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In Paris, after the club, when it’s 5AM and dawn is breaking, Sophie leans against the headboard with half-lidded eyes and asks her, “Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?” Manon asks, still drunk and coming down from the adrenaline of the party.
Sophie closes her eyes. “All of it.”
She doesn’t elaborate—they’ve been so close for years that they’ve developed their own language, and Manon suddenly realizes what she’s asking of her.
The girls and maybe even Sophia.
Manon seven months ago would have said no. Manon, fresh from the hiatus, would have rolled her eyes and said something like why would I?
But this is Manon now—seven months later, and there’s been enough time between then and now for it not to matter enough to lie to herself. She’s had enough time running from it that she doesn’t want to lie about it anymore.
“Maybe. Yes.” She leaves it at that. She knows Sophie will understand her.
“Sophia called,” Manon’s older sister—Lena—tells her when she briefly visits Zurich to drop off Spoon so she can go to the Vogue photoshoot in Italy.
“Sophia?” Manon asks, even if she knows which one. There’s only one Sophia in her life. Even if there had been ten more, there would still just be one.
“Mm,” Lena confirms, picking Spoon’s cage up and opening the little pet door. “Said to tell you happy birthday.”
Happy birthday. Only Yoonchae and Lara had greeted her, really, crossing the invisible boundary she’d placed between herself and the girls. Daniela is still mad, still blames her for a lot of things—some true, some not—and Megan’s still guilty from the Harry Daniels-Trisha Paytas incident.
Sophia, on the other hand, had liked her story post, and had left it at that.
“She could’ve messaged me,” Manon replies, looking at the potted plant she’d left in her own room that Lena has rescued and kept on her own instead.
Sometimes Manon did that—leave. She forgets about the things she left behind until she comes back and they’re wilting.
Lena shrugs and gives her a small smile. “Yeah. Probably.”
Manon breaks up with David when she gets back to LA after Italy. She’d seen pictures of him in Beaches in WeHo (she’d recognize that place anywhere, knows it because Lara and Megan had dragged her there enough in their early years for Manon to recognize the interior), wrapped around a guy and a girl in a way that wasn’t friendly.
Congrats on coming out, you fucking dick, Manon angrily texts him—because, like, good. Good for him that he’s, what, bi now? He didn’t have to cheat to do that. He’s doing a disservice to the bi community, proving stereotypes that were never true.
David doesn’t respond except to say srry at 4AM, probably high off molly-water and acid.
“You never liked him anyways,” Sophie says when she finds out.
“I liked him enough,” Manon responds, trying very hard not to stare at the white paint on the drywall in the hole-in-the-wall Mexican place Sophie had dragged her to.
“So you say,” Sophie replies, not entirely disagreeing with her, but looking at her like—whatever you say.
Manon wonders why she even bothered with David. He wasn’t nearly half as cute as he was to act the way he did. She cringes sometimes, when she remembers that whole back-and-forth of them blocking and unblocking each other that the fans had caught on to.
“He was okay.” She settles for that.
Manon had reached out maybe once—only once—during Coachella. She’d sent Sophia a message that felt like she was walking on glass when she did it, losing some sort of secret silent stand-off:
you did great, all of you
Sophia had liked the message, didn’t respond for several hours, and then replied:
thanks, you too
So, she’d seen Manon on stage with PinkPantherese then. Maybe the exact same way Manon had seen the five Katseye girls perform their songs without her, receiving their flowers for the kingdom she helped them build.
Manon had put in all the work, and had walked away with only half the glory; the other half nothing but what-ifs.
“I’m not going to Disney,” Manon tells Laroi, who is insisting she come with him and Sophie.
Laroi, who is looking more and more like his good friend and clear idol Justin Bieber, laughs and then promptly grabs her arm and ushers her into his private van where Sophie is already waiting.
“It’ll be fun. Not everything has to be, like, underground and mysterious.”
True—but Manon is European, that’s like, her whole thing.
She goes anyway, because Sophie really likes him, and Sophie had been there when Manon had really liked Sophia. Girl code, or whatever.
Disney is loud, crowded, and so very American it sort of makes her head hurt. The last time Manon had come here, she’d been with KATSEYE, and Sophia and her had separated from the group at some point to walk around.
“It was her favorite place,” Manon tells Laroi and Sophie when they exit the merch store, and she's holding this stupid Goofy plushy. “She was here, like, everyday that she could be, I think.”
“Huh, really?” Sophie says, thinking about that—a girl in her twenties with all the money in the world choosing Disney, the same place, over and over again instead of traveling.
