in bloom

The whole Emergency Department knew it, some more than others. Even in his reprimands, and the way he handled the grueling aspects of the job—from the methodology of cutting into human skin, the cutting of life support, to the difficult families—with intent. A quiet respect hung in the hospital's atmosphere, mingling with the sharp scent of antiseptics and industrial-strength cleaning agents. 

For Jack, it was like riding a bike. 

In their decades working in the medical field, their trajectories were parallel. They were both attendings and handled the responsibilities that came with that role. You clock in, you see the absolute worst state a person could be in by a factor of ten, you come home, reflecting on what the hell you’d just been a witness to. Like a routine, they plunged into a world filled with anguish and despair, where they attested to the most harrowing sights imaginable—pain etched in the faces of patients, blood in places that shouldn’t be stained, hopes hanging by a thread. 

When they returned home, the emotional toll would flood over them in an unrelenting tide. It left them shaken and contemplative, as they grappled with the surreal nature of what they had just endured. 

Still, no matter what repulsiveness they saw, they would always find a way home in each other. It hurt like hell, yes, but that’s the beauty of having a rock, something you could lean on during times of hardship.

Until it leaves forever.

When Robby never came back from his sabbatical, the atmosphere was heavy with his absence as the days stretched beyond the expected return date.

Jack’s on the rooftop again after a particularly ruthless shift, able to see the city of Pittsburgh stretching as far as the horizon line goes.

Not a word reaches him, despite his insistent offers to leave the door open for Robby, assuring that he can lean on him whenever it gets dark. The last thing Jack wanted was for his best friend to succumb to the murk that had been taking up residence in his mind, lingering in the form of static buzz, getting louder, as if screaming at Robby, after hell took place at the PTMC. 

Messages and calls were left unopened, unanswered. It started as a gentle question, asking how it was hanging on the way to Alberta. The first few attempts to reach Robby were unsuccessful; Jack brushed it off as his phone being on Do Not Disturb, gave it some thought, then moved on to what was next.

For a moment, something in his mind harkens back to the words he’d said on Robby’s last shift.

“And if it gets dark, you call me.”

Jack had called.

There was no answer.

Robby’s amusement at his words replayed in Jack’s mind like a broken cassette tape. The quiet that came after was foreboding. What a bittersweet torture it was. How could he have denied it? He couldn’t be free from the honeyed madness that had enveloped his mind; all he could do was exhale, a slight, resigned smile appearing on his lips, incredulous to the reality of it all.

The ache in his chest reverberated like his heart had made its very own tunnel. It called for feeling.

The crispness of autumn enveloped the air, a refreshing chill that danced playfully through Jack’s tousled silver curls. His lips, chapped and raw, stung from the relentless bite of the wind. He paused, letting the world settle around him, his weary gaze roaming across the sprawling landscape, now blurred and hazy as fatigue cast a fog over his mind.

He took a deep breath, fighting through the mental haze, each emotion within him a paradox—numb like an anesthetic yet electrified as if charged by a powerful jolt of adrenaline. His senses, once vibrant and aware, felt muted, as a symphony turned to whispers. The absence of Robby beside him left an aching void, as if a silence had dulled the world's colors, rendering everything slightly hollow.

Jack pictured what a morning rooftop pickup would be like, the absence of his (practically) blood brother an endless void. He could almost feel him. A laugh at the edge of the wind. A familiar shrug of shoulders. The slight rumble of a motorcycle he would never hear again. He closes his eyes. A beat.

“You look like hell,” Robby said, setting a paper cup beside him.

“Kid bled out in trauma three.”

Robby didn’t say anything. He just leaned against the railing.

The return to reality was sobering, like a dunk in ice water.

As days passed by, every hour agonizingly slower than the last—by the standards of your average shift at the PTMC—there was still no sign of Robby. No sign of life, no beacon, or any kind of signal. He held onto hope that he’d meet him on the rooftop again, just once more, to no avail. If only there were a smoke trail left from the chugging engine of his motorcycle, though, it wouldn’t be needed anyway; they practically had a thread tied to each other. One that said, Hey. Listen to me. I am easy to find.

Jack wanted to run and look for him–and to escape this feeling. No matter the destination, he would never forget Robby. Every word exchanged was a cacophony as it came and as it was recalled.

