the next few days. Bonnie sent her photos of graffiti she found around the city with captions like "visual poetry" and "better than your lyrics." Emi retaliated with pictures of particularly bad tips from the diner–a handful of coins that added up to forty-seven cents, a note that said "get a real job."
Bonnie: Want me to yell at them?
Emi: I think that's called harassment
Bonnie: I call it justice
On Wednesday, Bonnie sent her a link to a spoken word event happening Thursday night.
Bonnie: I'm performing. Come watch. I'll try not to be too good and make you jealous.
Emi: Bold of you to assume I'd be jealous
Bonnie: You will be. I'm very talented.
Emi: and very humble
Bonnie: That too. So are you coming or what?
Emi checked her work schedule. She had Thursday night off–a rare gift.
Emi: I'll be there
Bonnie: Good. Prepare to have your mind blown.
The spoken word event was in a basement venue that Emi had walked past a hundred times without ever noticing. The entrance was just a door with a hand-painted sign that said "The Underground." She descended a narrow staircase into a space that was bigger than she expected–low ceilings, exposed brick walls, a small stage at one end with a single microphone.
The room was packed. People sat at tiny tables, stood along the walls, even sat on the floor near the stage. The crowd was diverse–young and old, dressed up and dressed down, every kind of person Emi could imagine.
She spotted Bonnie near the stage, talking to a tall woman with long braided hair. Bonnie saw her at the same moment and waved, gesturing for Emi to come closer.
"You made it!" Bonnie said when Emi reached her. She looked different tonight–more nervous, less cocky. "This is Namtan. She runs the night."
Namtan smiled warmly and shook Emi's hand. "Any friend of Bonnie's is welcome here. First time at a slam?"
"Yeah," Emi admitted.
"You're in for a treat. We've got some amazing performers tonight." Namtan glanced at Bonnie with an affectionate grin. "Even this troublemaker is pretty good when she tries."
"I resent that," Bonnie said, but she was smiling. "I'm always good."
"Find a seat," Namtan told Emi. "The show starts in five minutes."
Bonnie walked Emi to a small table near the front. "Sit here. I need to go backstage and freak out for a few minutes."
"You'll be great," Emi said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.
Bonnie's smile was bright and genuine. "Thanks. Wish me luck."
Then she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Emi alone at the table with a bottle of water and a growing sense of anticipation.
The lights dimmed. The crowd quieted. Namtan took the stage.
"Welcome to The Underground," she said into the microphone. "Tonight, we have eight incredible performers sharing their words with us. Remember the rules: snap if you like what you hear, listen with respect, and keep your hearts open. Let's begin."
The first performer was a young man who spoke about his immigrant parents, about the sacrifices they'd made and the guilt he carried. His delivery was powerful, rhythmic, building to a crescendo that left the audience snapping enthusiastically.
The second was a woman Emi's age who performed a piece about sexual assault, about reclaiming her body and her voice. It was raw and painful and beautiful. Emi found herself blinking back tears.
Then Namtan announced, "Our next performer is a regular here at The Underground. Please welcome Bonnie Pattraphas Borattasuwan."
Bonnie walked onto the stage with confidence Emi hadn't seen before. She stepped up to the microphone, took a breath, and began.
Her piece was about addiction–not her own, Emi would realize later, but society's addiction to comfortable lies. Her delivery was sharp, almost aggressive, her hands moving to emphasize words, her body leaning into the microphone like she was sharing a secret and issuing a challenge at the same time.
"We swallow pills prescribed by doctors who profit from our pain, We buy happiness in bottles, We inject numbness into our veins, And we call it treatment, We call it coping, We call it anything but what it is: A system designed to keep us sick."
The rhythm of her words was hypnotic. Emi found herself leaning forward, completely absorbed. This was different from her songs–there was no melody to soften the blow, no musical interlude to give the audience a moment to breathe. Just words, relentless and uncompromising.
"So I write these poems, And I stand on these stages, And I scream into microphones, Because maybe if I'm loud enough, Someone will finally hear me."
The final words echoed in the sudden silence. Then the room erupted in snapping–hundreds of fingers creating a sound like rain on a metal roof.
Bonnie grinned, gave a small bow, and left the stage.
Emi couldn't stop smiling.
When Bonnie found her after the show, weaving through the crowd with a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, Emi stood up.
"You were right," Emi said.
"About what?"
"I was jealous. That was incredible."
Bonnie's smile could have lit up the entire basement. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Emi surprised herself by stepping forward and pulling Bonnie into a hug. "Thank you for inviting me."
Bonnie's arms came around her, holding her close. She smelled like cigarettes and sweat and that same indefinable scent that Emi was starting to associate with safety.
"Come on," Bonnie said when they pulled apart. "Let me buy you another terrible coffee and you can tell me everything you thought."
