Chapter Text
The song had been on repeat long enough for Murphy to stop hearing the lyrics properly.
That was usually the point where she changed it.
But somehow, tonight, she let it keep playing.
Can I go where you go?
The soft crackle of Taylor Swift’s Lover filled her headphones as the bus rolled lazily through the city, windows fogged from the rain outside. Murphy rested her forehead against the glass and watched blurred streetlights smear gold against the dark.
It wasn’t even the kind of music she listened to.
Too soft. Too sentimental. Too slow.
The song existed in one of her playlists because somebody else had added it years ago using her phone while laughing about how “your music taste is emotionally constipated.”
Astrid.
Murphy hadn’t removed the song since.
Maybe because deleting it felt too deliberate. Maybe because hearing it every now and then hurts in a familiar way. Or maybe because some stupid part of her had convinced itself that if she kept the song, she’d somehow keep the memory attached to it too.
The bus jerked to a stop.
Murphy blinked, pulling herself out of it.
Right. Pottery class.
Worst decision she’d made this month.
Her friend Gwen had bought her a beginner ceramics course as a birthday gift after one too many conversations about Murphy needing “a hobby that doesn’t involve doom-scrolling and listening to sad music at 2am.”
Murphy had argued that music was a hobby.
Gwen had argued back that aggressively reorganizing Spotify playlists did not count as emotional growth.
Now here she was, stepping off a bus in the middle of a rainy Thursday evening with wet sneakers and zero artistic talent.
The pottery studio sat tucked between a flower shop and a tiny secondhand bookstore, warm yellow light spilling from the windows. A painted sign hung above the door:
CLAY BY HAND — BEGINNER CERAMICS
Murphy already wanted to go home.
Still, she pushed the door open.
Warmth hit her first.
Not just temperature — the entire place felt warm.
The studio smelled like clay dust, coffee, and something faintly sweet. Shelves lined the walls displaying bowls and mugs made by previous students, each imperfect in ways that somehow made them more beautiful.
Music played softly through speakers overhead. Someone laughed near the back of the room.
A girl at the counter looked up.
“First class?”
“Is it obvious?” Murphy muttered.
The girl grinned. “You have the ‘I regret coming here’ look.”
“Good. Accurate.”
She signed in, got handed an apron, and followed vague instructions toward a wheel near the middle of the room.
People chatted around her while preparing clay. Couples. Friends. One elderly man who looked dangerously passionate about ceramics.
Murphy sat down carefully, pulling her headphones off and stuffing them into her hoodie pocket.
Lover kept playing faintly through the loose connection for a second before finally cutting out.
Good. Maybe now her brain would stop being weird.
“Alright everyone!”
The instructor clapped his hands together enthusiastically. Far too enthusiastically for seven at night.
“We’re doing basic wheel throwing today. Don’t worry if you’re terrible at it. Most of you will be.”
“That’s comforting,” Murphy mumbled.
The woman beside her snorted.
The instructor continued talking about technique, pressure, patience, and something about “letting the clay guide you,” which sounded fake but whatever.
Murphy tried to focus.
She really did.
But the rain tapping against the windows made her sleepy, and the warm studio lighting made everything feel softer than usual. People around her laughed easily, hands covered in clay, music humming quietly overhead.
It reminded her of something.
Or someone.
Before she could stop herself, memories started slipping in.
Two kids sitting cross-legged on a kitchen floor making “art” from air-dry clay.
Tiny uneven animals lined up proudly across newspaper sheets.
Astrid insisting her lopsided cat looked realistic.
Murphy arguing that her turtle had personality.
“You made the shell upside down.”
“It’s abstract.”
“You don’t know what abstract means.”
“I do too.”
“You’re literally nine.”
Murphy blinked hard.
Jesus.
She hadn’t thought about that in years.
“Okay,” the instructor announced. “Hands on the clay.”
Murphy obediently placed her hands against the spinning lump in front of her.
Immediately, the clay wobbled violently.