Roots of tragedy sprang into the ground, impossible to yank out, try as the most hardened gardeners may. Fate had ripped his only reason with such brutality, as the realization had settled in.

He was left to roam this world alone. 

No one would be there to gently coax him not to take a dive off the roof, this time, and now until the rest of his time. There would be no one to turn to for comfort.

And that’s the funny thing. Death comes quietly, perhaps with a familiar face, one that Jack knew very well. Maybe it was the true friend he had all along. The feeling was worse than he could’ve anticipated. He didn’t want it to be true; he really didn’t, as the inevitability of it all came crashing down like brittle glass shattering. 

“You just had to go where I couldn’t follow you, huh, Robinavitch?” Jack muttered under his breath, the tone coming out cold while yielding. 

Grief was the fury in his head. It seeped into the very depths of his soul, corroding any last bit of peace he had known.

Just weeks ago, everything was different. A wordless exchange of black coffee when their shifts overlapped. An inside joke from years ago. A silent reverie for two on the rooftop. Was any of it real? Memory ripped at him, tearing until all that was left were strands of plastic rippling in the wind. Maybe this was all just a bad dream. He held onto the possibility of it being the murmur or something his subconscious mind had conjured up out of his solitude. An apparition, unkind in its trickery.

The stillness that ensued accompanied him. No longer would his reflection be there to accompany him. Instead, it would merely linger in mirrors and in the limited pictures he possessed. For eternity, there would be a void that tore at his chest, until it transformed into nothing more than an open wound that became infected. As he shut his eyes, flashes of the final shifts leading up to Robby’s final one shot through Jack’s mind, and the fervor raged more heavily.

On the railing, he hung his stethoscope. The metal was still warm from the heat of his skin.

For years, it had meant something. He set it carefully on the railing.

Time went on with a cruel march, every second blending into each other. Likewise, maybe this was what he needed to become one with Robby for one more time.

Afterlife was a terrible thought to Jack. He wanted to believe, for he couldn’t fathom a world stripped of his best friend; the sheer idea of navigating it was unbearable. This was his forlorn vigil, the rooftop a vision they had both become acquainted with for what seemed like ages. This was the place to come if either of them needed to mourn their choices. 

To be with Robby again, to reclaim that deep, unbreakable bond forged in the fires of shared struggles and laughter, was a temptation too intoxicating to resist. Deliciously mortal, like the finest whiskey. Jack’s heart raced, thrumming with a mix of fear and a yearning for the brotherhood that could only be forged through the shared crucible of anguish. 

It was only ever Robby. Jack allowed his eyes to open up, tears daring to streak down his face. He couldn’t find his way through those tattered memories.

And on the rooftop railing, forgotten in the wind, a stethoscope waited for hands that would never return. Into the mystic, it would end up.

In a second, the space had cleared. Jack had arrived at the only place he knew. 

Just wind.

An uncomfortable feeling weighed in her chest like a dumbbell, as the nape of her neck was prickled by hair growing longer by the week. It felt as though an anchored boulder blocked the passage of her throat, making every breath agonizing to take in. An unnamed itch spread across her skin, as close to hives without actually being hives, along with a pressing need to run far, until she broke through whatever the invisible feeling was. Having this pang strike something so deep inside of her brought an unseen sense of shame, one she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

Personal time was at a minimum as a doctor at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, amidst the downpour of tasks and problem-solving that needed to be done at each shift. By the end of it, all one could do once they got home was fall into bed, resigning from the world in surrender. It left everyone exhausted, no matter how passionate they were for the craft. The place was the gift that kept on giving, for better or for worse. Not much else was dealt with besides tending to patients of all diagnoses, where it was like some kind of wicked lottery, never knowing what was needed or the severity of each case. Though she loved what she does in emergency medicine, getting to help families from all walks of life, it couldn’t be denied; it was easy to get lost in the gruelling nature of the job.

Mel’s week leading up to now had been spent progressively getting more and more frustrated with her hair growing, tying it in a braid (drawn tighter than the last time) in an effort to keep it out of her face, while she sorted out what she needed to do on her day off. She hadn’t had the time to do any sort of self-care in the way she wanted, to give herself the gratification she needed to flourish.

The quiet hush of night starts to settle in, and she’s decided. She is going to cut her hair.

