OllieWrites

The eerie feeling of eyes boring intensely through her ribcage made Djeneba twirl around to face the starer. Lips curved up in a bemused smile, she teased, “See something you like?”

Her partner startled, and Djeneba chuckled softly at their surprise.

A delicious flush rose up Greyson’s neck as their eyes darted away guiltily. Their left hand rose to brush the back of their neck as they mumbled, “Obviously.”

Greyson’s dark eyebrows furrowed together in a frown Djeneba always found endearing. It was a sweet moment until their mouth pulled into a deep grimace and they muttered, “You make me happy, okay?”

And there it was. That pesky feeling that popped up uninvited far too often, settling in Djeneba’s stomach, curdling her internal systems as rejection spread steadily throughout her body.

"You don't seem very happy."

She couldn’t prevent the words from slipping from her lips and landing on the floor between the two lovers, creating an invisible, icy cavern of dread. Djeneba watched Greyson’s shoulders curl inwards as they stared pointedly at the floor, purposefully angling their head to shield any facial hints from her gaze.

Fuck. This had been happening too often lately. Their individual insecurities kept barging into what should be the pair’s well-earned domestic bliss. Was this it? Was this a sign that it was ending?

Djeneba fucking hoped not. She’d even resorted to praying it wasn’t so. She never thought rediscovering her faith would ever be prompted by the fear of losing the one she loves; the one she thought she’d made her forever life with.

It all started about a year ago; Greyson developed this unnerving habit of becoming closed off and sombre following happy, light-hearted, and domestic moments that Djeneba loved. Their words would always attempt to placate the blonde, but the simultaneous negative body language made the verbal effort futile.

Djeneba had tried so hard to convince herself otherwise, but in this moment, as her veins iced over with the repeating memory of Greyson’s dour face just now, she admitted defeat.

She needed to know. She needed to know whether this was truly the end. She didn’t have the energy to gloss over these moments anymore.

Djeneba cleared her throat and forced out the words, sharper than intended, “You’ve got a funny way of showing it. That you’re happy.”

Shit. Okay, maybe thinking through the words before saying them would be a good idea. What a fucking revelation.

Inhaling deeply, the blonde tried again, “That’s not how I meant to word my thoughts. I’m sorry.”

Greyson froze. They still refused to angle their face into view, but Djeneba could tell they were listening. Good.

“Grey, I - I feel like you don’t love me anymore.”

Deep brown curls bobbed erratically as Greyson’s head flung up sharply. Sage eyes were wide and fearful as they finally targeted Djeneba’s face.

“And - And, I know, okay? I know you tell me with your words. You tell me you love me. You tell me you’re happy, but your body says otherwise. I can’t remember the last time you said either of those strings of words without a fucking grimace on your face.”

God, she couldn’t say this while looking at the face she was already grieving. Djeneba closed her eyes as defiant tears began their long trek down her face.

“Fuck, Grey, it looks like it physically hurts you to love me! Or to say you love me - whatever. And I can’t do this anymore. I love you! And whether you think you love me or not anymore, I refuse to keep hurting you. Even if you do still love me, I refuse to continue this if it makes you unhappy,” she sobbed wetly.

Djeneba wiped her dripping eyes and nose with her sleeve, far beyond caring about insignificant bullshit like social decency.

“I love our life together, Greyson. I love you! So much. And other than you fucking grimacing whenever you tell me you love me or that you’re happy, I’m happy. I’m willing to work through whatever, as long as we’re together. I want to spend my life with you! I just - my one and only exception to all this is if you’re unhappy in our relationship. If you’re unhappy with me, with us. I - I don’t expect either of us to be happy all the time. We’re both mentally ill; we know the struggle; but up until recently, we’ve never been the cause of unhappiness, you know? It was always us surviving through all the unhappiness life throws at us, together… You’re not happy, Grey. I can see it. You’re not happy with me. I make you unhappy. And I can’t - I can’t do that to you. I can’t do that to me. To us…”

Suddenly exhausted, Djeneba hung her head. Opening her blurry eyes, she stared despairingly at Greyson.

“Please be honest with me, Grey. Do I make you unhappy?”

Greyson's fingers dug firmly into the faded blue couch cushion they sat on. Djeneba watched as their arms began to tremble and their head hung down low between their sharp shoulder blades. At the sound of a heaving sob, Djeneba wrapped her arms around her own torso harshly and sat down on the single red armchair parallel to her partner.

Deep, wracking sobs ripped themselves from Greyson’s throat as they began to cry earnestly. Haunting wails spilled as they began to hyperventilate and rip their hands through their hair. This harrowing soundtrack filled the living room of their home; the same one Djeneba had carried Greyson over the threshold of, while the pair of them cackled joyfully. The same house they’d hosted their first through fifth family Christmases in. The same house that currently housed the engagement ring Djeneba had hidden in a false bottom of her desk drawer. The house they’d discussed future children in.

Each of Greyson’s sobs reverberated in Djeneba’s heart. She feared that the ricochet would tug her heart from her chest, leaving it to fall lifelessly on the ground between the two of them.

Time passed in the mysterious way it tends to, although Djeneba wouldn’t have registered this if not for the eventual sunset transitioning their afternoon to evening.

By the time Greyson’s sobs came to a trembling stop, Djeneba could see stars outside the living room window. She heard their initial failed attempts to get words out between silent tears and continued to wait.

Finally, Greyson’s voice grew to replace the lingering echo of their prior weeping, "I am happy.”

They laughed wetly, seemingly realising how ludicrous the words sounded.

“I am. I have been, for a while, even. So something terrible has to happen soon, right? To even it all out. I don't just get to be happy."

Djeneba frowned. This train of thought wasn’t new, not for Greyson. But to try and use it now?

Well, it felt like a weak excuse to avoid accepting the truth.

Isn’t it funny how weak excuses can hurt the most?

The brunette powered on desperately, “The fact you make me happy, so happy, fucking terrifies me. It’s like the universe is taunting inevitable heartbreak above my head whenever you dare to do something as stupid and fucking generous as loving me. And… And the longer we’re together; the more you become a stable and certain thing in my life, the more I fear the end. I love you so fucking much, Djeneba. And I feel how much you, miraculously, love me. You make me happy. I am happy. There’s just - there’s a part of me that refuses to acknowledge that this happiness can coexist with my internal, ingrained belief that I am fundamentally unlovable. That all of this will end.”

Lips pursed, Djeneba squared her jaw. None of this was new. She’d been hearing this same speech from them since the pair were in high school together. She felt like a fool for expecting anything different. For expecting any real response.

She thought Greyson knew her better than this. That they knew better than to hide behind the same, unchanging excuse they’ve used for years.

Yes, it was true. Djeneba knew, and had known, that Greyson struggled with this. They’d had numerous conversations about it. Talked through it. Talked about communicating clearly. Fuck, she’d actively worked to force words out when her rejection sensitive dysphoria threatened to stop her voice entirely. She’d worked so hard to communicate with the one she loved. To evolve. To put effort into their longevity together.

…And Greyson dared to hide behind the same fucking excuse they’d had since they were 16.

Djeneba smoothed her jeans firmly and stood up. Ignoring Greyson’s owlish eyes, she sighed dejectedly.

“I don’t know why I expected anything different.”

She walked over to the key dish by the front door, patting her pocket for her phone and wallet as she slipped on her slides.

Turning one last time to face the love of her life, Djeneba spoke monotonously, “When you’re ready to actually talk to me and be honest, we can arrange a public place to meet. I’m going to my sister’s. Your engagement ring’s in the third desk drawer, by the way. I don’t care what you do with it. It was never meant for me.”

She closed the front door firmly behind her, thanking God it was raining.

“You came back!” she whispered disbelievingly.

Floronia had been convinced that the wizard currently huffing out of breath in front of her had left her for the final time.

Gone in the night, leaving only a scrap of aged parchment with a hastily scribbled message resting on the pillow where their head should have remained. The druid had awoken the following morning to the rays of dawn gently stroking her face. She’d rolled over, expecting to meet the warm mass of her bedfellow, and felt only the crinkling of the note on her cheek and empty air.

Zaire stared determinedly at the mountains behind Floronia. Not making eye contact. Never making eye contact. "For some reason, I'm attracted to you,” the wizard grunted.

A month ago, this statement would have caused the druid’s stomach to stir excitedly. As it stood, after three weeks of tears, reflection, and grief, these words only sickened Floronia.

Unbidden, the words from that note on the pillow flew through her mind:

Floronia,

I’ve left. Don’t try to find me; I do not wish to be found. We both knew this wasn’t going to last. I’ve just taken the initiative to end this before either of us gets hurt.

My family have accepted me back into their society.

I’m moving to my next adventure. You should too.

Regards,

Zaire

It was far too late for the druid to be unharmed. Every re-read of the message had shattered part of herself even further. The words were clinical, formal, reflecting nothing of the love Floronia had been convinced bloomed between the two. This hurt more than the act of physically leaving. It hurt more than if Zaire had simply left with no note.