They left The Underground together, Bonnie's hand finding Emi's in the crowd, and walked back to The Grind like it was already their place.
And maybe, Emi thought as they settled into the same booth as before, it was.
Friday came faster than Emi expected. She spent the afternoon at the diner, refilled coffee cups and smiled at customers, and tried not to watch the clock. When her shift finally ended, she hurried home to change for her performance.
She stood in front of her tiny closet, staring at her limited wardrobe. The blue dress–her usual choice. A black dress that was too formal. A red one with a stain on the hem she'd never managed to get out.
Her phone buzzed.
Bonnie: break a leg tonight. but not literally because you'll need both legs to run away when the audience boos you off stage
Emi: Your confidence in me is truly inspiring
Bonnie: I believe in you. You're going to be amazing. Even if your songs are about heartbreak and your shoes are held together with prayers
Emi: Thank you? I think?
Bonnie: That was a compliment. I'm bad at this.
Emi: I noticed
Bonnie: see you soon
Emi chose the blue dress again. It was her favorite, and tonight she wanted the comfort of familiar things.
When she arrived at the bar, Bonnie was already there, leaning against the wall outside exactly where she'd been the first two nights. But this time when she saw Emi, she pushed off and walked over.
"Ready?" Bonnie asked.
"Nervous," Emi admitted.
"Good. Means you care." Bonnie reached out and squeezed Emi's hand. "You're going to kill it."
"You said you'd be in the front row."
"I will be. I'm going in right now. Just wanted to catch you first." Bonnie hesitated, then quickly kissed Emi's cheek. "For luck."
Then she disappeared inside before Emi could respond.
Emi touched her cheek, feeling the warmth where Bonnie's lips had been, and smiled.
The performance went... differently.
Emi sang her usual setlist–the heartbreak songs, the melancholy ballads. But this time, when she looked out into the audience, she could see Bonnie in the front row, watching with complete attention. And somehow that made everything else fall away.
She wasn't singing to the drunk couple by the bar or the groups of friends ignoring her. She was singing to Bonnie, who understood what it meant to pour yourself into art, who knew the vulnerability of standing on a stage and offering your truth to strangers.
When she finished her final song, the applause was the same scattered, polite response as always. But Bonnie was standing, hands cupped around her mouth, whooping loudly enough that people turned to look at her.
Emi couldn't stop grinning as she left the stage.
She found Bonnie waiting in their usual spot in the alley, but this time she wasn't smoking.
"You stopped?" Emi asked, nodding at her empty hands.
Bonnie shrugged. "Trying to. Figured if I'm going to criticize your life choices, I should work on mine too."
"I liked your performance better," Emi said.
"Liar. You were amazing up there."
"I was singing about heartbreak. You said–"
"I know what I said. And I still think you could expand your range. But tonight..." Bonnie stepped closer. "Tonight you meant every word. I could feel it. That's what matters."
They stood in the alley, close enough that Emi could see the flecks of gold in Bonnie's dark eyes, could count her earrings, could feel the warmth radiating from her body.
"Coffee?" Bonnie asked softly.
"Coffee," Emi agreed.
But neither of them moved.
"Emi," Bonnie said.
"Yeah?"
"Can I kiss you?"
Emi's heart stuttered. "You already did. On the cheek."
"I meant for real this time."
"Oh." Emi's breath caught. "Yes."
Bonnie's hand came up to cup Emi's face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to Emi's–gentle at first, questioning. When Emi responded, kissing her back, Bonnie deepened it, her other hand finding Emi's waist.
The alley, the bar, the city–everything faded away. There was only this: Bonnie's lips on hers, Bonnie's hand warm against her face, the steady thrum of her pulse and the way the world felt like it had finally clicked into place.
When they pulled apart, both breathing harder, Bonnie was smiling.
"Still want coffee?" she asked.
"Yes. But first..." Emi pulled Bonnie back in for another kiss.
The coffee could wait.
Emi woke to sunlight streaming through her window and the smell of coffee.
For a moment, she was confused. She didn't own a coffee maker–couldn't afford one. She usually made instant coffee with an electric kettle her mother had given her.
Then she remembered: Bonnie.
Bonnie had walked her home after The Grind closed, and they'd sat on Emi's tiny balcony talking until the sky started to lighten. They hadn't slept together–not like that. But Bonnie had stayed, curled up next to Emi on her small couch, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything else.
Emi got up and padded into the kitchen area. Bonnie stood at the counter, still wearing yesterday's clothes, pouring coffee from a French press Emi had never seen before.
"You bought a coffee maker?" Emi asked, voice rough with sleep.