“Yeah.” Manon turns the Goofy plushy over and stares at its beady eyes that were supposed to be cute. “Sophia’s like that.”
Where Manon was in search of, like—a great something—somewhere out there, always traveling and restless, never taking root too long in any place, Sophia was the opposite.
Sophia’s great something was in herself, Manon thinks. Like, Sophia isn’t the type to revisit, because she isn’t the type to leave in the first place. Like, Sophia prefers the old t-shirt from Manila with holes, instead of the designer Ralph Lauren pajamas Daniela had gifted her that one birthday.
Like how, Sophia had preferred Leon—because he was familiar.
They run into each other a couple of times. Once at the World Cup, where Daniela is screaming into Sophia’s ear, and Manon has passed by them.
Daniela hadn’t noticed, but Sophia had immediately, like her body was still attuned to Manon, even in a crowded stadium full of yelling football fans.
Manon was still hurt then, and maybe Sophia was too, because they didn’t really talk immediately. They stared at each other in the way they knew how—with that sadness that comes when you’ve felt what it feels like to have a piece of the sun burn in your hand when you held someone’s hand and still knew them, even if they were a stranger to you.
Much later, Sophia approaches her, once the game is over, and Daniela has walked off with Lara somewhere else.
“Had fun?” Sophia asks, instead of saying hello.
Manon tilts her head and stares at the Filipina for a long while before she answers. “Yes. You like football now?”
“Soccer,” Sophia corrects her, but she’s wrong. Soccer is the American term for it—and she’s not even really from America, she’s from Manila, but maybe Sophia’s been here too long now that she can’t tell the difference.
Manon isn’t like that. She doesn’t forget Zurich no matter how far she is. Doesn’t allow any other place to be home.
“Football,” Manon responds, raising her eyebrow.
Sophia rolls her eyes fondly. “Well—whatever. I don’t like soccer.”
“Dani does?” Manon asks, even if she sort of knows the answer because once upon a time, Daniela and her were roommates.
Sophia nods. “Yeah. You know, Latina roots and all. Ana used to watch it when Dani was growing up. Something like that.”
“Okay,” Manon says. “I like football.”
That’s why she’s here. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
Manon doesn’t go to places she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t linger where she’s not welcome.
Sophia is different—she stays, she makes space, she conquers, makes it her own.
“Did you try the food stalls?” Sophia asks her, hesitantly.
Manon sees it for what it is: an invitation. Come eat with me. Walk with me. Let’s keep talking. Something like that.
She shakes her head. “I have to go, my ride’s here.”
Because why are they here talking about football—or soccer—when they haven’t even talked about the kisses, or the scratched bedpost, or the broken china-plate that had little sampaguita flowers on it from the time they’d had that fight?
Why are they here pretending?
“Oh, okay,” Sophia says, disappointed. She bites her cheek, like she wants to say more, but knows she can’t.
“I’ll see you around?” Manon offers instead, because maybe they will.
Maybe, they’ll see each other again in the way that no matter how far Manon runs, where she travels, there’s always a 0.01 chance she runs into Sophia.
“Yeah, of course.” Sophia’s eyes linger on hers. “Tell David I said hi?”
Manon laughs a bit at that. Right. Sophia didn’t know anything about her now. “It’s done,” she says. “With him. Tell the girls I said hi.”
Manon turns and walks off before Sophia can pry more out of her. Around, Sophia, it’s easy to get stuck. It’s easy to stay and be content.
Manon can’t have her great something if she sticks around here long enough.
“Don’t, like, freak out,” Sophie whispers into Manon’s ear at the Ariana Grande concert. It’s too close and therefore too loud.
Manon winces and pulls away a bit. “What?” She asks, over Ariana belting out We Can’t Be Friends.
“The girls are, like, five seats away from you,” Sophie points out.
Manon shouldn’t turn her head, but she’s always been a rule breaker. She looks, because she can’t help herself.
There—Lara and Megan screaming the lyrics from the top of her lungs, Yoonchae covering her ears but swaying along to the music, Daniela being back-hugged by Jonah, and Sophia.
Sophia standing a respectable distance from Leon, who is looking at her like he wants to back-hug her too.
Sophia who is singing with Karlee, going—I’ll wait for your love, I’ll wait for your love.
Manon knew, in retrospect, that she might be here. It’s Ariana, and Sophia loves her. Loves her more than Manon did.
Manon is maybe here because she was hoping in some small way.
