It's New York, baby, Always jacked up

!! Welcome Home!!

Since I love writing, I decided to let the world see my work as well. Some of my stories have been written since I was little so forgive me if you can't make any sense of them.

(hopefully you will💫)

Part 1 - Where The Light Finds Us

Amelia's POV

The coffee was warm between my fingers, but my hands still shook. I wasn’t sure if it was the sleepless night or just the sheer weight of everything—grief, silence, the heavy kind of loneliness that follows you like a shadow.

I hadn't meant to come here. I just walked until I couldn't anymore. The sun had started to spill into the streets like honey, and this little corner café seemed like the only place that wouldn't swallow me whole.

That’s when he sat down.

At first, I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. My thoughts were a loop—louder than the city outside, louder than the barista calling orders, louder than the version of me I used to recognize.

Then he spoke.

"Mind if I sit here?"

I glanced at him. Messy curls. A black sweater that hung off his frame like it belonged to someone else. Eyes kind, but searching.

"Sure," I whispered, not sure why I said it. Maybe because he wasn’t trying to fix me. He just wanted to sit.

We didn’t talk much. And somehow, that made it easier. He asked for my name. “Amelia,” I said quietly. He told me his—Harry. I tried not to react. I wasn’t in the mood to process who he was. It didn’t matter, not really. Not when your world has already tilted off its axis.

He noticed the way I was holding my head in my hands. He didn’t pry. He didn’t say "Are you okay?" like everyone else who didn’t want to hear the real answer.

Instead, he slid his coffee across the table. “This one tastes like burnt memories,” he said with a half-smile, making me laugh for the first time in weeks. A real one.

Small, but real.

Time passed in silence. And that silence was different from the one that had been haunting me. It wasn’t empty. It was calm.

We watched the street together. He tapped his fingers lightly on the table in rhythm with a song only he could hear. I found myself mimicking him without realizing it.

And in that golden light, I didn’t feel invisible anymore. I was still broken, yes. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t alone in it.

He looked at me once more before standing. “Come back tomorrow?” he asked gently.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to hide. But instead, I nodded.

Because maybe healing doesn’t always look like big steps.

Part 1 - Shifted World

Madeline POV

The sun had started its slow descent behind the buildings across the street, its light spilling through the open window like honey. I remember that golden hour — how it clung to Harry’s hair, warm and soft, like the way he used to touch my back when I couldn’t sleep.

We sat on the windowsill of our little rented flat in Silver Lake. It smelled faintly of lemon soap and old wood, the kind that creaks under your weight, no matter how gently you move.

The radio inside played some old Nina Simone song, muffled, her voice drifting like a ghost into the heavy summer air.

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. He just leaned in close, his shoulder brushing mine. I could feel the heat of him — not just his skin, but the way his presence always filled a room, without even trying.

That’s the thing about Harry.

He never tried too hard.

Not with music.

Not with people.

Not even with me.

And yet, I always fell. Hard.

We weren’t always like this — quiet, soft, and steeped in the ache of what might not last. We met at a photo gallery two years ago. He was there for a friend’s opening, and I was late because I’d spilled wine on the dress I thought he might like.

He told me I looked like a dream walking through a storm.

I told him he needed new metaphors.

He laughed.

I guess we both needed something, then — a place to rest.

To feel known.

I loved art.

He loved stories.

I painted things I could never say.

He sang the ones I was too afraid to feel.

Somehow, it worked.

But lately, things were shifting.

Not between us — not exactly. More like the world outside was pulling on us, asking us to choose. His album was taking him to Paris. My work had finally been picked up by a gallery in New York. We hadn’t talked about it.

Not really. But we both knew.

As he leaned closer, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes — not sadness. Something quieter.

Resignation, maybe. Or hope in disguise.

“You ever think about leaving all this?” he whispered, almost to himself.

I turned to him, my forehead nearly touching his. “Sometimes,” I admitted.

“But not when you’re here.”

He smiled, and it hurt.

Because I knew the moment would pass.

The sun would set.

The song would end.

The future would come rushing in like a wave, and we’d have to choose — to swim or to let go.

But for now, I let my head rest against his. I let the silence stretch. I let the light hold us like a photograph never meant to be taken.

Because this was love, too — not the kind that demands to stay, but the kind that’s beautiful even when it’s almost over.

I let my fingers dangle over the edge of the windowsill, feeling the air slide between them.

Below us, someone was playing a guitar on the street — off-key, a little clumsy, but honest.

Harry tilted his head, listening for a second.

“That’s the same guy from last week,” he said. “Still hasn’t figured out C major.”

I smiled, just a little. “He’s trying.”

He turned his head, looking at me. I felt it before I saw it — that way he studied me like I was something delicate and unrepeatable.

“Are you?” he asked.

I blinked. “Trying?”

He nodded

“Every day,” I said.

“Even when it feels like I’m failing.”

There was a beat of silence, then he said softly, “You’re not.”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

His lashes were long in the fading light, his brow slightly furrowed, like he was thinking too much again. Harry always had that ache behind his eyes — like he was holding songs he didn’t know how to sing yet.

“Tell me something you haven’t told anyone,” I whispered.

He leaned back a little, surprised, but not pulling away. “You first.”

I hesitated.

Then, “When I was little, I used to think love was a place. Like a house, or a city. Somewhere you arrived, and then you stayed.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And now?”

“Now I think it’s… a train station. People come through. Some stay longer. But eventually, everyone’s waiting for something else to take them further.”

Harry looked down at our hands, resting close but not quite touching. “I don’t want to leave the station,” he said, voice barely audible.

I swallowed. “But your train’s coming.”

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “So is yours.”

I nodded, then leaned my head against his shoulder, just for a minute. “Can we just miss it? For a bit longer?”

His hand found mine. Warm, rough in the center. “Yeah,” he said. “For a bit longer.”