Bonnie turned and smiled. "Good morning. And no, I had this at my place. Brought it over on my way back from getting us breakfast." She gestured to a bag on the counter. "I didn't know what you liked, so I got a variety. Bagels, croissants, some fruit."
Emi felt something warm unfurl in her chest. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." Bonnie poured coffee into two mugs–mismatched, like everything else in Emi's apartment. "Besides, I was awake and you were snoring–"
"I do not snore!"
"–so I figured I'd be productive." Bonnie grinned and handed Emi a mug. "How do you take it?"
"A little bit of milk, no sugar."
Bonnie doctored the coffee and passed it back. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and Emi felt that same electric awareness from last night.
They ate breakfast on the balcony, feet dangling over the edge, watching the city wake up below them. It was Sunday, so Emi didn't have work. Neither did Bonnie, who'd explained that she cobbled together income from her night shifts at various bars, occasional construction work, and prize money from poetry slams.
"It's not stable," Bonnie had admitted. "But I'm free. That's worth something."
Now, in the morning light, Bonnie pulled a cigarette from her pocket and then stopped, glancing at Emi.
"Do you mind?" she asked.
Emi thought about it. "I mind that you're killing yourself. But I'm not going to tell you what to do."
Bonnie lit the cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled away from Emi. "I'm trying to quit. Just... hard."
"How long have you been smoking?"
"Since I was fifteen. Ten years." Bonnie stared out at the city. "Started in one of my foster homes. The dad smoked, and I figured if I smoked too, maybe we'd have something in common. Stupid, I know."
"Not stupid. Just... young."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Bonnie smoked. Emi sipped her coffee. The sun climbed higher.
"What are you doing today?" Bonnie asked eventually.
"Laundry. Practicing. The exciting life of a struggling artist." Emi smiled. "You?"
"I was planning to write. But I'd rather spend the day with you, if that's okay."
"More than okay."
So they spent the day together. Bonnie helped Emi with laundry at the coin-op down the street, making jokes about her "extensive collection of sad girl outfits" until Emi threw a sock at her. They bought cheap sandwiches from a bodega and ate them in a park, sitting on swings like children.
In the evening, they returned to Emi's apartment and worked in comfortable silence–Emi with her pink journal, Bonnie with her black one. Every so often, one of them would read a line out loud, testing it, and the other would offer feedback.
"Too flowery," Bonnie said when Emi read a verse about rain and memory.
"Too aggressive," Emi countered when Bonnie shared a line about corporate greed.
But somehow, they made each other better.
When Bonnie finally left that night–she had an early shift at a construction site–she kissed Emi goodbye at the door.
"I'll text you," Bonnie promised.
"You better."
And she did. Constantly.
Over the next few weeks, they fell into a rhythm. Bonnie came to all of Emi's performances. Emi went to Bonnie's poetry slams. They met for coffee–always at The Grind, which had become theirs through repetition. They texted constantly, sharing photos and inside jokes and pieces of their days.
Bonnie started leaving things at Emi's apartment. A toothbrush. A change of clothes. Her coffee press. Books and notebooks and hair gel.
One morning, Emi woke to find Bonnie already on the balcony, smoking and writing. The sight felt so natural, so right, that Emi's chest ached with it.
"Move in with me," Emi blurted out.
Bonnie looked up, surprised. "What?"
"I know it's fast. I know we've only been together for a few weeks. But you're here all the time anyway, and–" Emi stopped, took a breath. "Move in with me."
Bonnie set her journal down and crossed the small balcony to where Emi stood in the doorway. She cupped Emi's face in her hands and kissed her thoroughly.
"Yes," she said when they broke apart. "Yes, I'll move in with you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. My lease is up next month anyway, and my landlord is an asshole. This is perfect."
So Bonnie moved in. She didn't have much–a few boxes of clothes, her books, her journals, a battered guitar she admitted she couldn't really play. They rearranged Emi's small apartment to fit two people instead of one.
The closet was a tight squeeze. Bonnie's books stayed in boxes stacked against the wall. But they shared the bed, cooked together in the tiny kitchen, and sat on the balcony every morning drinking coffee.
Life with Bonnie was different. Chaotic. Intense. But also full of laughter and creativity and moments of perfect understanding.
One night, Emi came home from work to find Bonnie standing on their couch with a Sharpie in one hand and a beer in the other.
"What are you doing?" Emi asked, dropping her bag.
"This wall is so bland," Bonnie complained. She was definitely tipsy. "I say we write on it."
"Or we could hang photos up."
Bonnie shook her head and uncapped the marker with her teeth. She leaned forward and wrote in messy handwriting: "Emi is the prettiest girl in the world."
Emi felt her heart melt. "Okay. Give me the marker."
They spent the next hour adding to the wall. Quotes they loved, lyrics, random phrases. "Write about now," Emi added, remembering Bonnie's advice. Bonnie wrote "fuck the police" and Emi rolled her eyes but left it.