No, they’d taken the time to write a letter. They had evidently respected Floronia enough - in some twisted version of respect in their mind - to leave a note. The removal of emotion in the note proved, to the druid at least, that they had never loved her.

She’d only started adventuring to impress the wizard.

She’d only dared to believe she had a chance with them because of the attention the usually aloof, disgraced noble had blessed her with.

What a fool she’d been.

Presently, Zaire cleared their throat. Their dark, furrowed eyebrows hung like thunderclouds over piercing grey eyes.

“Well?” they asked.

Floronia closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Tapping into the wells of hurt that lay ready within her chest, she allowed them to leach the emotion from her tone.

“Thank you for letting me know,” she droned.

Zaire scoffed, furious eyes finally meeting the druid’s own.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” they hissed.

The druid shrugged.

Zaire’s features stretched into an incredulous frown.

“I come back to see you, tell you I’m attracted to you, and all you have to say is ‘thank you?’ Where have your emotions gone?”

The druid barely squashed a desire to scoff. Bold for the wizard to ask about feelings. They’d made Floronia feel like an over-emotional idiot all throughout their… well, it barely counted as a relationship, but she supposed that was the word that fit best.

“You’ve never cared about my emotions before,” she stated icily. “You certainly don’t deserve them now.”

Zaire dragged a hand desperately through their cropped blonde hair. They seemed… upset?

“Gods, Flo, I’m sorry!” they all but shouted in frustration. “Alright? I’m sorry! What else do I need to say?” Those icy eyes met hers again. This time, a hint of desperation lurked in the irises.

The druid frowned, unswayed.

“What if I said I’ve moved on to my next adventure?” she asked calmly.

This seemed to confuse the wizard. “What?”

“‘I’m moving to my next adventure. You should too,’” Floronia quoted. “Your message was pretty clear. What if I’ve moved to my next adventure?”

A flurry of emotions overtook Zaire’s face in quick succession, surprise, disbelief, anger, and mourning, settling finally on bereavement. Floronia had never seen this many emotions on her ex-lover’s face. It was bittersweet to see it now.

The wizard’s shoulders slumped. They ran a shaking hand over their face as they exhaled loudly.

Finally, their eyes ghosted across each of Floronia’s features. An expression of miserable acceptance settled itself on their face.

“W-Who?” Zaire croaked.

When the Floronia remained silent, the wizard squeezed their eyes shut as if preparing for a blow.

“Just - just tell me,” they grunted. “Who?”

Floronia’s frown deepened even though she knew the other wasn’t looking at her.

‘What makes you think you have any right to know about the people I’ve been with since you?”

The effect was immediate. Zaire stumbled backwards as if they’d been struck.

“P-People?” they whispered. Their chest heaved with emotions. When their gaze met Floronia’s once again, the druid startled with surprise at the stricken, teary expression on their face.

“I - I don’t have the right, I suppose,” they gasped wetly. “I just - Floronia, I -”

The wizard wiped their nose with a sniff.

“I fucked up,” they stated. “I never should have… You have every right to… I -”

Gods, Floronia had often wished for more displays of emotion from her ex, but this barrage of despair and floundering was unnerving. She almost wanted the old Zaire back.

“Are they people I know?” the wizard whispered.

The druid looked away, not wishing to see the other’s reaction. What she didn’t expect were Zaire’s next words,

“I - that makes sense, I guess. Any of them would give you the life you deserve.”

At this, Floronia whipped back around to face her ex-lover. Where was this coming from?

“What is that supposed to mean?” she hissed.

Zaire startled. Evidently, they hadn’t meant their words negatively. The druid failed to see the alternative to their meaning, though. Zaire hailed from a long line of nobles. They’d been raised in high society. Their path should never have crossed with Floronia’s own.

Years ago,they’d had an affair with the daughter of another noble family, leading to their disgrace and eventual escape to study wizardry. After this fall from grace, Zaire had surrounded themself with miscreants, taking on jobs no matter how deceitful or unlawful.

These people were their peers. These are the people Zaire had implied, in Floronia’s mind, would provide a life she deserved.

These people were no longer their peers, the druid supposed. The note was the first time she’d heard about Zaire’s family accepting them again. She supposed this made sense for their hurried exit from their shared life together. Floronia may have been acceptable company when they were a disowned lowlife, but she had no business in the world of nobility.

Deep inside herself, Floronia knew she didn’t belong in such society, but Zaire cementing this belief had cut her the deepest.

“Flo?” Zaire called.

Evidently, the druid had lost herself deep in thought. This didn’t sound like it was the first time the wizard had called her name.

Fighting back tears, her ice wall crumbling, the druid spat, “Don’t! You don’t get to call me that! You don’t get to nickname me, like I ever mattered to you, like you ever loved - hell, even tolerated me!”

Zaire frowned, “That’s not -”

“Don’t!” Floronia yelled. “I get it, okay, Zaire? I get it. I was never good enough for you. Not even before. I’m especially not good enough for you now that you get to go back to your cushy old life. You never loved me. I was a fool to think that you did. I’m sure you’ve had a great laugh at my expense with your new, posh, friends and lovers, okay? I get it, I’m a fucking joke from your past. A great story to tell at parties, I’m sure!”

Zaire’s frown deepened, “But, Flo, I -”

“Stop it, Zaire!” Floronia screamed. Tears flowed freely down her face. All the words she’d whispered to herself late at night in the last three weeks bubbled to the surface and out of her mouth. “You left me! You don’t get to pretend to act hurt for pity points! You left me, in the middle of the night, with only a fucking note, to return to your old life. Your beautiful life, with beautiful people, and beautiful places! You’ll find some beautiful woman to call your wife, make beautiful friends, and find other beautiful women to cheat on your fucking wife with!”

She inhaled deeply, “I was a fool to think I could ever stand in for these beautiful things. What, you’re attracted to me? Big fucking whoop! You’ll find someone else. Someone worthy to you. Someone you respect enough to maybe actually talk to instead of abandoning in the middle of the night!”

Floronia stepped towards Zaire. Something deep within her smirked at the way the other cowered beneath her intimidating stance. Serves them right.

“You have no fucking right to ask about what or who I’ve done in your absence to fill the gaping hole in my soul and life that you left. This ‘attraction’ will end. You never loved me. You don’t love me. So, go back to your beautiful life and leave me alone to continue picking up my own broken pieces!”

Out of breath, Floronia’s chest was now the one heaving. She didn’t expect a cool hand to gently card through her hair and over horns. Glancing down at Zaire’s face, the druid was surprised to see an equally gentle expression below the tears.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered. “I shouldn’t have left. I was - it was a really weird situation to be in, with my parents. If I’m honest, I used it as an excuse to leave because I was terrified of my feelings for you.”

Floronia huffed in disbelief and ripped herself from Zaire’s embrace. How dare they? She turned to leave.

“I LOVE YOU,” Zaire shouted.

The words halted the druid in her tracks, but she refused to turn around.

“I’m - I’m really shit at expressing it, obviously. I’m sorry. I don’t just find you attractive, I guess I just said that to protect myself, but now I’m worried you’re really going to leave without me telling you, so… It’s time for me to be self-sacrificing.”

Floronia remained frozen.

“I’ve never loved anyone like you,” Zaire stated, then winced. The druid could practically hear the wince. “Not like that! I mean, I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone, and that scared me. You’re so honest and loving, and I’m just a mess. I thought that if I left, you’d find someone who could love you like you deserve, and I could find someone to fill my time…”

When they next spoke, the wizard’s voice was soft, “Flo, I was wrong. I’ll never find anyone that can hold a candle to you. I can’t say the same for you. I’m sure you have many people eager to fill the place I once, foolishly and selfishly took for granted. A place where they can experience your love and trust so intensely…”

Their voice cracked with the words that followed, “I love you, Floronia. I know that now. I can admit it. I know you don’t need my approval, but - but I don’t care how many people have come before or after me. I can’t say I don’t care if you don’t believe me or take me back, but I can say that it’ll never change my opinion of you. I love you. I’ll love you until the end of time, I know it.”

Floronia’s shoulders shuddered with silent tears. Zaire’s words flowed over her like a soothing balm, but the pain refused to subside. She heard them take a step closer.

“I went back to my parents. It’s a world I don’t belong in, but I’ve tried to make space for myself and someone else. I had something to ask them, and something to grab from them… Floronia…”

The druid heard a rustling behind her. Overwhelmed by curiosity, she whirled around to see Zaire on one knee, holding an ancient and intricate ring between their shaking fingers.

“Floronia,” they whispered. “Will you marry me?”

The druid’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened and closed silently.

“Are you - are you fucking kidding me?” she cried, confused tears welling in her eyes.

Zaire was an asshole, but they’d never been cruel like this.

“This isn’t funny, Zaire,” she gasped, lips trembling.

The corners of the wizard’s mouth turned downwards in concern.

“Flo, I know I’ve done some shitty things, but I would never do something like this insincerely,” they stated calmly, maintaining eye contact with Floronia.