From her shared apartment (with her beloved Trinity, who wasn’t in the room), she feels a calling from the wind gusts just outside the window. The distant buzz of inaudible speaking through the walls fades away into the ether as Mel dims the lights some more. She attentively organizes the drawers in their room, taking knick-knacks out and putting them in their right place. 

While it was a pattern, where there’s a sense of comfort in the familiar, the routine felt even more like a rebirth than normal. Clearing the mind was often the result of tidying up the place for Mel; if the area was a mess, so were her thoughts. 

The pull of gravity weighing down her hair brings a tinge of blush on her cheeks, buzzing excruciatingly like the static of an old television screen. It was… unsettling. As if she were watching a stranger take hold of her body, with no way to get it back. Of course, she could live with long hair. She had for most of her life. It wouldn’t kill her, but the feeling of distant surveillance permeated her every move, so much so that she might as well be gone. It was the emphasis on undesired features that made everything feel suffocating. She couldn’t explain why; it just was, the way it seemed as though she was plunged deeper into a pool as her hair grew longer by the inch.

With the lightness of her decision and the beat of the night, something breaks open in her chest. Soon, her reflection would become a sight she’d be eager to see. 

As Mel closes the drawer, she hears footsteps coming closer, and she turns her head.

Trinity leans against the doorway. She crosses her arms absentmindedly and gives Mel a comforting smile, the corners of her mouth tweaking upwards. She’s in sweatpants and a tank top, resigned to the night and ready for bed, though she feels a duty to check in on how Mel was doing before nodding off. Mel smiles back as she sits with her hands in her lap, her glasses reflecting the ambient, golden light.

“Need company?” Trinity asks, stepping forward from the door.

“Oh–I’d like that, actually,”

Trinity sits and shifts right next to her, with a bounce from the bed. She leans back, propping herself up with her hands. “Maybe it’s a sixth sense, I had a feeling you wanted me around while you…”

“I cleaned up the drawers,” Mel says, her attention flicking to Trinity, and then to the pair of salon scissors she had found, rolling them in her hands, the glint from the blade catching in her eye.

“Oh, neat,” Trinity replies, with a nod. “As much as I like seeing you in bed like this, I wanna know what’s up.”

“What’s up?"

“Well, yeah.”  Trinity’s eyes flick to the pair of scissors in Mel’s hand, slowly turning them around, as if trying to map out their dimensions. With a light shrug of her shoulders, Mel could feel something lodged in her throat, obnoxiously so. She didn’t know what it was, but it was in the way, and it was blocking the words with a power that made sure that they wouldn’t come out. 

It wasn’t that Mel didn’t trust Trinity with her concerns. She hadn’t told anyone besides her sister, Becca, about the extent of her qualms with the length of her hair. She couldn’t put into words how overexposed she feels with how long it is, like lying awake with no promise of sleep. She hadn’t expressed the relief she’s filled with when she catches a glimpse of herself in a reflection, and it’s just at an angle where she has her hair up, and she couldn’t see all of it. And why would she need to? It all remained locked away in her mind, but she couldn’t ignore the gnawing sensation for much longer. “It’s, um… it’s nothing,” she finally responds, dropping her gaze and redirecting it to the floor.

“Well, doesn’t look like nothing,” Trinity says, matter-of-factly, yet the words are laced with concern. “Is something wrong?”

Mel thought about it some more, what her lover might be implying, that something truly terrible had happened. She shook her head and looked at Trinity with intention, while still avoiding her eyes. It tore at her heart, thinking about how Trinity was no stranger to grief, so of course, Mel wouldn’t want the possibility of the worst outcome to be lingering in Trinity’s mind for longer than it needed to.

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s just… I don’t know, honestly,” Mel says with a sigh, her shoulders slumped over now in resignation.

“Are you sure?”

“Well–” “Either way, whether you feel comfortable telling me or not, I’ll be here with you.” Trinity scootches closer to Mel, their legs touching. A warm sensation buds in both of their chests. Mel smiles, beaming at Trinity. “I’d love that.”

Trinity nods at the pair of scissors idly being twirled in Mel’s hand. “Y’know, you don’t have to say what it is if you really don’t want to. But like, c’mon. You can tell me anything.”

Mel sets the scissors on the nightstand, the blade hitting the laminated wood with a light ding. She leans back on her hands, head to the sky, as she mentally builds as much fortitude as she can–at least, for the few seconds she’s allotted–to admit what’s really been going on in her mind. 