By the time they finished, exhausted and happy, the wall looked like a snapshot of their relationship–messy, eclectic, full of words.
But there were harder days too.
Emi learned that Bonnie had demons she didn't talk about. Sometimes she'd wake up to find Bonnie already gone, off doing something she wouldn't explain. Sometimes Bonnie came home with eyes that were too bright or too dull, and Emi knew she'd been using something.
They didn't talk about it at first. Emi didn't know how to bring it up without sounding like she was judging or trying to control.
But then one night, Bonnie didn't come home at all.
Emi stayed up until 4 AM, texting and calling, getting no response. She finally fell asleep on the couch, phone clutched in her hand, and woke to find Bonnie stumbling through the door at 7 AM, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes and something chemical Emi didn't recognize.
"Where were you?" Emi demanded, fear making her voice sharp.
"Out." Bonnie's words were slurred. "Needed to clear my head."
"You couldn't answer your phone?"
"Battery died."
"That's bullshit, Bonnie. I can see it in your pocket right now."
Bonnie sighed and collapsed onto the couch. "I'm sorry. I just... I needed space."
"Space from what? From me?"
"From everything." Bonnie rubbed her face. "Sometimes I get this feeling like I'm drowning and I can't breathe and the only thing that helps is–"
She stopped. Didn't finish the sentence.
But Emi understood. The only thing that helped was getting high, getting drunk, getting anything that would numb the feeling.
"Talk to me," Emi said, sitting down beside her. "Please. Instead of disappearing, just talk to me."
"It's not that simple."
"Then make it simple. I love you, Bonnie. I want to help."
It was the first time either of them had said it out loud. Bonnie's eyes went wide.
"You love me?"
"Yes, you idiot. Of course I love you."
Bonnie started crying silent tears that tracked down her face. "I don't deserve you."
"You don't get to decide that." Emi pulled her close. "I'm here. I'm staying. But you need to let me in."
And slowly, Bonnie did.
She told Emi about the foster homes, the abuse, the neglect. She told her about the first time she'd tried drugs, the way they'd made everything quiet in her head. She told her about the addiction that had followed her for years, the relapses, the failed attempts to get clean.
"I want to be better," Bonnie said. "For you. But I don't know if I can."
"Then we'll figure it out together," Emi promised.
And for a while, they did. Bonnie tried to quit. She went through withdrawal on Emi's couch–shaking, sweating, vomiting. Emi held her hair back, brought her water, rubbed her back, stayed up with her through the worst of it.
There were good days when Bonnie was clear-eyed and creative, when she wrote pieces that made Emi's breath catch. There were bad days when she was irritable and distant. But they made it work.
They added more to the wall. "One day at a time" went up after a particularly hard week. "We're still here" after a good one. The wall became a record of their relationship–a timeline written in Sharpie and hope.
Three months into living together, Bonnie came home with flowers and takeout.
"What's the occasion?" Emi asked, accepting the bouquet–cheap supermarket roses, but she loved them anyway.
"Sixty days clean," Bonnie said quietly. "Well, mostly clean. Still smoking, but everything else... sixty days."
Emi set the flowers down and threw her arms around Bonnie's neck. "I'm so proud of you."
"Couldn't have done it without you." Bonnie held her tight. "You know that, right?"
They ate dinner on the balcony, Bonnie's feet in Emi's lap, talking about everything and nothing. The city sprawled below them, millions of lives intersecting and diverging, and Emi felt impossibly lucky to be living this one.
"I've been working on something," Emi said after they'd finished eating. "A new song. Not about heartbreak."
Bonnie raised her eyebrows. "Yeah? What's it about?"
"It's about... this. Us. Finding someone when you weren't looking. Learning to write about the present instead of the past."
"Can I hear it?"
Emi felt suddenly shy, but she pulled out her phone and opened her voice memos. She'd recorded herself singing it a cappella earlier that day, still working out the melody.
The song was called "Morning Coffee," and it was about small moments–waking up to someone else's breathing, sharing a bathroom, the way Bonnie looked when she was writing with the sunrise behind her. It was gentle, hopeful, nothing like her usual melancholy ballads.
When it finished, Bonnie was quiet for a long moment.
"Well?" Emi prompted, nervous.
"It's perfect," Bonnie said, voice thick. "Emi, it's fucking perfect. You need to perform that."
"You think so?"
"I know so. That's the song you've been trying to write this whole time. That's you being honest about now, not about what already happened."
Emi smiled. "You're a pretty good teacher."
"You're a pretty good student." Bonnie pulled her into a kiss. "I love you. Have I mentioned that recently?"
"Not in the last hour. I was starting to worry."