“I love you,” they repeated. “I - I want to give you everything. I want to make up for all my mistakes, and then more. I want to make a life with you. I want you in my life.”

They startled at Floronia’s following burst of tears.

“Take as much time as you need,” they soothed. “Say no if you genuinely don’t want to. But, please, Flo, don’t say no just because you think this is some elaborate prank - which I would never do. I mean this with all sincerity. Let me prove just how much I love you, every day, for the rest of my life.”

Floronia shook her head, tears still pouring down her cheeks, “I’m someone who doesn’t belong in beautiful places,” she whispered.

The wizard stood, pocketing the ring and pulling the druid into a tight embrace. They kissed the top of her head softly,

“You make places beautiful by simply existing in them. You are the most beautiful place,” they murmured into her ear.

When the druid shook her head again, Zaire held her out at arms length.

“Floronia, please,” they begged. “Say yes. Let me prove to you every day how you make my life beautiful, and how much I love you.”

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, the druid finally replied, “No.”

Zaire allowed their arms to fall. They swallowed loudly and darted their eyes away. Floronia managed to catch the grief in them.

“Oh, okay,” the wizard stated desolately. “I, um, I respect your choice. I’ll just - I’ll just leave you alone, then.”

They slumped miserably and turned to leave. Floronia darted a hand out to catch theirs before they could slink away, miserable and gone from her life forever.

“Zaire,” she called calmly.

The other turned a hesitant face towards hers, making no effort to hide their misery.

Floronia pulled the arm towards her. Zaire’s body followed sullenly.

“I - This is a lot,” she explained. “It’s a bit much to rush into an engagement and marriage with so much still not sorted out between us. It would be ludicrous for me to say yes today after everything we’ve been through.”

Zaire looked at the ground and tried to tug their arm away. Floronia held on tighter, pulled them closer, and tilted their head up towards hers with her free hand.

“I’m not saying no forever,” she whispered. The wizard’s eyes lit up with hope.

“Why don’t we start with just trying again? No secrets this time. Take me to your beautiful places. Prove to me that you actually love me. That you’re willing to accept my love. And one day, when the hurt is gone, when our lives are already intertwined, when we have shared visions for our future, then I’ll say yes.”

The grey eyes she adored shone with joy. The pair leaned close together, reuniting their lips with the salty taste of beautiful things to come.

"I have some questions that I'm not going to ask. Except for the obvious are you okay?" "No, thanks for asking."

"Can I sit here?" "No." "Okay, how about here?" "That's my lap." "Yes or no, you prick."

"Why are you tracing my fingers?" "Because they're very pretty."

"Do I look okay in this? I feel kind of ridiculous." "The only ridiculous you are is ridiculously gorgeous."

"Have we ever done anything romantic?" "I find laying atop each other watching shit TV very romantic."

"Can you call my phone?" "Oh, sure." "Thanks-" *Friends Don't Kiss Friends blares*

"I think there's only one bed..." "Damn, fanfiction has taught me way too much about this scenario."

"Sorry to bother you, but can I sleep here with you?" "Wha? Why?" "The heat cut off and I can't feel my limbs."

"It's so dreary outside." "Then let's make it sunny inside!"

Kerrin vaulted over the metal bench and made a beeline for the figure huddled in the corner, her nose deep in a book about… something. Kerrin didn’t wear their glasses today. 

Approaching the engrossed brunette, they gestured to the place directly next to her and asked, "Can I sit here?" 

The reader jolted. Her nose withdrew from the book as a frown settled on her face. "No," she huffed shortly. 

Undeterred, Kerrin continued, "Okay, how about here?" 

The girl frowned impossibly deeper, "That's my lap." 

Kerrin rolled their eyes, "Yes or no, you prick."

They watched with rising joy as the trademarked scowl made its way onto the girl’s face. Gods, they loved pissing off Laura. It was so easy! She’d made it very clear, long ago, that the two of them could never coexist peacefully. Kerrin had grown to revel in the unique and surprisingly vast range of scowls and frowns they could pull from the other. 

If Laura was so determined to hate them, why not have fun with it? 

The girl in question rolled her eyes viciously, “Like I’d allow your bony ass anywhere near my lap, you cretin.” 

Kerrin grinned. Let it be known, it was by no means a friendly grin. No, it was self-serving and predatory. Like a hunter watching prey fall right into their trap. She’d walked right into it. 

“Well, well, well!” they crowed gleefully, “How titillating to know that my ass has been on your mind! Interesting choice of word, you have there: bony. Not scrawny, not voluptuous, not thicc, but bony… You must've been studying my ass and its interactions with laps very closely! ”

Laura’s scrawny lips almost disappeared in the affronted thinning she put them through. 

“It is quite an exemplary ass, I admit,” Kerrin drawled, “I never took you for an ass girl, my sweet! That juicy piece of information is my new learned fact for the day!” 

Egged on by the other’s silence, they continued their fanfare, “It changes things up quite notably to know you’re admiring my ass from afar! I shall have to consult my wardrobe! Mayhaps some scandalously high booty shorts are in my near future…” With a suggestive eyebrow waggle, Kerrin continued, “Please know, my dear Laura, that the next pair of booty shorts I don, I don for your eyes, and your eyes only!”

Laura scoffed loudly. She closed her book with a loud slap and narrowed burning eyes at Kerrin. “You’re ridiculous. An absolute fool,” she hissed. 

Kerrin grinned. They leaned their face close to the startled brunette’s, lips moving a hair's breadth from the girl’s as they whispered sweetly, “And yet, my darling Laura, I’m yet to hear you deny any of it.” 

The brunette stuttered for a beat while Kerrin’s grin deepened. “For someone who’s meant to hate me, you spend a suspicious amount of time apparently looking at my ass, and you curiously refrain from denying you do so, despite multiple opportunities.” 

In a moment of bold stupidity, swept up in their heated exchange, Kerrin closed the miniscule gap between their faces to suck Laura’s quivering lower lip into their mouth and nibble it. They released it a breath later, pleased to see the rising flush on her face. 

“Not bad,” they breathed thoughtfully. “You don’t taste as bitter as I assumed.” 

Kerrin straightened their back and began waltzing away from the frozen girl. They turned back momentarily to call out cheerfully, “See ya, sweet cheeks!”, leaving Laura to hold a silent hand to her lips in wonder, staring confusedly at their disappearing figure. 

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━

“IT’S LIKE SOMETHING FROM A ROMCOM!” squealed Nyasha, flopping backwards onto the fading sunflower quilt. “Gods, I always knew there was unspoken sexual tension between you two!” 

Laura rolled her eyes. Her best friend had never refrained from alerting her of this suspicion. Despite all attempts to deny and debunk the accusation, the bubbly blonde refused to change her opinion. 

“It wasn’t sexual,” Laura claimed.

Nyasha’s responding laugh was loud and mockingly boisterous. She sat up on the edge of Laura’s bed, bent over at her middle, gasping for air between her guffaws. The blonde attempted multiple times to speak before being overtaken by another severe wave of giggles. 

Rude. 

“L - Laura,” she wheezed, “Hon, they suCKED YOUR LIP INTO THEIR MOUTH!” 

The affronted brunette crossed her arms defensively. “It was just to take me off guard,” she defended. 

Nyasha eyebrows wriggled disgustingly suggestively, “And based on the fact you haven’t stopped talking about it since, I think it’s safe to say it worked!” she crowed. 

Sometimes, Laura regretted ever befriending Nyasha. Sure, she was her best friend, but she could be a dick. Especially when it came to interactions between Kerrin and Laura. The brunette chose this moment to dream of an alternate reality, in which, instead of sharing her juice box with Nyasha in kindergarten, she’d slammed her smug face into the mud. 

Imagining 5-year-old Nyasha, face caked with mud, blonde hair dyed brown with the smelly substance, and tears paving their way down her rosy little cheeks, gave Laura a desperately required mental escape during the other’s ruthless teasing. 

“In my humble opinion,” Nyasha continued, as if this was a reality in which her opinion was desired, “I’m glad Kerrin has finally made the first move to end your stupid feud.” 

The steepled fingers really weren’t necessary. They made her look like a cheesy movie villain. 

“This sexually-intense flirtation today was their attempt to, finally, express their desire to change the terms of your relationship…” She frowned, deep in thought, “God knows you weren’t going to make the first move. You’re both quite useless, really.” 

At this, Laura scoffed, “They don’t fucking like me, Nyasha, be serious for a moment. They did the lip thing to take me off guard. What about the comment about the ‘flavour’ of my mouth?” 

The blonde stood up rapidly, “Laura, there is no platonic or ‘enemy’ reason to suck someone’s lip into your mouth, and then whisper seductively about how they taste. I mean, come on, ‘not as bitter as I assumed’? Girl, they put thought into how you taste!” 

Laura opened her mouth to argue. She stood there with her lower jaw hanging silently for a long beat before slamming it shut. It was no use. Nyasha wasn’t going to back down. The best thing she could do was leave their conversation be. 