“She’s having fun. That’s good,” Manon says, turning to face her best friend again.
Sophie gives her this long look. “Let’s say hi? After the show?”
Manon shrugs and turns her attention back to Ariana Grande. “Maybe.”
Missy calls her to remind her of the contract negotiations that have been in hiatus as long as Manon has.
Tells her, “Bang wants you back, we can maybe move things around.”
Tells her, “Matrix and GAP paid for you for the whole year.”
Tells her, “You’re expected to show up.”
She doesn’t say come back or we need you. Missy never would. She’s never liked Manon enough to admit that Katseye needed her.
“You haven’t fixed the terms, yet,” is all Manon replies. Her lawyer isn’t present and she knows enough about HxG and Missy that she can’t say too much or else.
Missy scoffs. “Just show up. Is it really that hard? To do that?”
Manon wants to say—I want to. I wanted to be there. At the award show. At Coachella. In Pinky Up. I wanted that even if I didn’t like the music.
Manon wants to say—Do you know how much I loved them all to be there even when I didn’t like it?
Manon wants to say—Shut the fuck up.
Instead, she says, “we’ll talk with the lawyers.”
Missy ends the call pissed, probably already walking off to shit-talk Manon to the other five girls some more.
Manon hates that. Hates that Missy gatekeeps KATSEYE from her as if Manon hadn’t helped build it.
Hates that she watches their life through pictures.
They’re in Disney again because of Laroi when Manon sees Sophia with Leon.
Leon trails after Sophia like some lovesick puppy, and Sophia just stands in line as if she isn’t a popstar now, waiting to buy a churro. She still has a sweet tooth.
Manon doesn’t know what it is—maybe because she’s bored and she hates Disneyland, and Laroi and Sophie keep making out whenever they think she’s not looking—but she makes her way to Sophia.
“The Dole Whip used to be your favorite,” Manon is saying before she can stop herself.
Sophia turns around so fast it’s almost funny. Her eyes are wide and several emotions pass through her face, but then—like the trained professional she is—she schools her expression into something normal.
“The churro is good too,” Sophia replies, giving her a small smile.
“But the Dole Whip was your favorite,” Manon says, and she doesn’t know why she’s insisting but it feels important somehow.
It feels important somehow that Sophia remembers, and that Manon remembers that about her.
“Have you tried the churro?” Sophia asks instead.
Manon has, and it’s nothing special. Average. “Can get that churro anywhere.”
Sophia chuckles at that and Leon looks awkward next to her, his eyes watching their exchange like it’s a tennis volley. “It’s okay, like, it’s enough for a snack.”
It’s okay, Sophia says, like okay is a good enough substitute for her favorite.
Manon isn’t like that. She wants something great instead of something good. Dani used to say that made her selfish, and sometimes that’s true, because Manon’s hurt people before because of that—has made faces at gifts people gave her that she didn’t want, has left partners before because she liked them but not enough, has left every place that could be home because it never felt right.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Sophia says.
“Laroi,” Manon replies, sighting. “And Sophie. They like it. Here.”
“Used to have to drag you here,” Sophia says, under her breath, like she’s remembering and also doesn’t want Leon to hear that she’s remembering.
“I had fun when we went,” Manon tells her.
That was true. Sometimes, she went to places she didn’t want to if it meant Sophia would be happy too. She’s never not had fun with Sophia.
She sometimes thinks that Sophia was one of the few—aside from Sophie—that Manon would have been okay doing the normal with.
Because doing average with Sophia always felt better than the best somewhere else. Like, how singing a song about shaking ass in the parking lot was okay because she got to be with the five other girls.
“Your friends are leaving,” Sophia points out, motioning to Sophie and Laroi’s retreating figures.
Manon was lingering without meaning to. Manon wonders why none of her rules matter around Sophia. She smiles and then says, “See you around,” and walks off.
They’re in the red-light district of Amsterdam where Sophie’s friend of a friend is DJ-ing in a burlesque club, and Manon’s taken too much Ket that she’s effectively k-holing on the dance floor.
Sophie immediately grabs her and drags her outside, forces them both down to sit on the dirty sidewalk, and shoves a bottle of Voss water in her hand.
Voss. On the curb. Of some fucking shitty burlesque club, where there are several twinks tongue-fucking each other across them.
She almost laughs. If she wasn’t dying right now, she’d be laughing at that—something expensive and considered special just there on the dirty street.
“You okay?” Sophie asks after thirty minutes and Manon’s starting to finally sober up.