"I love you," Bonnie said against her lips. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
But the good days couldn't last forever.
Emi started noticing the signs before Bonnie's relapse actually happened. The increasing irritability. The way Bonnie's hands shook in the mornings. The restlessness that had her pacing the apartment at 2 AM, unable to settle.
"You okay?" Emi asked one night, watching Bonnie wear a path in their small living room.
"Fine. Just can't sleep."
"Come to bed. I'll rub your back."
"In a minute."
But she didn't come to bed. Emi fell asleep alone and woke up to find Bonnie on the balcony, chain-smoking in the pre-dawn darkness.
It went on like that for days. Then weeks. Bonnie was pulling away and Emi didn't know how to pull her back.
The relapse, when it came, wasn't dramatic. Emi just came home from work one day to find Bonnie passed out on the couch, an empty baggie on the coffee table next to her black journal.
Emi's heart cracked.
She cleaned up the evidence, threw the baggie away, and sat on the floor next to the couch, holding Bonnie's hand while she slept it off.
When Bonnie woke up hours later, disoriented and sick, she took one look at Emi's face and started apologizing.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to–I just–"
"Stop," Emi said. "Just stop."
"Emi–"
"You need help. Real help. Not just me trying to hold you together."
Bonnie's face crumpled. "I know. I know, but I can't afford–"
"Then we'll find a way. There are programs, resources, something." Emi squeezed her hand. "Please, Bonnie. Let me help you find help."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"Then we try again. And again. As many times as it takes."
They spent that night researching options. Free clinics. Support groups. Sliding scale therapy. There were more resources than Emi had realized, but getting Bonnie to commit to using them was harder.
"I'll think about it," Bonnie kept saying.
"Don't think. Do it."
"Emi–"
"I can't watch you kill yourself." Emi's voice broke. "I love you too much. If you love me even a little bit, you'll try. Really try."
Bonnie was quiet for a long time. Then: "Okay. I'll call tomorrow. I promise."
And she did. She called a clinic that offered free addiction counseling and made an appointment. She started going to NA meetings three times a week. She threw away her stash–all of it, everything she'd been hiding.
It was hard. God, it was so hard. There were nights when Bonnie shook so badly she couldn't hold a pen. Nights when she couldn't keep food down. Nights when she cried and said she couldn't do it, couldn't survive feeling this much without something to take the edge off.
But Emi stayed. She held Bonnie through the worst of it, brought her water and blankets and steady presence. She went to some of the NA meetings with her, sat in the circle of folding chairs and listened to other people's stories of struggle and survival.
And slowly–so slowly–Bonnie started to get better.
Not perfect. Not fixed. But better.
She started writing again, really writing, pieces that weren't just angry but also hopeful. She performed at The Underground and got a standing ovation. She picked up more work shifts, saved a little money, started talking about the future like it was something she might actually see.
Emi performed "Morning Coffee" at the bar, and Bonnie cried in the front row. Afterward, they went to The Grind and sat in their usual booth, and Bonnie told her about the piece she was working on about recovery.
"It's called 'For Emi,' " Bonnie said. "I want to perform it next week. Will you come?"
"Of course," Emi promised.
Things were good. Not perfect, but good. They were making it work.
They had been together for almost eight months when Emi came home from her double shift at the diner to find Bonnie's journal sitting on the coffee table.
Bonnie never left her journal behind.
Emi's stomach dropped. She pulled out her phone and called Bonnie. It rang and rang and went to voicemail. She tried again. Same result. She sent texts–Where are you? Are you okay? Please answer me–that stayed on delivered, never read.
Something was wrong. Emi could feel it in her bones.
She paced the apartment, checking her phone every thirty seconds. She thought about calling hospitals, but what would she say? She thought about calling the police, but Bonnie hated cops and anyway, she hadn't been missing long enough.
She noticed the box on the bed around midnight.
It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. Her name was written on top in Bonnie's handwriting.
Emi's hands shook as she picked it up. This was wrong. This felt like goodbye.
She couldn't open it. Not yet. Opening it would make it real.
Instead, she sat on the couch with the box in her lap and waited. She must have fallen asleep at some point because she woke to her phone ringing, the screen too bright in the dark apartment.
Unknown number. 6:47 AM.
“Hello?” Her voice was rough.
“Is this Emi Thasorn?”
“Yes.”
“This is Nurse Yeonha from Bangkok General Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Bonnie Pattraphus.”
The rest of the conversation blurred together. Words floated in and out like–’overdose’, ‘unresponsive’, ‘did everything we could’–never quite landing, never fully making sense. Emi heard herself answering appropriately, nodding even though no one could see her, saying she’d come to the hospital, thanking the nurse with automatic politeness.
She ended the call and stood there, phone still pressed to her ear, long after the line went dead.