“Oh, that’s not—”
The entire shape collapsed sideways.
Someone nearby laughed.
Murphy glared at the clay like it had personally insulted her.
“Traitor.”
“You’re strangling it.”
The voice came from across the room.
Soft. Amused.
Familiar.
Murphy froze.
Her hands stopped moving completely as her heartbeat stumbled somewhere into her throat.
No. No way.
Slowly, she looked up.
There was a girl sitting two pottery wheels away, sleeves rolled to her elbows, fingers streaked with white clay. Her hair was longer now, darker than Murphy remembered, falling softly around her shoulders as she leaned toward her wheel with easy concentration.
But it was her smile that did it.
That same smile.
Warm enough to undo entire years.
Murphy stared.
The girl laughed quietly under her breath.
And suddenly Murphy was twelve again.
Summer afternoons. Sticky popsicles. Sidewalk chalk. Shared headphones. Tiny fingers tangled together while crossing streets because Astrid used to be scared of cars turning too fast.
The girl tilted her head slightly.
Recognition flashed across her face immediately.
Not confusion.
Not hesitation.
Recognition.
And then—
“You still make ugly clay animals?”
Murphy’s entire brain shut off.
Actually shut off.
The clay spun uselessly beneath her frozen hands while her mouth opened and closed with absolutely nothing coming out.
Astrid smiled wider.
God. Even that was the same.
Except softer now. Older. Like life had rounded out all the sharp little edges Murphy remembered from childhood.
“You—”
Murphy stopped. Tried again.
“You’re real?”
Smooth. Really smooth.
A laugh escaped Astrid before she could stop it, and the sound hit Murphy straight in the chest. It was ridiculous how instantly recognisable it was. Like no time had passed at all.
“Well,” Astrid said carefully, “that’s kind of concerning.”
“You disappeared.”
The words came out before Murphy could soften them.
Astrid’s expression flickered.
Just for a second.
Guilt maybe. Or sadness.
Then the instructor suddenly appeared beside Murphy holding a sponge.
“Your clay is dying.”
Murphy looked down.
The lump on her wheel looked horrific.
Astrid burst out laughing properly this time.
And somehow, against all logic, the sound made something warm bloom painfully beneath Murphy’s ribs.
By the end of class, Murphy had successfully created what looked like a collapsed cereal bowl.
Astrid had made an actual vase.
Of course she had.
“Show-off,” Murphy muttered while washing clay off her hands.
Astrid stood beside her at the sink, smiling faintly. “You’re still mean.”
“You still vanished for like ten years.”
There it was again.
That tiny shift in Astrid’s face.
Murphy regretted it immediately.
The silence stretched awkwardly between them while water ran over their hands.
Outside, rain continued pouring steadily against the windows.
Finally, Astrid spoke.
“I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”
Murphy stared at her.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Astrid shrugged one shoulder, eyes dropping to the sink.
“I look different.”
“You laugh the same.”
The words slipped out naturally.
Too naturally.
Astrid looked up again.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Murphy suddenly became hyperaware of everything:
The rain outside.
Warm lights overhead
Clay dust in the air
How close Astrid was standing
And stupidly, impossibly—
the tiny constellation of freckles near her nose.
Murphy remembered those too.
What the hell.
Astrid dried her hands slowly. “You changed a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Different.”
“Wow. Devastating.”
That got another laugh out of her.
Murphy hated how much she wanted to hear it again.
They packed up slowly after that, lingering without acknowledging they were lingering.
The studio emptied around them.
People said goodbye. Chairs scraped. Music changed overhead.
Neither of them left.
Finally, the instructor flicked off half the lights.
“Oh,” Astrid said quietly. “We should probably go.”
“Yeah.”
Neither moved immediately.
Then they both reached for the door at the same time and bumped shoulders.
“Sorry.”
“No, my bad.”
They laughed awkwardly together.
Some things apparently never changed.
Outside, the rain had softened into drizzle.