She frowned at the floor, “I’m gonna go make some toast,” she announced. “Do you want any?” 

Nyasha shook her head. 

Unbeknownst to Laura, her best friend snatched her phone as soon as she was out of the room, unlocking it and scrolling down the list of contacts…

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━

“You don’t taste as bitter as I assumed,” Kerrin mouthed sarcastically to themselves, allowing their head to fall heavily onto the desk in front of them. 

What the fuck was that interaction earlier today? What the fuck was that comment?? 

Classes had long since ceased for the day, but their interaction in the lunch room still haunted Kerrin. The ghost of their actions followed them home, taunting mercilessly by replaying the conversation on repeat. 

Christ, teasing Laura was one thing, but the lip thing?? That bordered on harassment! Screw it, lack of consent, with someone who hated Kerrin’s guts, it was definitely some sort of physical or sexual harassment. And, look, their history was rocky at best. The taunting back and forth for years reminded Kerrin of pulling pigtails on the playground, except they were grown-ass adults. 

It had never, however, veered into this territory. 

They groaned, wallowing in self-pity and self-hatred. They needed to turn themselves in. Apologise to Laura, then turn themselves in. 

Just as they’d accepted their fate like one destined for the gallows, a ping from their phone attracted their attention. Kerrin grabbed the phone, face still smooshed against the desk, turned on its side to see the screen: 

LAURAPALOOZA: about earlier…

What. The. Fuck? Laura never messaged them! Kerrin had forgotten her number was even saved to their phone; they’d exchanged details as a necessary measure during a group project in high school. The exchange was one of the most morose interactions Kerrin thought they’d had in their life. 

Remembering their earlier decision, they decided to bite the bullet and respond: 

KERRINATOR: hey. i’m so sorry. what i did crossed boundaries i shouldn’t have. i realise that now. it’ll never happen again, i promise.

Kerrin bit their thumbnail anxiously as the grey bubble that indicated Laura was typing appeared and disappeared multiple times. When no responding message appeared, they tried desperately to do more damage control. 

KERRINATOR: i’m really sorry, Laura. i know we argue a lot, but i do respect you. the lip thing today was obviously unwanted and disrespectful. it won’t happen again.

…

LAURAPALOOZA: What if I said I wanted it to happen again?

Someone needed to call an ambulance, because Kerrin’s heart officially stopped. 

They bolted into an upright seated position, mouth agape, staring at the ten little words on their screen. 

KERRINATOR: actual?

As soon as their message sent, Kerrin stood, barely noticing their desk chair falling to the floor in their urgent scramble. What the fuck was happening? There was a two minute delay before Laura’s response pinged:

LAURAPALOOZA: Sure. 

Well, the tone of that message sure was different, Kerrin thought. But, in for a penny, in for a pound, they supposed. Their dynamic was already fucked, what damage could a little honesty do, at this point? 

Kerrin grabbed their phone and furiously tapped an honest response. 

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Laura was livid. 

No, scratch that, she didn’t think there was a word in the English language to describe just how incensed she was with Nyasha. To think that her best friend had unlocked her phone, abused her best friend privileges, and messaged KERRIN, pretending to be her, was fucking unbelievable. 

Laura had returned, unannounced, to her own bedroom, plate of honey toast in her hand, with one piece already held between her teeth, and had frozen at the sight of Nyasha typing furiously on her phone. 

The blonde’s head had whipped up at the sudden intrusion, startled, and looking suspiciously guilty. 

This guilt immediately raised alarms in Laura’s head. 

Nyasha didn’t do guilty. 

The two remained in a silent, staring standoff, when Laura’s phone pinged. Nyasha’s eyes darted to the screen. Her eyes widened at whatever she saw there. 

…What followed had been a whispered explanation and argument. Nyasha showed Laura the text chain with Kerrin silently. 

Laura re-read the last few messages of the exchange incredulously: 

LAURAPALOOZA: What if I said I wanted it to happen again?

KERRINATOR: actual? 

There was no backing out. The least she could do to save face was to try and coax something embarrassing out of Kerrin, something to hold over their head as reason to give her some peace and quiet. 

In a fit of rage, the brunette snatched the phone back and typed out a cold reply. Her fingers tapped the glass phone screen so viciously, the sound of each key being pressed could be heard throughout the room.

LAURAPALOOZA: Sure. 

She threw the phone on her bed, turning blazing eyes to drill into a cowering Nyasha. “I can’t fucking believe you,” she hissed. The blonde hung their head in shame. At least Laura could revel in the fact that her supposed best friend felt bad about her actions. 

When the phone pinged again, two sets of eyes swivelled to face it intensely. Laura squeezed her eyes shut and waved towards the device, “You read it,” she ordered Nyasha. 

The blonde read the screen. Her eyebrows raised. Silently, she handed the phone to Laura without a sound. 

KERRINATOR: with your consent, i’d do it again. i don’t know why we’ve wasted all this time fighting when we could’ve been kissing. i’d much rather kiss you again than annoy you just to have an excuse to interact with you. 

What. The. Fuck? 

The entire world, as Laura knew it, crumbled. 

Kerrin was being so honest? And so… soft? Genuinely caring? Where the fuck had this come from? The brunette sunk to the floor, hands anchored in her hair. She looked searchingly at Nyasha, who stared back equally shocked and joined her on the floor. 

The phone pinged again. Then again. And again.

KERRINATOR: with your consent of course! but who am i kidding, you probably hate my guts, and with good reason

KERRINATOR: shit, i’ve really fucked this up, haven’t i? 

KERRINATOR: is it too late to say i’m just kidding? probably. fuck, i’m sorry.

Laura scrambled for the phone, and upon seeing the string of increasingly panicked messages, began drafting a message back… Her fingers remained poised over the keyboard as all words fled her brain. What the fuck could she say? This had gotten so messy. 

She was surprised to feel an urge to comfort Kerrin. (Nyasha, and that little part of Laura’s brain that she resolutely ignored, would disagree, but she was in no state to consult either of them). 

Laura squeezed her eyelids closed tightly. She pondered how she could reassure Kerrin. 

Fuck it. 

She tapped their contact on her screen and selected ‘Call.’

“Hi, can I help you?” 

Sawyer admires the nonchalant way she enters the store, like she belongs there. Her glare dares the other customers to say a single word otherwise. Sawyer likens her, mentally, to a venomous snake prepared to strike. The discovery of silver snakebite piercings glinting in the determined sunlight filtering through the grotty and partially obscured windows only confirms this likeness further. 

Her poorly-dyed asymmetrical bob cuts severely and unevenly across her flushed cheeks. Black eyeliner thick enough to surely suffocate the poor mites (Demodex, Sawyer’s mind offers eagerly) that reside on her human face stretches across her eyelids into a sharp point. Sawyer’s eyes drift downwards, cataloguing the shapeless, oversized, and faded Metallica tee, green corduroy shorts embroidered with whimsical mushrooms, and torn fishnet stockings that disappear into a scuffed and well-loved pair of checkered Vans. 

She drags her eyes leisurely back up their initial path, starting sharply when her gaze meets icy blue irises drilling into her own. Sawyer clears her throat and wills away her rising blush. 

Smoothing down the front of her fading Weezer shirt, she adopts her suavest customer service voice and asks, “Hi, can I help you?” 

The stranger frowns - a brief furrowing of chestnut eyebrows - before waving her hand as if to dismiss Sawyer’s pleasantness. 

“If you would be so kind as to stab me in my throat and end my misery, that would be gladly appreciated,” she states dryly. 

In an alternate universe, Sawyer would wax poetic lyrics about the sultry tone that emerges from the stranger’s mouth. She would wonder in amazement over how such softly uttered syllables could soothe her soul like the smoothest balm. She would be brave enough to share these musings with the owner of the gorgeous voice, potentially even flirting her way into securing a date. 

As it stands, in this reality, spit catches in the back of Sawyer’s throat, causing her to gracelessly cough and choke behind the register. Any potential simpering over the voice was overwhelmed by shock at the words. This was humour, right? It had to be humour. Dark humour was popular among her peers, right? Surely. She could play along. She knew how to be funny. 

Well… she knew how to fake being funny for very brief periods of time. 

“Oh, sorry,” Sawyer drawls, internally cheering at how nonchalant it sounds, “Our blades are all out being polished this week. Is there anything else I can do for you today?” 

Those expressive brows in front of her furrow once again. 

“Fuck me,” the stranger exclaims, “How hard is it to find someone with untapped murderous rage?” 

Sawyer is officially confused. She is now about 60% sure the beautiful stranger’s joking. That uncertain 40% refuses to budge from her immediate thoughts. Screw it. Even if she exposes her own social ineptitude, she has to clarify this matter. 

“Um,” Sawyer begins, eloquently, “So I’m honestly really confused right now. Are you joking? You’re joking, right? Because if not, I feel like I need to respond differently…” 

The stranger’s eyes dart to the side as her features disappear beneath her severe purple fringe. 