“I can tell you. Um–” she stops for a moment, gathering her words, already at the tip of her tongue. “It’s my hair. It’s too long, and I just… I don’t like how it feels on me. I feel really weird having it like this. And I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and…”

Trinity listens attentively, letting Mel take her time with saying her piece before she interjects.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t feel nice. Having long hair, I mean.” She purses her lips once she’s finished, and looks to Trinity for an answer.

“Yeah?” she inquires, gently giving Mel a slight subliminal push, as if she were transmitting a message that said, You’re safe with me. Mel gazes at the floor again, focusing in on a crevice, and the pair of scissors is once again being toyed with. “Yes. That’s what’s been bothering me.”

Trinity blinks. Then, a beat.

“I know.”

“Oh?” Mel says, pleasantly surprised. “How did you know?”

Trinity gives her a confident, yet reaffirming look. She had exceptional intuition, and it came in handy whenever the people she loved had trouble putting into words how they felt, or whatever trouble was challenging their lives. “I have my ways.”

“It’s like you read my mind.” Trinity shrugs, and her lap becomes the place where the scissors lie when she takes them out of Mel’s hands. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t–I’ve seen the way you tug at it, shoving it out of your face when you're busy and it’s down. You usually have it tied back, anyway. Figured there was a reason for that.”

Mel shifts on the bed and nods in confirmation. “I guess you could say there was.”

“Yeah, almost as if it hurt you to touch it.” A faint smile appears on Trinity’s face as she seeks to give Mel the comfort she needed in this moment, through her empathy. “It does hurt,” Mel confesses, silently. “I mean, not physically, but in other ways. I never liked having it this long, I guess I just never said anything because...”

“It would mean disrupting what you’ve been used to?” Trinity asks, tilting her head. “Yes. That’s what it feels like.”

“I see.”

“It’s just not for me. I like it on other people, but I see a stranger in the mirror. I like it on you,” Mel responds, amending her posture, giving a polite smile to Trinity. “Oh, you flatter me. What’s got you so bold tonight?” A rosy color grows in her ears as Trinity’s hands go down to the scissors in her lap, idly. The blades are cold to the touch. “So like, did you want me to help with that?” she asks, pointing to the longer strands of Mel’s hair with the tip of the scissors where the two blades meet.

“You… want to cut my hair?”

Trinity snickers, as though she knew Mel would have that exact incredulous look on her face. “Well, yeah. I figured it wouldn’t hurt, since you know I cut my own hair–” she runs her hand through her hair, and tucks a strand behind her ear “–saves me the trouble of going to an actual hairdresser–” “And the money,” Mel commented.

“Right. Now, I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, but it won’t be a hack job or anything.” An air of confidence radiates off of Trinity, as she offers an unspoken promise that she will free Mel from the anguish she’s been feeling. 

Even if it’s a simple offer, it meant more to her than she could say. Mel giggles joyously as she allows herself to feel the freedom bloom in her heart, like flowers in the spring. She feels completely secure. Breathing was less of a chore, the night felt clearer, and any loads she had been carrying felt less daunting. After all, she had Trinity’s words to haul the weight she felt for much of her life, even if it was in the background. 

That was the thing about euphoria, once you’re given an option that things could be different, and that there was a way out of the costume you had been putting on for the world, it is as though you become a person again. Rather than a shell, you become you. A metamorphosis of the soul.

The woman Mel had met on that fateful, ruthless shift months ago was here now by her side. She was here to provide her with company and care, night after night, through every bout of darkness that arises. She was here to ease Mel’s anxieties with compassion. 

Mel nods her head earnestly, adorably eager.

“Yes, please, I’d like that a lot.”

Happy now that she has Mel’s full approval, Trinity plants a gentle kiss on her cheek and stands up, making her way to the vanity. She pulls out the chair for Mel in a curtsy, with a little after you. Mel plops into the seat so that her head is level with Trinity’s chest, who is waving the scissors in her dominant hand.

“Okay,” Trinity says. “Tell me up to where.”

Mel stops for a second and thinks. Even though she could technically do whatever she wanted with her body now, she hadn’t gotten used to the idea that she had full autonomy over how she looked. She didn’t want a full buzz–that would accentuate her girlish features, she thought– so she decided on something in between.