The hospital lights were too bright.
They washed everything in a harsh white that made Emi squint, made her head throb. She stood at the nurse’s station with Bonnie’s name still echoing in her ears, spelling it again because the nurse asked her to, because paperwork demanded it, because death apparently required administrative clarity.
Her hands shook as she signed forms she didn’t read. Consent. Release. Time of death.
The words meant nothing. Or maybe they meant too much.
They led her down a hallway that smelled like disinfectant and old grief. The floor gleamed. Someone laughed softly somewhere behind a curtain. Life continuing, oblivious.
Bonnie was in a small room at the very end.
The curtains were half-drawn. Machines had already been silenced, wires peeled away like they’d never mattered. Bonnie looked smaller than Emi remembered. Too still. Her skin had that unnatural calm–peaceful, they liked to say, as if peace was something you could earn by leaving.
Emi stood frozen in the doorway.
She waited for Bonnie’s chest to rise.
It didn’t.
She waited for the ridiculous thought to correct itself–for this to be a mistake, for Bonnie to groan and complain about hospitals, crack some dry joke about nearly dying just to see Emi’s face.
Nothing happened.
When Emi finally stepped closer, her knees buckled so hard she had to grab the bed rail to stay upright.
“Bon,” she whispered, the nickname breaking apart in her mouth. “Hey. I’m here.”
Her fingers hovered over Bonnie’s hand. She was afraid of the cold. Afraid of making it real. But when she touched her, the chill shot straight up her arm and lodged in her chest.
Bonnie’s hand didn’t squeeze back.
Emi pressed her forehead against the mattress and made a sound that didn’t feel human. It came from somewhere deep and feral, like her body had found a language her mind didn’t know.
She begged. Out loud.
Soft at first. Then desperately. Like the right words might rewind time.
“I should’ve–”
“I didn’t know–”
“Please.”
She stayed until a nurse gently reminded her that visiting hours didn’t apply anymore–but rooms still had to be cleared.
Leaving Bonnie there felt like another betrayal.
The funeral was on a Monday. Small, because Bonnie didn't have much family. Some people from The Underground came. Namtan gave a eulogy that made everyone cry. Emi sat in the front row and felt nothing.
Numbness was a mercy.
They buried Bonnie in a cemetery on the edge of the city. Emi stayed long after everyone else had left, sitting beside the fresh grave, tracing the letters of Bonnie's name with her fingertips.
The dirt was soft. Easy to disturb. Emi dug her fingers into it and thought about how unfair it was that Bonnie was down there, in the dark, while Emi was up here in the sunlight.
She didn't know how long she sat there. Hours, maybe. The sun moved across the sky. Eventually, someone from the cemetery, a groundskeeper came and gently told her they were closing.
After the funeral, after the cemetery closed, after the city swallowed her whole again, Emi went home and finally let herself break in a quieter way.
Emi went to an home that still smelled like Bonnie.
She sat on the floor of the living room and picked up Bonnie’s hoodie from the back of the chair. It still held the faint scent of her shampoo and cigarette smoke and something uniquely Bonnie–reckless and warm and alive.
Emi pressed it to her face and inhaled like she was drowning.
Her phone buzzed once. A notification she almost ignored.
A draft message.
Bonnie, unsent. Timestamped three nights ago.
Sorry I missed your call. I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Don’t be mad.
Emi stared at the screen until her vision blurred. Tomorrow had come. Bonnie hadn’t.
She clutched the phone to her chest and slid down against the wall, her spine folding in on itself as if grief had weight. The apartment felt wrong without Bonnie’s noise–no humming in the kitchen, no half-finished conversations, no presence taking up space.
The silence was unbearable.
Emi whispered Bonnie’s name into it anyway.
No one answered.
She stopped performing. Stopped writing. Stopped going to work. She called in sick for days, then weeks, until eventually she just stopped calling at all and they fired her.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
The box sat on her dresser for sixteen days before she could bring herself to open it.
When she finally did–sitting on the left side of the bed, her side, because she couldn't bring herself to sleep on Bonnie's side–she found a pair of shoes inside. Beautiful black suede pumps, expensive looking, brand new.
Emi pulled them out carefully. There was nothing else in the box.
In a flash of rage, she nearly threw them across the room. But something made her check the lid, and that's when she saw the note taped inside:
Emi,
I'm sorry I didn't get to give these to you in person. I was saving them for a special occasion, but I didn't want to take this secret to the grave.
On my phone, in the voice memos app, there's a poem for you that I wrote a while ago but never had the guts to share. I think it's my favorite.
I love you so much. Don't forget that, okay?