She hesitates far too long to be truthful before responding hesitantly, “Sure. Let’s say I was joking.” 

Before Sawyer can scramble to respond, the stranger straightens her back and turns to exit the store, “Thanks. See you ‘round, I guess.” 

She makes it to the store’s door, opening the poster-plastered glass, by the time Sawyer’s brain connects once more to her vocal cords. 

“WAIT!” she shouts, causing every set of customer eyes in the store to meet hers. Fuck. Sawyer seeks out wide blue eyes and waves the onlookers away. 

“Wait,” she utters softly while maintaining eye contact with the stranger. “Just, can you just wait like, 10 seconds?” she pleads. 

The stranger nods stiffly, hugging her tote bag to her chest nervously. 

Sawyer strides through to the back room, calling to her boss. “Mike, I’m taking the afternoon off. Dock my pay, I don’t care, I’ve just- I’ve gotta go.” 

She snatches her backpack from her tiny locker as Mike’s affirmative, if annoyed, grunt rings through the room. Striding back into the front of the store, Sawyer breathes a sigh of relief to see the stranger still standing woodenly by the front door. She grins towards the other girl as she removes her lanyard and shoves it into the side pocket. 

Her smile softens as she gets closer, “Hey, thanks for waiting. Why don’t we get a coffee or something? I’ll shout you.” 

The stranger tucks the longest part of her fringe behind her ear as she nods. Sawyer observes her catching what she believes to be sly looks at herself from the corners of her icy eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, Sawyer laughs awkwardly. 

She hadn’t even considered whether the stranger already had plans, whether she was comfortable with this sudden social outing, or whether she was even comfortable around Sawyer! Jesus Christ. Did she have to do damage control? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to try, right? 

“I’m, um, sorry for shouting at you. And for taking you for coffee without officially consulting you,” Sawyer stammers. 

The stranger turns to assess her. Sawyer can practically feel her eyes darting across her features, and it takes everything within herself to refrain from saying something to break the silence. 

Finally, finally, the stranger responds. 

“It’s okay. You seem alright. I’m just a bit surprised, is all,” she mumbles. 

The pair falls into an awkward silence as their feet continue carrying them forward. Sawyer wants to break the ice. Most importantly, she wants to know the stranger’s goddamn name! How does one confidently segue into that, though? It feels too late to ask for a name, but she can’t just keep referring to her as ‘the stranger’! 

The stranger breaks the silence. 

“I’m, um, sorry. About before. I - I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” she mutters. “You don’t have to do this, y’know? Take me to coffee. You’ve got no reason to be worried about me. You don’t know me.” 

It was Sawyer’s turn to choose silence. How could she respond? She may not have known the stranger before their weird interaction, but she now wanted to! She wanted to know her! She couldn’t just come out and say this, though. What kind of weirdo just - 

“I want to, though. Know you, I mean,” her traitorous mouth blurts. Sawyer immediately feels heat rising in her face. A quick glance at the stranger eases her stress slightly upon recognising a matching blush. 

Their arrival at Sawyer’s usual cafe haunt seems like a blessing from the universe. Had she ever been a spiritual or religious being, she may have praised a deity. Instead, she opens the door and gestures gallantly for her companion to enter. Following behind, the familiar jingle of bells as the door shut washes over her soothingly. 

Sawyer leads the pair to the front counter, smiling when George behind the counter recognises her. 

“Sawyer!” his heavy Greek accent exclaims, “Welcome back! Hot chocolate, extra large with extra marshmallows?” 

She winks, “You know me too well, George.” 

George turns to her companion, smiling in the comforting way he’d mastered over the years. “And for yourself, my dear…?” 

The stranger grins at the floor, flicking her eyes up to briefly meet George’s. “Marta,” she supplies softly. Then, “Large dirty chai with oat milk and one sugar, please, George.” 

Sawyer barely restrains a fistpump. She has a name! Marta! Martamartamartamarta… Five letters spelling perfection. She’s unable to keep a self-satisfied smirk from her face as her brain goes to work chiselling those five letters into her brain. 

George must have confirmed their order during Sawyer’s internal celebrations, for he hands them a table number with a wink. Marta grabs the number and leads the pair to an empty table. 

She settles into one of the scarlet chairs and clears her throat. 

Sawyer floats into a chair opposite, still grinning ear to ear. 

“So, this place is nice…” Marta mumbles. 

Luckily, complimenting this cafe is right up Sawyer’s alley. 

“I’ve been coming here for years; first, with my family when I was younger, and now as the independent adult I apparently am. The staff have pretty much watched me grow up. I love the cosy vibes of this place. No matter how bedraggled or panicked I am when walking through that door, I never feel judged. This is my favourite place to escape reality or to remind myself about the good things about the world,” she gushes. 

Marta smiles. “Thank you for bringing me to your little slice of heaven, then,” she beams. 

This was it. The perfect moment to be smooth. To impress her. 

“Well, you seem to fit right in here,” she breathes. 

YES! Smooth! God, if her exes could see her now! Sawyer floats high above the clouds as she coasts on her confident delivery of the smoothest line in her entire flirtation history. 

The smile falling from Marta’s face, however, sends her plummeting back to the Earth’s surface.

“I bet you say that to all the girls you bring here,” Marta attempts to laugh. 

Oof. Sawyer needs to rectify this immediately. 

“I, uh, I actually don’t usually bring people here,” she states, before adding hastily, “Not that I’m usually bringing people anywhere! I feel like you’ve got the wrong idea about me! I’m a fucking loser!” 

Oh, great job, genius. Out yourself as a loser to the pretty girl. Sawyer mentally thuds her head against a wall repeatedly. 

“I, I mean -” she stammers. Finally, she releases a long sigh and slumps. “Look, I don’t - I don’t usually do this. Women who are willing to date me are very rare creatures…” Sawyer looks up to see Marta frowning. 

“Not that you’re a creature! I don’t think anyone could mistake you as a creature when you’re obviously a celestial being - not one of those ‘realistic bible angels’ or anything - I - FUCK! I mean, I’m not this big, successful flirt. That’s probably obvious by now. I don’t usually do this - asking random pretty girls who ask me to kill them for coffee at my favourite place…” 

Sawyer peers upwards to see Marta’s conflicted expression. She couldn’t guess what the hell the other was thinking, but it appeared to be an internal battle. She certainly didn’t expect the next words to fall from Marta’s mouth, 

“You think I’m pretty?” 

Sawyer’s mouth dries. Jesus Christ. Can she be smited? Surely an atheist could request a good smiting if reaching out to a deity for the first time in their life, right? 

As seconds ticked by and she remains regrettably un-smoted, Sawyer sighs and accepts her fate. May as well be honest. 

“Of course I think you’re pretty. Actually, scratch that, you’re fucking gorgeous. Look, I’m sorry for being weird. This coffee doesn’t have to mean anything. You have every right to walk back out that door and never see me again. I wanted to get to know you, and you seem like a really cool person, from what I’ve gathered so far. Just - you don’t owe me shit, you know?” she blurts. 

“Would you,” Marta whispers tentatively, “Would you like me to leave?” 

“NO!” Sawyer shouts. She needs to get a handle on the sudden shouting thing. “No, I’d actually love to keep getting to know you. I just need you to know you can leave at any time. This isn’t a hostage situation.” 

Marta laughs like church bells, “I’m well aware this isn’t a hostage situation. I’d like to keep getting to know you, too. You haven’t been weirded out by me, which is strange, but I’ll take it!” 

George brings over their drinks with a smug smirk. Sawyer pokes her tongue out at him as she accepts the piping hot beverage. She settles into her chair as Marta launches into a story, contentment rising with the steam in front of her. 

Worth it. 

Isadora’s body sighed to a halt upon recognising the tousled blonde hair of the person cradling a mug of coffee through the cafe window. Driven by an insistent urge to force her presence onto this once-friend, now-stranger, she stormed through the establishment’s kitsch red door. Her footsteps pounded towards the figure before she tapped an indignant finger between their covered shoulder blades.

"I wrote to you," she hissed.

To their credit, the blonde recovered swiftly from the initial shock, relaxing their shoulders once more and sighing deeply.

"I know,” they whispered. An infuriating silence followed as they took a leisurely sip of their steaming beverage, “but you never said what I needed you to say."

Isadora jolted back as if she’d been slapped. “What’s that supposed to mean, Carlin? I wrote to you! You didn’t bother writing back to me!”

The blonde sighed again, placing their mug gently on the table.

“Fine,” they stated, pulling out the lacquered stool next to them and gesturing for Isadora to sit down. “Let’s talk this through, I guess.”

Carlin picked up their coffee and took another slow sip, waiting silently and expectantly for their estranged friend to take a seat. Isadora slid into the stool warily whilst eyeing the side profile of the other.

They looked… tired. The dark bags under their eyes would certainly not be permitted to be carried onto an airline cabin. Their gaunt face whispered remnants of a mental and physical decline that Isadora had missed entirely due to her distance. However, a stubbornness resided behind the exhaustion that dared Isadora to call it out. It dared her to name the obvious, and in doing so, speak that which had been avoided.