“Here?” Mel indicates, raising a hand to where her neck meets her shoulder, signaling the length that she wants with two fingers. It would draw attention away from her oval face, slashing the pull against her shoulders in a way that would soothe her.

“That’s the length you want?” Trinity asks, needing confirmation. “Just making sure, because I can always cut more, but I can’t reattach what’s already been cut.”

Mel smiles and looks back at Trinity. “Yes. I’d like it that short.”

Trinity tenderly presses her lips against the top of Mel’s head. Mel, who usually kept her wants under wraps, was prone to reshaping herself to please those around her. But now, for the first time, she feels an exhilarating sense of control over her choices. They both could sense this transformation, and she realizes that she would happily navigate these decisions if it meant experiencing the warmth of Trinity’s kiss on her skin once more.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

Bringing the scissors up with one hand and soothingly running the other through Mel’s hair, Trinity starts off with little trims at the tips. Mel doesn’t complain; she basks in the touch, so divine and tranquil.

“Have you done this before? Cut someone else’s hair, I mean,” Mel asks, as her eyes fall shut, taking in the feeling of Trinity’s fingers caressing her scalp, tracing down the back of her neck.

“Well, nothing more than taking care of split ends. There was this one time I got in trouble in school for playing salon at recess.” “Yeah?” Mel inquires.

“Pretty much.”

“Why was that bad? You were just playing pretend, right?”

Trinity shrugs before she admits, “Well, no. I was actually cutting some of the girls’ hair with safety scissors I stole, that’s why.”

Mel’s eyes widened, then she exhaled through her nose, tickled by this information.

“That’s–um, yeah,” Mel smiles, enlightened that she got to hear some more lighthearted stories from Trinity’s childhood, like little glimmers of light in the dark. Of course, there was a mutual agreement between them to share only what felt right in the moment, and it was on occasions like these that Trinity was distracted enough to share stories without a hint of moderation. That’s not to say they didn’t know everything there was to know about each other, but things beyond the major life events slipped through. Bits of hair fell around Mel, tickling the upper parts of her arms as they did.

“Had myself a pretty boomin’ business,” Trinity says, as she measures the length she was about to cut now.

“You’re versatile, Trin,” Mel prods lightly. “Master of many trades. A doctor and a hairdresser–”

“That’s Doctor Santos to you,” Trinity retorts, bringing her hands to her hips, shoulders broad like she were some kind of superhero. And maybe she was, saving Mel, her butch in distress, from the Big Bad Long Hair. She resumes her little snips, and Mel can practically feel the grin from behind her, not even needing to look back to confirm.

“Back to you. Did anyone cut your hair before this?”

Mel chewed on the inside of her lip as she tried to formulate an answer. She sat there for a moment, trying to unravel the memories. Time was this nebulous concept when you weren’t living as your true self, if you could call it living at all. Even then, she wanted to try for Trinity.

“When she was still around, Mom would cut it sometimes growing up. She liked having two daughters, so she refused to give me a ‘boys’ haircut.”

Trinity shifts her head to the side as she continues cutting the hair at the middle of Mel’s spine. “That sucks, like, majorly sucks. And you would’ve been happier with it short?”

Mel nods slightly, so she won’t disrupt Trinity’s work. “Yes. And whenever we went to a salon, the ladies would always find a way to make it look all feminine and stuff.” Her eyebrows raised for a second as she realized the possible implication. “Not that–there’s nothing wrong with that. Love women.”

“Right. Yeah.” Trinity says, with neutrality. Well, duh.

“I just never liked seeing myself that way. I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror, in a way, my body just didn’t feel like it was mine. I was okay with having it in a braid, ‘cause then it was out of my face. Even then, I’d secretly envy my classmates’ dads and my male teachers and stuff, they looked so sharp with their hair cut short.”

“Were you able to cut it?” Trinity asks, looking forward to Mel’s response, having hope that it’ll be in her lover’s favor.

“In the end, yes. There was a compromise, where I got a bob,” Mel replies, looking down. “I didn’t like it.”

Gentle snip snip snip sounds surrounded their field of hearing, the metal of the blades gliding against themselves as Mel’s hair floated between them, the strands then making their way to the ground. Trinity draws some strands of hair together, lining them up between two fingers, and cuts evenly. She repeats this motion several more times before running her other hand through Mel’s hair, brushing it out. Mel embraces the feeling, the sanctity of being cared for like this by the woman she trusted most.