Manon nods and just sort of closes her eyes. She leans against Sophie’s shoulder. It’s nice, she thinks, that Sophie brings her everywhere or that Manon brings her everywhere.
She’s not sure who does the following anymore, she just knows that they’re together wherever they go, traveling to places unknown and known, visiting for the first time and then revisiting and then restarting the whole loop.
“Let’s go home,” Sophie says, already booking a ride on her phone. “I think we’re gonna die here if we don’t.”
Manon lifts her head from her shoulder and looks at her and sees that Sophie is also drugged out of her mind, just LARP-ing around like she’s the sober one between them.
“Do you miss Laroi?” She asks, and she probably shouldn’t, the break-up is fresh, but Manon did that sometimes—poked at a wound before retreating.
Sophie puts her phone down and exhales through her nose. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“He shouldn’t have. Done that. Left,” Manon says.
“He went after Tate. He wanted her more. I can, maybe, understand that,” Sophie replies, giving Manon a knowing look.
Wanted more. Laroi wanted more than Sophie. Manon can’t imagine that, something being more than her best friend.
Maybe she's biased. Maybe, when you love someone so much—the way she loves Sophie, which is to say, with everything she has—you don’t need more.
Maybe, you love them in spite of things, not because of things.
And—
Manon looks up at the sky. “I’m so fucking dumb.”
Sophie laughs then, like she already knows what Manon is thinking, what conclusion she has reached, and has been waiting for her to get there.
“It’s okay. Love you regardless,” Sophie says.
Regardless. In spite of. Despite.
Manon had been looking at it all wrong. Or not wrong, but in the way she always knew how.
She wanted to see the world, wanted to find something great, and believed in the magic of discovering.
She suddenly thinks of that three-bedroom dorm, of how loud Dani had been as a roommate, of how Yoonchae had said “Sinigang is okay even if it’s not seaweed soup” that one birthday Sophia had made it for her, of how Megan had said “Adela will be big someday, maybe not now, but someday,” and then Ain’t in LA had come out months later and Adela was a popstar, of how Lara was okay with the distance between the US and UK if it meant Orlando, even if Lara’s love language was physical touch.
Manon feels sick to her stomach then.
She thinks of that—of Sophia running her hands through her hair and removing her braids patiently even if she could have slept because she was tired after rehearsals too, of the way Sophia placed posters from her childhood bedroom in their Cavite house in their shared dorms when KATSEYE was new, of how Sophia kept Manon’s blue NBA cap and wore it sometimes even if that wasn’t her preferred style, or when Sophia held Manon’s hand during flights because Manon was terrified of heights and Manon’s fear was more important than Sophia’s want, than Sophia wanting to rest.
She barfs in Amsterdam, and realizes she needs to make a flight.
Yoonchae is watching Barbie Life in the Dreamhouse when she steps aside to let Manon in.
Manon had texted her, can I come? and Yoonchae had replied, of course even if their last message was from Manon’s birthday when Yoonchae had greeted her and Manon hadn’t made conversation at all.
“You like Barbie now?” Manon says, breathless from the flight and the sprint here, instead of hello.
“Sophia,” is all Yoonchae replies, guiding Manon to sit on her couch.
Of course, because Sophia and Yoonchae used to live together. Because Sophia has left pieces of herself in Yoonchae.
Because when you love someone, they live inside of you, even if you’re apart.
“I like your blonde hair,” Manon tells her. And she does. It’s new—and there’s something nice about new.
Manon likes that. When things are brand new.
“Better than the black?” Yoonchae asks her, smiling.
Manon thinks about it. She likes the blonde hair, it’s different, but she liked the black hair too. “No. Both are good.”
“Both are good,” Yoonchae replies, nodding. “I like the old one too. Nothing wrong with that.”
Manon feels sick again—because that’s true. You can like something brand new, but that didn’t mean the old thing never mattered at all.
You can, maybe, come home to the familiar and say it’s just as nice as the unknown.
“You’re here, I’m glad,” Yoonchae offers, still smiling in that restrained way she does. “Why?”
“I wanted to see you,” Manon answers, half-honest. She did want to see Yoonchae, but she also maybe wanted to see someone else. And maybe Yoonchae has parts of that someone else in her, so she was the first person Manon thought of.
“Just me?” Yoonchae asks, raising an eyebrow.
Manon doesn’t answer for a long while. She watches Barbie playing on the large flatscreen.
Sophia’s favorite movie is Tangled. She would always make Manon sit with her and watch it.