Her cowardice won, as usual. Isadora slumped in her stool with a heavy sigh. “What did I need to say, then? What would have made you stop avoiding me?” she murmured.

It was Carlin's turn to sigh, “I never actively avoided you, you know? I just stopped being the first to reach out. You never instigated anything, so suddenly receiving your paragraphs of texts one night just - wasn't what I needed.”

They took another meditative sip of their coffee. “I needed effort. You forgot about me, and I moved on. One day you decided for whatever reason that I was finally worth some attention, but I'd moved on.”

Hazel eyes met Isadora’s searchingly, “I deserve effort, Dora. I deserve more than a word vomit apology late one night.”

This entire situation suddenly felt like a clusterfuck of historic proportions.

“But, but,” Isadora stammered. “But I didn't want to bombard you! I realised that coming out of nowhere would be jarring, and I didn't want to scare you off! I purposely didn't want to follow up until I heard back because I didn't want to overwhelm you!”

“You're telling me that I should've gone with my gut instinct?” she cried. “I thought I was doing the right thing by saying my piece, apologising, and then giving you space!”

A glimmer of frustration finally pierced through Carlin's stoic stare. “'The right thing’ would have been reaching out YEARS before you did. Time to process is only effective if that's what is needed. If emotions are still high…” They closed their eyes and inhaled deeply, centering themself.

When their eyelids opened once more, their irises shined with unshed tears, “We went from being attached at the hip, from platonic soulmates that had finally found each other despite the vastness of the universe, from best-friends turned siblings, into people who didn't acknowledge the other's existence…”

Carlin’s voice became small; a dramatic contrast from their larger-than-life personality. “I stopped waiting. I stopped expecting you to reach out. I accepted that our lives had veered us in opposite directions.” Their next sigh came from somewhere deep within their soul, “Space is the last thing I needed, Isadora. I needed my best friend.”

Well. Isadora had to do her very best not to burst into tears in the middle of this quiet cafe. Carlin's use of past tense ignited a fear that she had missed her chance.

Desperately, she opened her mouth and let the words fall out as they pleased. Carlin and Isadora had always found honesty easy. “I ask your parents how you're doing whenever I can,” she said. “I thought about reaching out to you years ago, but I couldn't string the words together. Then the time got longer and longer until I figured you'd forgotten me and it wasn't worth trying. My message was a desperate plea - it felt like sending a message in a bottle and tossing it into the ocean, hoping it'd wash up on your shore…”

Carlin had not yet responded in any way, so Isadora powered through. “I thought about you every day, Carlin. You're my best friend - my sibling in every way but legal and blood. I thought our bond could withstand anything, even if our active friendship didn't.”

She squeezed her eyes shut in preparation for what she needed to say next. “I know it was you who told my mum everything. I know you sent her everything I shared in confidence with you.”

Carlin had frozen, their eyes wide.

Isadora swallowed around the lump in her throat, “It destroyed me. I know it happened so long ago, but your betrayal was fucking world-ending.”

Carlin opened their mouth to speak, seemingly ready to launch into a defense. The brunette cut them off. “I know, I know. You were worried about me. About my safety. You were trying to help. I just - it wasn't even about you telling her, in the end. It wasn't even about your actions…”

Isadora chewed on her lips momentarily before allowing them to open once more. “It was what you didn't do, Carlin. That's what killed me. I had to find out, from my mother of all people, years later, that it was YOU who made my world crumble when I was already at my lowest. You watched silently as I detached from my high school friends because I figured that they were the ones to blame. You agreed with me to my face. You listened to and supported me through the breakdown of whatever had remained of the relationship between my mother and I. Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have ever suspected you. I still struggle to accept that you did all this and chose not to tell me a single thing. That you chose to let my life and relationships fall apart. I thought we were honest with each other, and that's what destroyed me.”

Isadora wiped away a rebellious tear with a sniff, “It took a few years for me to process this. Hence the lack of contact - on top of my general social ineptitude. I finally got over it enough to reach out again, but based on our conversation, I failed that, too.”

“Oh,” Carlin's voice was soft.

“Yeah,” Isadora replied.

The two sat in an awkward silence for a long moment.

Isadora slid her eyes to get a look at her friend through her peripheral view. They really did look exhausted. Maybe this moment of honesty was the perfect time to finally address a burning topic.

“Your parents told me about your new boyfriend. They told me you have to pay his rent because he can't keep a job… You shouldn't let him do that,” Isadora stated in a rush.

She knew instantly that this was the wrong thing to say when Carlin's eyes shuttered, blocking her out once more.

"Oh, and you're going to tell him to stop?" they seethed. “I don't need another parent, Dora.”

Isadora figured she looked quite pathetic if only one glance from Carlin softened their demeanour ever so slightly.

“Look, Dora,” they sighed, “we're not how we used to be. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't always love your attempts at parenting me even when we were close. So, now? My relationship is DEFINITELY out of bounds, okay?”

The napkin that had wandered into Isadora’s hands now lay in pieces on the wooden bench. Her heart, for the record, also now lay in pieces within her chest. She managed to utter a small affirmative sound.

“I'm not saying we don't have a chance of rebuilding a relationship. We just - we can't just jump straight back in to how it used to be. It may never be like it used to be.” They shrugged, “We need to take it slow and hope we can become friends again naturally.”

Isadora nodded - a jolted, jerky motion in the wake of her sudden grief. She gathered her bag and swept the napkin remnants into her cupped hand.

She stood from her stool and stared down at Carlin, "Tell me to stay."

Carlin squeezed their eyes shut and looked away. Their voice was thick with emotion when they finally uttered, "I wish I could."

Isadora walked out of the cafe door as her world crumbled around her once again.

"I know. I'm sorry. I got delayed."

A sharp rhythmic knock at the front door jolted Micah from his dazed staring out the large windows. There was something hypnotic about rain pattering against the glass that could be experienced in no other circumstance in the world. It was on days like this that Micah easily lost himself to his thoughts, placing his cheek against the cool surface as a sharp and steady reminder that this was indeed the present. 

He padded over to the front door and swung it open without hesitation. Micah turned his back to the figure on his doorstep. He felt the words that had been poised like a venomous barb on the tip of his tongue for days rise to strike. A sharp pang through his chest had the vicious words disappear in a heartbeat. Instead, he mumbled, "You said you'd be back in a week." 

The guest sighed. A sound Micah knew all too well. He wished he didn’t. He wished this guest was a stranger.

"I know. I'm sorry. I got delayed," they whispered. Exhaustion haunted their tone, but Micah couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

"Mh-hm. You gonna stand out there in the cold all night, or you coming in?" he asked. Without waiting for a response, Micah continued the trek back to his window seat, allowing the visitor to let themselves in. 

The door closed with a whisper. 

Perched precariously on the cushioned window ledge, Micah rested his cheek on the glass once again. He focused his thoughts on the chilled sensation that spread slowly to his skin. Ice was much easier than fire. Before the knock at the door, Micah had been overwhelmed by the burning inside himself. He’d raged. He’d cried. He’d come up with several creative and devastating ways to insult the person now trying to quietly hang up their dripping raincoat on the hooks in the entryway. 

There’s a vulnerability in fire, though. While the burn can be mighty and harmful, it is at its core chaotic. The fire comes from a place of hurt. Sharp words and fast fists can only hide the internal terror for so long until the flame consumes even the wielder. Chaos begets chaos. Micah’s unanticipated time alone had been the perfect fuel for an enraged fire. 

He wasn’t alone now. 

Now, the person who had caused this hurt was back. 

Micah didn’t want to be hurt further. He couldn’t be hurt further. 

He couldn’t afford to burn. 

Instead, he’d become ice. Cold. Distant. The perfect contrast of passionate fire. Unfeeling and harsh removal from humanity. He’d give her nothing. 

“Micah?” 

Celeste’s voice was soft. Cautious. Micah hated her for it. 

“Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare come in here and say my name like that. Like you care. Like my fucking wellbeing means anything to you.” 

As tears welled, Micah turned his head further into the window, shielding his face from the other. A feeling of equal parts satisfaction and despair snaked its way through his insides at Celeste’s responding huff. 

“You’re being ridiculous, Micah,” she stated shortly. “Let’s talk about this like adults.” 

Instantly, all of Micah’s hastily built ice walls crumbled in a blaze of indignant fury. He whipped his head towards his childhood best friend, rising to meet her eyes for the first time since her arrival. 

She wanted to talk it out? Fucking fine! 

“Adults?” Micah spat. “Oh, we’re ready to talk like adults, huh?” 

Celeste’s eyebrows narrowed. “You need to chill out, dude. Despite all of this, I’m still your friend.” 

“Oh ho ho!” Micah laughed humourlessly. “Still my friend, really?” The strangled sound that emerged from his mouth was indistinguishable as an emotion. “If this is how you treat people you consider your friend, maybe we need to sit down and redefine the term!” 