I'll see you later,
Bonnie
Emi's hands shook as she set the shoes down and crossed to the dresser where she'd put Bonnie's things–the belongings the hospital had returned. She'd been avoiding them, unable to look at Bonnie's phone or wallet or the leather jacket that still smelled like her.
Now she picked up the phone. It was dead, so she plugged it in and waited for it to power on. She knew the passcode–they'd shared everything.
The voice memos app was right on the home screen. And there, at the top of the list: "For Emi."
Emi took the phone back to bed. She wrapped herself in Bonnie's jacket, breathing in the fading scent of cigarettes and cologne. Then she pressed play.
Bonnie's voice filled the small apartment:
I didn’t mean for it to end like this.
I kept believing there would be more time,
another coffee,
another almost-apology,
another morning where I’d swear
this is the day I stop.
But time slips.
It always does
when your hands won’t steady
and your heart screams
louder than your will.
You used to say I looked strongest
right before I broke.
I laughed,
like it was a compliment.
I was good at pretending
I wasn’t already vanishing.
I remember the first time you said yes
after denying me.
You grabbed my arm, frustrated, gentle,
trying not to care.
That look on your face,
the one I will only ever call cute.
I followed without thinking.
I always followed you.
You dragged me to the nearest coffee shop.
I paid,
not because you made me,
but because I wanted to be better
than whatever you already thought I was.
We sipped slowly.
Conversation moved like liquid between us.
Lingering glances.
I couldn’t tell if you still hated me
or if I was already forgiven.
Your dark hair was richer
than the aroma around us.
All I wanted was to reach out,
tuck it behind your ear,
let you hear my apologies,
hide the sharp words I used to wear
like armor.
Back when you were just some girl
in a pale blue dress,
Cinderella with worn-down heels,
the only proof of an evil stepmother.
Back when I was just some girl
with a watchful eye
and not enough taste to see beauty,
huffing and puffing
like a big, bad wolf.
I was too scared to ask for your number,
so I said, I’ll see you around
like a moron.
And somehow, we did.
Again and again.
Until my heart beat so full of affection
I was sure it would burst.
I’m still sure it will.
I teased your words.
You teased mine.
Your sad songs of heartbreak
were “funny,” you said.
My poems about real life
were “too much.”
We were wrong about each other
in the sweetest ways.
We sat in cafés all over town,
writing about each other
until we forgot the other was there.
Too shy to share the pages,
but the blushes,
the small smiles,
they told everything.
Our home became a mess
of your stuff and my stuff
and our stuff,
blending and separating
like a lava lamp.
But our shoes stayed neat by the door:
scuffed combat boots,
damaged heels,
side by side, waiting for adventures.
Only one pair was truly broken.
If you hadn’t acted against your thoughts,
I never would have wrapped my arms
around your waist.
Never would have shown you off
like something sacred.
I would’ve been just another nobody
at all your shows,
chasing a rush
stronger than anything
I ever put into my bloodstream.
If you hadn’t turned back,
I wouldn’t even be here.
You calmed storms
you never even knew existed.
So,
to my azure princess,
my starving artist,
singer, songwriter.
To my stubborn girl
with a strong heart.
I loved you
in every way I knew how,
even when I didn’t know
how to survive it.
To my hope,
the light that stayed
even as mine dimmed
with every needle,
every pill
I promised myself I wouldn’t take
and did anyway.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.
I’m sorry my light faded.
To my girlfriend: I love you.
And I'm sorry.
The recording ended. Emi played it again. And again. And again. She must have listened to it twenty times that night, memorizing every word, every pause, every breath.
Bonnie had known. She'd known she was losing the fight and she'd written this anyway, left it behind like a message in a bottle.
Emi cried until she had nothing left. Then she got up, washed her face, and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.
She looked terrible. Hollow-eyed, pale, like she was the one who'd died.
But Bonnie's voice was in her head: Write about now. Write about the present.
So that's what Emi decided to do.
It took Emi four weeks to work up the courage to go back to performing.
She'd been living off her savings–what little there was. She'd stopped going out except to buy food. She spent most of her time on the balcony, where she and Bonnie had shared so many mornings, writing.
She filled page after page of her pink journal with new words. Not songs about heartbreak in the romantic sense, but about grief. About loss. About loving someone and watching them slip away. About the guilt of surviving when someone else didn't.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't comfortable. But it was honest.
She also started a new project: folding paper stars.
She'd seen it online–origami stars, hundreds of them, folded from strips of colored paper. There was a legend that if you folded a thousand paper cranes, your wish would come true. Emi didn't have the patience for cranes, but stars were simpler.
Before she folded each one, she wrote on the paper strip: I want her back.
The jar on her dresser sitting next to Bonnie's journal and the new shoes slowly filled with tiny paper stars, each one a wish that Emi knew would never come true.
But it gave her something to do with her hands on the nights when the grief was too big to contain.