The city glowed silver beneath wet streetlights while cars hissed along the roads. Murphy shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets as they started walking down the sidewalk together.
It felt weird. Not bad weird. Just surreal.
Like somebody had reached into her life and stitched a missing piece back in without warning.
Astrid walked beside her quietly for a while before speaking.
“You still listening to music all the time?”
Murphy blinked.
“What?”
“You always had headphones on.”
Right. She used to. Still did, honestly.
Murphy huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”
“What are you listening to lately?”
Murphy almost answered automatically before remembering the embarrassing truth.
Taylor Swift.
Because of her.
Absolutely not.
“Stuff.”
Astrid narrowed her eyes playfully. “That sounds suspicious.”
“You disappeared for a decade. You don’t get access to my playlists anymore.”
The teasing landed wrong.
Immediately.
Astrid’s smile faded slightly.
Murphy internally screamed.
Nice going.
But instead of getting upset, Astrid just nodded slowly.
“Fair.”
Rainwater reflected neon signs across the pavement as they walked another block in silence.
Murphy could feel the old hurt sitting between them now.
Heavy. Unspoken.
Because one day Astrid had simply been gone.
No goodbye. No explanation.
Just an empty apartment and disconnected numbers and years of silence afterward.
Twelve-year-old Murphy had spent weeks checking the playground after school anyway.
Just in case.
The memory still embarrassed her.
“So,” Astrid said eventually, softer this time, “you hate pottery?”
Murphy exhaled through her nose. “Passionately.”
“That bowl thing you made was kind of cute.”
“It looked diseased.”
“It had personality.”
Murphy looked at her sharply.
Astrid was smiling.
And suddenly they were kids again sitting cross-legged on kitchen tiles arguing about ugly clay turtles.
Something inside Murphy loosened unexpectedly.
“You remember that?”
“The turtle?” Astrid grinned. “Unfortunately.”
“That turtle was ahead of its time.”
“It looked like a potato.”
“It was abstract.”
Astrid laughed loud enough that a couple passing them glanced over.
Murphy’s chest hurt.
Not in a bad way.
Just— too full all at once.
Like she’d accidentally uncovered a version of herself she thought was gone forever.
They reached a crosswalk.
Astrid stepped closer automatically when cars sped past through the rain.
The movement was small. Unthinking.
But Murphy remembered.
Astrid hated fast turns.
Even as kids she used to grab Murphy’s sleeve crossing streets.
A strange warmth spread slowly through Murphy’s chest.
You still remember me too.
The thought hit harder than expected.
At the corner, Astrid stopped walking.
“My bus stop’s here.”
“Oh.”
Disappointment arrived way too quickly.
Murphy ignored it.
Astrid shifted slightly beneath the streetlight glow. “Are you coming back next week?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How emotionally traumatic the pottery experience remains.”
Astrid smiled again.
God.
That smile really was dangerous.
“You should come back,” she said quietly.
Murphy looked at her properly then.
Rain clung lightly to Astrid’s hair. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, sleeves still rolled messily from class. She looked older than the girl Murphy remembered, but somehow softer too. Calmer.
Beautiful, a dangerous part of Murphy’s brain supplied immediately.
Absolutely not.
Murphy cleared her throat.
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”
Astrid hesitated.
Then: “I’m glad you still make ugly clay animals.”
Murphy scoffed. “I made one ugly bowl.”
“Growth.”
“Rude.”
Astrid laughed softly again before stepping backward toward the bus stop bench.
“Goodnight, Murphy.”
The sound of her name after all these years nearly knocked the air out of her lungs.
“Night.”
Murphy stood there longer than necessary after Astrid sat down.
Only when the traffic light changed did she finally turn away.
Halfway home, she pulled her headphones back on.
Spotify resumed automatically.
Better Man started playing.
Murphy stopped walking beneath the glow of a convenience store sign.
For a second she considered skipping the song.
Instead, she let it play.
And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like losing someone.
It felt like finding them again.