Celeste’s ire visibly rose. She straightened her back to maintain eye level with Micah. 

“I did it because I care. I did it because I love you!” she screamed. “You’re not okay, Micah! You weren’t okay! You fell down this rabbit-hole and it got you saying some crazy shit -” 

Hands tearing at his hair, Micah’s chest heaved with dry sobs. “So you tell my mum? You go behind my back and tell my mum every fucking thing I’ve said about her as I try and process my childhood and how I got this fucked up in the first place?!” 

Celeste inhaled deeply, “It needed to stop! You needed help!” 

Tears fell freely now as Micah’s face crumpled, “I love you, Celeste! You’re practically my sister! I trust you!” He paused to take a breath as his heart pounded within his chest, “Trusted, I guess. I’ve learned my lesson now. No one can be trusted.” 

“Micah, I -” Celeste began. 

“No,” Micah whispered. “Don’t. Don’t fucking stand there and try to apologise. You betrayed me, Celeste. I thought I was confiding in someone I could trust. I trusted you more than anyone else in the world. More than myself. To find out that YOU were the one who betrayed me - that YOU were the reason the remains of me and my mum’s fragile relationship fucking shattered. That you did this for YEARS! I cut everyone else off! You didn’t even cross my fucking mind, because you’re my sister, and why the fuck would you hurt me so deeply and not even have the human decency to tell me?” 

Silenced, even if only temporarily, Celeste now avoided eye contact. 

“I know it was years ago,” Micah sighed. “I know I wasn’t in a great place. Lowest fucking point of my life, actually. But you betrayed me, Celeste. The ultimate betrayal. I love and trust so few people. I’ve been hurt so many times. I trusted you completely. And you betrayed me…” 

“You were being unfair to your mum!” Celeste finally snapped.

Oh ho ho. What a fucking statement. 

“You were projecting or some shit, but your mother isn’t the monster you painted her as!” Celeste continued. 

Unable to respond with anything other than a gobsmacked, open-jawed expression, Micah took a seat on the cushion. Celeste was still talking, but Micah only heard fragments. ‘Always accommodating to me’ ‘always had everything you needed’ ‘wish she was my mum.’ 

“You don’t know her,” Micah whispered. Celeste’s voice cut off. 

“You only saw her in her ‘entertaining’ mode,” he continued. “But of course you won’t fucking listen to me. I spent the first 18 years of my life being gaslit into thinking that I’m an incompetent human being incapable of independence. I finally started figuring shit out in therapy, and was gaslit further. I’m used to other people not believing me. I’m used to other people assuming I’m wrong…” 

Micah looked up into Celeste’s eyes, allowing her to view his tears. “But not you. I trusted you so wholly, so completely. I trusted you more than I trusted myself. You broke that trust and didn’t even alert me. You let me think that my highschool friends were the ones to instigate the final breakdown of my relationship with my mum. You let me cut them off. You let me find out, from my mother, 6 years later, that you - my childhood best friend, my platonic soulmate, my sister - were to blame all along!” 

“And now,” he sniffed. A river of mucus slid down the back of his throat. “Even now, you’re still defending her. You’re still telling me I’m wrong. You’re wanting to brush this aside like my trust means nothing to you.” 

It was over. 

Their friendship was over. 

This had been haunting Micah for months. This had sparked the fire.This inspired the ice. 

There was nothing that Micah wanted less to acknowledge. 

They were over. 

“Celeste,” he croaked, “You’ll always be my sister. Our families are so closely intertwined, and somehow, despite everything, I still love you.” He paused. “We’re not friends anymore, though. I doubt we’ll ever be like that again.” 

Micah leaned forward on the glass until his tears and raindrops blended together, 

“You can let yourself out. You know how to lock the door.” 

Celeste didn’t put up a fight. She didn’t try to convince him otherwise. She simply gathered her belongings and left. This final act cut deeper than anything she’d done in the past 10 years. 

As the door closed with a soft but definite click, Micah bawled shamelessly. 

"That's ridiculous. If anything, I exercise an overabundance of caution."

"Oh, look, it's that lady who stabbed you and left you for dead. Here. At your invitation-only birthday party."

"Don't take this the wrong way,” Addison began, “but I don't trust your sense of danger, or your survival instincts."

Affronted, Blaise scoffed, "That's ridiculous. If anything, I exercise an overabundance of caution."

The blonde's responding withering glare had no effect on her friend, who merely rolled their eyes and waved a careless hand. Addison had had enough. If Blaise didn't care about their own wellbeing, she would. 

"Oh, look, it's that lady who stabbed you and left you for dead,” the blonde drawled, gesturing to the pinch-faced hag guarding the sausage rolls like a dragon of the world's shittiest nest. “Here. At your invitation-only birthday party."

Her friend dismissed the concern with an infuriating and flamboyant hand wave."She didn't leave me for dead,” they insisted. “Why would she have dropped me on your back porch if she wanted me to die? Trust me, she's fine."

Addison took a forcefully calm and deep inhale through her nose. She knew Blaise. Blaise was many things, but an idiot, they were not. Overly trusting, optimistic, slightly mad, interconnected with the universe…? Sure. But an idiot? No. Absolutely not. The blonde reasoned that there must be some sensible reason for her friend to extend an invitation to the woman that left them for dead.

As much as she did trust Blaise - and Addison trusted Blaise with her life, completely - she wouldn't be able to rest and enjoy this event until that reason was clear. 

Thus began the investigation. 

Stage 1: Observation. 

Addison methodically and meticulously raked her eyes over her friend's body, looking for signs of hidden distress. 

Blaise had wandered over to a mutual friend, and was currently mid-giggle. This was most likely due to a dirty quip, or a particularly shitty dad joke. Their standards for humour were pitifully low, but their joy was infectious. The hand carding through their cropped hair was steady, and seemed to serve a practical purpose - lifting strands of fine copper hair from over their eyes. 

The lapels of their favourite deep purple coat were littered with enamel pins; a clumsy yet charming attempt at summarising their bubbly personality and niche interests in a public display. The coat was ancient; the proof of which could be seen in the mismatched buttons. Each had been thrifted individually, immediately after the original buttons gradually fell off. 

Then there were the patches; assorted and chosen based on texture, not style. And the shoes - forever tied with rainbow laces. Addison had known Blaise for most of their lives. She knew that beneath their grandeur, garish style, and open queerness, rested a history of self-loathing and harm. She knew that this maximalist and quirky fashion began as armour, to shield her fragile friend from the outside world. She'd also been privileged to watch this style turn into Blaise’s most honest form of self-expression. They'd worked so hard, and for so long, to get to a point where they didn't despise the face and body staring back at them in the mirror.

Addison couldn't be prouder of them. 

So why, in the ever-loving fuck, had they invited that WOMAN to their birthday party?? It just didn't make sense!

The blonde watched her friend catch the eye of another loved one across the lawn, waving energetically before bounding across the grass to embrace them in a hug. 

Blaise seemed completely at ease. Nothing in their observable demeanour indicated tension. Stage 1 was a bust. It was time for Stage 2: Covert Operations. 

Addison quickly drained the remains of her cup with a wince - warm beer was a particular displeasure she usually tried her best to avoid. She powered through, like an absolute champ, though, for Blaise. She was an excellent best friend. Now with an excuse to approach the food and beverage table, which was still guarded by the suspicious hag, Addison pasted on her most meek and friendly smile as she traipsed toward her target. 

The woman got uglier the closer Addison got… Okay, that was an unfairly mean statement. The blonde mentally chided herself with a brief lecture on being a decent fucking human being. She acknowledged that her negative bias had taken over in this moment of judgement, and it needed to take a step back. Stage 2 required finesse and a level-head. 

All in all, Addison’s 5-second journey across the grass was highly productive. She planted her feet a respectful distance in front of the target, smiling gaily and waiting for the other to make eye contact so her ruse could begin. The blonde’s grin sharpened after a pregnant moment of absolutely no recognition from the woman directly in front of her. Addison’s grip tightened on her cup as she pretended to finish the imaginary final dregs, miming the appropriate actions like a pro and completing the act with a realistic lip smack. 

The woman made no indication that this had been noticed. Still no acknowledgement of Addison’s existence. The blonde’s ire grew to an almost-undisguisable degree. What the fuck? Deciding that time for subtlety had surely passed, she cleared her throat pointedly, feigning surprise when the woman startled and FINALLY met her gaze. 

Before she could begin her carefully-planned attack, Addison felt all her words die on her tongue. The woman was… really hot. Unfairly so. Her outrage on Blaise’s behalf had really blinded her; she couldn’t fathom how her brain had seen this face from a distance and associated it with ‘hag.’ 

Large brown eyes peered nervously up into her own. The deep depths of the woman’s irises wrapped Addison up like a warm hug. The malice and iciness she’d been prepared to encounter was non-existent. It seemed that the creature facing her was in fact just another human. A human slightly shorter than her - hence the upwards peering. 

“Uhh,” stumbled the clumsy and prolonged syllable from Addison’s mouth as her eyes darted eagerly over all aspects of the person in front of her. 