On a Friday night, exactly three months after Bonnie's death, Emi put on the black pumps–they fit perfectly–and walked to the bar where she used to perform.
The owner recognized her. "Emi! We've missed you. You want your usual slot?"
"If it's available."
"For you? Whenever."
So Emi signed up for the open mic and sat at the bar, nursing a drink she didn't really want, waiting for her turn.
When they called her name, she walked to the stage in Bonnie's shoes and stood in front of the microphone. The lights were just as hot as always. The crowd was just as disinterested.
But in the front row, where Bonnie used to sit, there was an empty chair.
Emi took a breath.
"Hi everyone. I'm Emi. I haven't performed in a while, so please bear with me." She paused. "This piece is for someone I lost. Someone who taught me how to write about the present instead of hiding in the past."
She didn't sing. Instead, she spoke, letting the words flow like Bonnie had taught her–like spoken word, like slam poetry, like truth.
I wish I had written this sooner–
but some truths need time
to loosen their grip,
to slip through our fingers
before they can be named.
Like stars.
Their light reaches us
long after they’ve burned,
long after they’ve already changed.
You were a star like that–
your glow thinning with every day,
dimming so slowly
I mistook it for constancy.
It took me far too long
to notice the night growing darker.
Among the skyful of stars,
you looked like the rest–
and I know that is the one thing
you never wanted to be.
You tried so hard to stand apart,
to carve your shape into the dark.
But listen to me now:
uniqueness is not stitched into fabric,
nor painted in shadowed eyes.
It does not live in costumes or contrasts.
It lives in the way a soul speaks
without words–
in the quiet, unguarded light
that no darkness can imitate.
I'd seen you in crowds passing by before and you were always just another somebody I'd never speak to, somebody I would brush shoulders with but never exchange thoughts with over a cup of coffee.
And your uniqueness came from your actions, stepping forth to pull me aside as I walked home. To ask if I'd go somewhere with you so we could discuss cliches and poetry like they were the most normal topics in the world.
And at the time I hadn't realized you were a supernova. You'd already hit your pinnacle and now you were just expelling your problems from your life as you waited for your star cycle to end.
I tried and tried to help pull you back together but the damage was done long before I'd ever gotten the chance to say "hello."
But unlike others I don't see black holes as wastelands, as something to give up on.
So when people tried to fill your absence with grief and sorrow, I folded star after star and put them in this small glass jar I keep next to our journals.
They say if you fold one thousand paper cranes your wish will come true. But I'm not wishing for longevity or peace or even happiness.
Instead, before I fold each one up, I write "I want her back" on each little star. Over and over and over again.
Because you taught me to write about now, about the present moment. And my present is defined by your absence. My now is shaped by the hole you left behind.
You told me heartbreak was overrated. That I needed to write about real things, about the world, about what matters.
So here it is: the realest thing I know.
Loving you didn't save you. But it saved me. And I carry that forward, into whatever comes next, with paper stars in my pocket and your words in my heart.
I'll see you later, Bonnie.
I promise.
When Emi finished, the bar was silent.
Then someone started clapping. Then someone else. Within seconds, the entire room was applauding–not the scattered, polite acknowledgment she was used to, but real applause. People were standing. Some were crying.
Emi looked out at them, these strangers who'd actually listened, and felt something crack open in her chest. Not healing–not yet. But the possibility of it. The beginning.
She bowed slightly and left the stage.
Outside, the alley was empty. No Bonnie leaning against the wall with a cigarette and a smirk. Just empty space and the distant sound of traffic.
But Emi could almost feel her there anyway. In the cool night air, in the rhythm of the words still echoing in her head, in the black pumps that carried her forward.
She walked home slowly, in no rush to return to the apartment that was both full of Bonnie and emptied by her absence. When she got there, she added another line to the wall:
"The light of the stars takes years to reach us. So even after they're gone, we can still see them shine."
Then she sat down at the coffee table–Bonnie's journal on one side, her own on the other–and began to write.
Not about the past. Not about what she'd lost.
About now. About carrying love forward. About how grief and growth could exist in the same breath.
About how she was still here, still writing, still trying.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
The jar of paper stars sat on the dresser, slowly filling. Emi kept folding them, kept writing I want her back on each strip of paper, even though she knew it was impossible.
But somewhere along the way, the ritual became less about bringing Bonnie back and more about keeping her memory alive. Each star was a moment they'd shared, a conversation, a kiss, a morning drinking coffee on the balcony.
Each star was proof that what they'd had was real.
That love, even when it ends in tragedy, matters.
That Bonnie Pattraphas had existed, had created, had loved and been loved.
And that was something worth remembering.
Worth folding into tiny paper stars, one after another, until the jar overflowed with light.