“Was it ever shorter than that?”

Mel lets out a breath, her shoulders tensing before releasing. Her posture goes back to what it was before to make Trinity’s job easier, despite feeling the urge to curl into a ball right then and there. “No. The bob was as short as it got.”

Snip. “Aw, man. Why didn’t you like it?”

“It was too long to deal with, but too short where I couldn’t tie it back. It didn’t fit my face, and it practically told everyone that I was a girl.”

Trinity cocks her head. She already knew that Mel was more attuned to an energy leaning more masculine to neutral, but she was curious, wanting to uncover what this meant to her. Trinity stops what she’s doing for a second to give Mel another kiss, this time on the temple of her forehead.  “So what I’m getting is, you didn’t like being a girl?”

“I mean, not entirely,” Mel admits truthfully. “I’ve just never been good at it. Was a tomboy in elementary school, played in the dirt with boys… It’s like there was a top-secret handbook titled, How to Be a Girl, and I was just never given the memo.”

Trinity stifles a laugh, though it slips through eventually. A beat. “No one way to be a woman, Mel. I think everyone is who they say they are. Doesn’t matter what they look like, whether it’s hair, body type,” she trails off, and gets to her main point. “In the end, it’s whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Mel affirms Trinity’s words with a light nod, ensuring she isn’t in the middle of hair-cutting. She wasn’t used to sharing this side of herself, much less getting the type of empathy she was receiving from most people. In further increments, more chunks of hair were being tossed around her, reflecting on the floor. Grounding herself, she homes in on the feeling of Trinity behind her, slotted perfectly in her frame.

“Thanks. I really needed to hear that, especially since so much of my life has been trying to fit in and changing parts of myself.”

Trinity sets aside the scissors on the vanity and pulls Mel in for an embrace, their bodies fitting so perfectly, immaculate. Her hand rests on Mel’s chin and draws her in for a tender kiss. The feeling is mutual–they feel as though they could die of this in the sweetest way possible. When they separate, it’s decidedly too brief for Mel.

“You don’t have to change for anyone, unless you want it,” Trinity hums. “You’re great just the way you are, yeah? And I know you as my amazing, dashing boyfriend with an ultraclean haircut.”

Mel’s face warms to the title. Boyfriend. It was one that she and Trinity had been toying with, starting as a joke, as it was clear that while they were both tough and resilient in their own way, Mel perceived herself as taking on that role more often in the way she moved through the world. It came like second nature, and now, Mel couldn’t stop herself from grinning ear to ear, obvious in the reflection in the mirror.

She casts a stable hand through her new hair, feeling that sweet relief when her shoulders bear the weight of nothingness, air taking the place where hair once was. She nestles her face into the palm of Trinity’s hand, soothed by the absence of annoyingly long strands.

“I love you so, so much, Trinity.”

Trinity’s face glows with adoration. “Yeah, I know.” She smiles gently, trying to contain herself at how at ease Mel looked in front of her, looking right at Trinity dearly. “One moment, I need to check if I did this right… is it even to you? I can’t get in your head, so just say the word.”

“Or,” Mel says, a surge of confidence running through her veins, “You could feel for any uneven… parts?”

“C’mere, you,” Trinity laughs, shaking her head, welcome to the bit of flirtiness from her beloved butch. Mel savors the light airiness of her hair, so pristine and new, until she collides with Trinity in a doting embrace. With a gentle motion, Mel positions Trinity on her lap, and Trinity wraps a leg around one of Mel’s. Supporting her friend with a hand on her back, Trinity then throws her arms around Mel, holding her close. Jade-green eyes gaze at Mel, and they were dizzied, not wanting to get off this ride despite that.

“Oh, you’re handsome,” Trinity whispers, as if she couldn’t get enough of reassuring her lover of the truth. She caresses the ends of Mel’s freshly-cut hair, playing with it lightly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me make you feel good.”

Mel nestles her nose into Trinity’s, their faces fitting together perfectly like new furniture into an alcove. “Thank you so, so much,” Mel breathes, now relieved from the numbing anguish she’d put up with for so long, now given a window into greater freedom.