Manon liked it the first two times, and after that she would zone out and just stare at Sophia, and occasionally kiss her.
“Mahal, pay attention,” Sophia scolds her, but she kisses Manon back every time.
“I already know what happens,” Manon replies, sticking her tongue out playfully.
“It’s still nice, even if you know what happens. And I like this movie,” Sophia tells her.
“So watch it for me” goes unsaid. Manon does anyway—watches it ten million more times.
Sophia and her cuddle every time they do, Sophia humming along to all the songs and repeating some of the iconic lines under her breath.
Manon used to think it was a bit stupid. Wasting time watching the same thing when you could watch the new movie out in cinemas that week, but Sophia is like that.
Sophia likes things no matter how many times she’s had it. She doesn’t need the experience to be new. She just likes what she likes.
“You’re staring,” Sophia teases her. “When you should be watching the movie instead.”
“I’m watching,” Manon disagrees.
She had it all wrong then—had only realized it was watching Sophia watch the movie that made her happy, not the fact that she sometimes did like Tangled.
“She’s at home,” Yoonchae tells Manon, pulling her out of her reprieve.
Was Manon that obvious? Or did Yoonchae still know her even after seven months?
“You should come see her.”
“I will,” Manon replies, because it’s true—she wasn’t here for anything else but Sophia.
She’d come back. She hated America, hated HxG, and hated flying without Sophie or Sophia or someone to ground her, but she’d shown up here—alone and a bit scared if she was willing to admit it.
“Good,” Yoonchae says, standing up. “We’ll catch up next time. Fix what you have to.”
She guides Manon to the door, and Manon turns before she leaves. “Your English. It’s really good now.”
Yoonchae smiles. “I know. I learned.”
I learned.
Yoonchae could have stayed missing Korea, could have stuck with the English she already knew which was passable, and learned something else, a new language—like how Manon had picked up German after Swiss German, and then English, and then French, and a bit of Spanish—but Yoonchae had stuck to it. Had kept learning and re-learning English, unlocking parts until she found home in that foreign language.
Manon had been collecting things again, things that maybe mattered or didn’t. She wasn’t even fluent in French or Spanish, Dani always teasing her that she was lying about the whole Spanish thing.
Manon could’ve spent that time finding new things about what she already knew.
And now, instead of speaking French perfectly, she spoke only, maybe, five sentences and that included oui oui which everyone knows.
Manon had been looking at it all wrong. Had thought brand new meant better. Had thought great meant goodbye.
“Go,” Yoonchae tells her, tilting her head and giving her a knowing look. “Go home.”
Because home wasn’t America. Home wasn’t LA and its superficial shit, or Erewhon. Home wasn’t even maybe Zurich, or that one place in Paris Manon really liked. Home wasn’t the arena or the stadium where they held concerts.
Home was Spoon waiting for her with Lena. Home was Sophie following her everywhere. Home was the five girls she’d befriended.
Home was waiting for her somewhere, probably still watching Tangled.
Manon is moving towards something now, instead of away.
“I’m surprised,” Sophia says, smiling at her and scratching Manon’s head.
They’re in a hotel room in Korea after doing a show near Yoonchae’s hometown.
“Mm?” Manon asks, distracted by Twilight on the TV.
“Surprised you like rewatching this,” Sophia clarifies.
“It’s my favorite movie,” Manon tells her. “You know that.”
Sophia barks out a laugh—she always did that, fully bellied and loud—and then says, “yeah. But you get bored watching the same shit.”
Manon smiles and nuzzles into the Filipina’s neck. “Twilight is an exception.”
“Oh, so there are exceptions, huh?”
“There’s always exceptions,” Manon replies, easily.
She’s a rule breaker after all—even her own rules.
Sophia opens the door with such a force that Manon has to step back and avoid wincing.
“Sorry,” Sophia says, face still shocked. “Did I almost hit you?”
“I’ll be poor if you break my face, Soph,” Manon tells her, teasing. “It’s all I have, y’know.”
“True,” Sophia jokes back, stepping aside. “Come in.”
And just like that—Manon is back in her orbit, or Sophia is back in Manon’s orbit.
“You look tired,” Sophia says, watching her almost like she’s a wild animal about to bolt.
Manon sits down on the couch, and looks around the place. Sophia’s brand new apartment. She’d never been here before.
It was different from the old Katseye dorm, but it still felt like Sophia. There—the old Polaroids from their debut, and her life in Manila, her mom Carla smiling wide at the camera while Basti looks annoyed, and then there—their merch from different eras organized neatly into shelves, and some CDs from her One Direction and BTS.
The same things. In a different place.
“I like it here,” Manon tells Sophia, and hopes she understands.
Sophia smiles at her, tentative. “Yeah? I tried to make it home-y, I don’t know.”
“It does,” Manon says, nodding. “Look like that. Like home.”
They sit in relative silence, Sophia watching her and waiting, and Manon not saying anything because she doesn’t know how to start, doesn’t know how to pick up where they left off.
They stare at each other for a long time—and it’s only then that Manon can see that the joy of her arrival is slowly replaced by the slow realization that she’s back—back as if she hadn’t left.
“You’re here,” Sophia says, looking at her with a mixture of disbelief, relief, and maybe still a bit of anger.
Manon gives her a small smile, and wants to kiss the crease between the Filipina’s eyebrows. “I guess I am.”
“This is just so—“ Sophia starts, and then she closes her eyes, clearly somewhat frustrated. “—this is just so typical you.”
“I missed you,” Manon replies, ignoring her, and also because she’s wanted to say this for a while now.
Sophia exhales through her nose, and furrows her eyebrows, and stares at Manon like she is both her favorite Ari song, and also her worst nightmare come to life.
“Why are you here?” She says. She doesn’t say I miss you, she doesn’t say welcome back.
“Because I missed you,” Manon repeats—because it’s important somehow. It’s important that Sophia knows that.
That she’s back because of her.
Several emotions flash through Sophia’s face, and then she’s standing up and pacing around the spacious living room that somehow feels crowded even if it’s just them.
“You don’t—it’s just—Manon,” Sophia says, like there’s so much in her that needs to come out. She crosses her arms as she paces. “You don’t just get to—you’re here, and you weren’t.”
Manon stands up and walks up to Sophia, steadying her until they’re sort of just standing in front of each other face to face. “I’m here.”
“Manon,” Sophia says, and her voice breaks, and she kind of looks like she’s about to—and Manon still knows her, has always known her, knows her well enough that oh shit Sophia is about to cry and Sophia is never mad without being hurt first. “You left.”
Manon closes her eyes, and pulls the other girl into a soft embrace. Like there’s a sign on top of Sophia’s head that says fragile, handle with care, made in the Philippines.
“I’m sorry.”
Manon wants to say—I thought there was something out there for me. Maybe there is.
Manon wants to say—I was looking for it in all the wrong places.
Manon wants to say—I was hurt and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Manon wants to say—I thought I knew things.
She says, “I’m sorry” instead.
Sorry that she didn’t think it was enough, that she thought her great something couldn’t possibly be here in this shit town LA, that she was meant for more than Gnarly, that she wanted to have it all.
None of it was wrong. It isn’t wrong to want things.
But the way Manon went about wanting those things was wrong. The way she handled it all with so little care—discarding parts of herself to replace it with new things, shiny things, words that sounded nice but didn’t mean shit.
Sophia melts into her embrace after a while, and then she’s just there, crying into Manon’s shoulder, and holding on to Manon’s arms like she’s afraid she’ll slip away the moment things are difficult again.
“I’m here,” Manon cooes into her hair, and that smell—laundry detergent and Chanel no. 5—it’s familiar and it’s nice.
It’s nice.
Being here. With Sophia.
“You’re such a fucking dick,” Sophia says, voice muffled by Manon’s shoulder.
“I am,” Manon agrees, almost smiling even if she kind of feels like crying now too.
“Fuck, but you’re also—you’re you,” Sophia whispers. “You’re not a dick.”
And Sophia is still that girl, Manon realizes. The one who understands, who rewrites the same story to make a better ending.
“You’re great,” Manon whispers into her hair, holding her waist like a tether to this world.
Sophia doesn’t know what that means, probably, but that doesn’t matter.
Manon does.
She pulls Sophia’s face up, cupping her cheek, running her thumb over those pink aquaphor covered lips she’s missed so much, and kisses her.
Great. Manon’s had her something great for a while now.
She just wasn’t looking at the fine print.
Sophia kisses her back automatically, drowns in it, allowing Manon to pull her into her gravitational center. And Manon likes that—likes the way Sophia tastes like what she ate last, likes the way Sophia molds into her, likes the way she makes her feel like everything is brand new.
Good. Bad. Great. They were just words.
Sophia is a person. Manon tilts her head to deepen the kiss and Sophia makes a sound in the back of her throat that she wishes she could swallow and keep forever.
Manon’s home.