The woman’s black hair was held backwards by an ornate hair clamp. The silver metal flowed from the outer edges of the clip into a butterfly outline. The strands that spilled from the top of the fixture looked silky smooth, and Addison went to great odds to prevent her hands from reaching out to stroke the hair and confirm its softness. The woman had 2 holes pierced in each ear. Her lower-most lobes sagged slightly under the weight of silver butterfly earrings that matched the hair piece. The upper piercings held simple but beautiful green studs that glinted emerald in the sunlight. 

As Addison’s gaze drifted unconsciously downwards, she was disturbed to find her attraction to the other growing stronger. The woman had obviously put thought into the outfit as appropriate to the occasion, in contrast to the blonde’s initial assumptions. She’d colour-coordinated her entire outfit, that much was clear. Her vertically-striped black and green flared pants gave the illusion of height that disappeared upon close contact. The black undershirt beneath the green blazer dipped teasingly into inviting territory.

In a brief, gay, moment of betrayal, Addison forgot that this woman stabbed and then left Blaise for dead on her porch 4 months ago. 

“Hi!” she simpered. “I’m Addison. What do I have the pleasure of calling you?”

The other woman seemed startled by this question. After a brief, wide-eyed stare, she stammered with a voice like honey, 

“Maitra! I’m - my name is Maitra.” 

Addison rolled the syllables around in her mouth like a prayer. As her imagination veered into moaning that name in another context, she shook her head to centre herself. She was on a mission. Stage 2. Blaise. 

Addison morphed her smile into a cold and calculated glare. “Hi, Maitra. I'm Blaise's best friend.” Narrowing her eyes, the blonde continued with a voice like ice, “You left Blaise for dead on my porch 4 months ago.” 

Instantly, Maitra’s face flushed. Interesting. Not cute at all. No siree. 

Then she stammered and avoided eye contact. Addison felt her stomach drop; she hadn't registered the newly blossoming hope that had developed upon meeting Maitra. A desperate hope that this was all a misunderstanding. That hope now tasted sour in her mouth. This reaction was as good as a confession.

“I - I don't - It's just -” she stammered. 

Addison cut her babbling off with a slashing gesture. “Spare me from your pathetic attempt to justify your actions. Blaise is my best friend. You left them on my fucking porch 4 months ago, bloody, bruised, and unconscious!” 

The blonde could feel her rage rising with every word. The anger blinded her to the shrinking figure in front of her, curling into itself with every word spat in their direction. 

“You dumped them there and fucked off! They could've died! They almost did! What kind of fucking monster does that to a person?” 

Maitra's eyes were squeezed closed as Addison's tirade continued, 

“You were already lower than dirt in my book, and THEN, THEN, you dare to show up at Blaise’s birthday party?? Are you fucking kidding me? Bold of you to accept an invitation to this event now, when you made such a monumental effort to prevent them from seeing this day!” 

Silent tears fell down Maitra's cheeks as she shook her head. “That's not - I don't - You - I -” 

Addison mocked the other woman's utterances with a viciousness that scared her. All of the fear for her friend’s life that she'd had to put on hold to aid in their recovery burst now from her lungs. 

“You disgust me,” the blonde sneered, leaning close enough to see Maitra tremble and flinch at each syllable. “You are absolute scum. Blaise may be too kind to say it, but I'm not. You are a miserable creature, and I hope someone leaves you for dead one day, too.” 

Maitra's face now completely crumpled as loud sobs emerged from her mouth. Addison’s inhale was cut off by a whisper behind her, 

“Addison, what the fuck?” 

The blonde whipped around to face Blaise, surprised and confused at seeing outrage in their expression. “I was just -” 

“What the actual FUCK, Addison?” Blaise repeated, voice rising in anger. “I can't believe -” their words cut off as their head whipped up to see Maitra's mumbled apology and frantic scramble out of the event. She sprinted across the lawn and out of the shrubbery gate, disappearing from view while still in high levels of distress. 

Blaise’s infuriated glare whipped back around to face a guilty Addison, who felt like a naughty school child in the principal's office. 

“Why don't you trust me?!” came their shouted response. 

This, Addison was not expecting. She was expecting a wide variety of angry statements, but not this. “What? Of course I trust you, Blaise. This was the woman who left you for dead! This has nothing to do with -” 

“I told you to trust my instincts! I told you it wasn't what it seemed! And you completely ignored me!” Their expression was pained. “Why don't you trust me, Addison?”  

The blonde stammered. Blaise held up a silent hand to cut her off. 

“Maitra going out of her way to drop me at a trusted friend's house in my state put her in far more danger. You see it as a half-assed effort, but it was actually a massive gesture of goodwill. We talked it out, Addison!” Taking a deep breath in, they reiterated, “I'm not an idiot! I wouldn't invite someone who wished me harm to my fucking birthday!” 

With every word from her best friend's mouth, a heavy, sour feeling settled in Addison's stomach. She'd fucked up. 

“I mean, fucking hell!” Blaise laughed humourlessly. “I'd actually hoped that you two would hit it off! Maitra's actually a really cool person, Addison.” They waved a hand over her general direction, “I don't know who this is right now, but it's not my best friend. I'd much prefer to have Maitra back here than whoever you are right now.” 

“Blaise, I -” Addison began, desperately. 

“No!” they snapped. “You've done more than enough talking. You've made a scene at my birthday party! You've scared off my very anxious new friend! You've done enough damage!” 

Suddenly, they deflated. All the fight left their body. Addison almost wanted the anger back; it was less scary than this defeated version of her friend. 

In a carefully neutral voice, Blaise stated, “Go home, Addison. Have a shower. Take a nap. Just - just go home, please. We'll talk about this later, but right now I'd rather enjoy what's left of my party, and I don't think I can do that with this version of you here.” 

Dejected and embarrassed, the blonde nodded silently and raced for the gate with her heart pounding. How had her instincts been oh so wrong? 

“You're an idiot,” Josh seethed. I slumped backwards into the aged vinyl. My glass was empty. I needed another milkshake.

“Well, yeah,” I agreed. “But you're gonna have to be more specific.”

His eyes narrowed coolly. Oops. I forgot that most people don't like questions or requests for explanations. Apparently they interpret that as a threatening or undermining move. 

I just really sucked at social cues. 

Fortunately, Josh decided my earnest plea deserved a response, even if spat in my direction, “You're dim. Dense. Not clever. You're absolutely infuriating.”

“Oh, I know I’m not that clever, but I’m pretty good at sounding like I am, which is in itself a kind of cleverness. And - you know - I’ll take it,” I chirped, enjoying the way the grotesque vein above his eyebrow twitched. People never quite knew how to react when I so cheerily agreed with their sentiments intended to hurt. 

And, look, the words did hurt sometimes. I am human. The thing about insults, though, is that they tend to lose their oomph when repeated religiously. Like, if you're going to insult me, at least be creative about it! You know what hurts more than a regular insult? An insult articulated skillfully. That shit smarts. Especially when it's SO good, you can't help but respect it just the slightest bit. 

‘You're an idiot’: low-impact. Solid 3/10 insult. Easily forgettable. I wasn't going to struggle to get to sleep at night because of those words. 

Now, consider something like ‘You are a plague on every person you meet. You leach even the possibility of joy with the mere opening of your mouth.’ 

Oof. 10/10. You can almost guarantee that those words will bounce around the inside of the insultee's head long into the night. You couldn't laugh that off. You couldn't shrug that away. You'd just have to sit in the knowledge that you had been bested by an insult. 

In comparison, Josh’s words fell very, very flat. 

I pinched the disintegrating paper straw between my fingers as I frowned into the remaining froth cowering at the bottom of my glass. Sure, I could ask for a refill, but that would require calling over the waitress again, and she'd already been to our table 5 times. Any more times would be impolite. Even 5 was too many. 

Josh was surely preparing to leave, anyway. He seemed to teeter on the precipice of racing out the door in a huff. I wondered what would be the final straw. What unintentional thing would I do that broke this - broke us? 

Like we weren't already broken.

It's amusing, in the most unfunny way, the lies we tell ourselves to get through the day. 

I told myself I loved him. That this was worth fighting for. In reality, I barely tolerated him on a good day. His face frustrated me. I hated his mother. I hated his sister and her ‘better than thou’ attitude. I hated who I was around him. His friends were creepy. His dog was neurotic, but I pretended to love it anyway. 

It was just - easier - to be in this dysfunctional relationship than face the big wide world alone. 

The penny had to drop sometime. Like all other things I did, when my penny dropped, it did so in a spectacular fashion. 

Josh’s face was red. He looked like he needed to shit urgently. 

He wouldn't find that observation funny. 

His frown would, somehow, deepen even more than it had now. 

Like almost every other key event in our relationship, I held my tongue to prevent my stupid from falling out. 

Josh sighed. It was a sigh of the weary. 

I wished I could rip that sigh from his mouth and hold it infuriatingly out of reach, just like I'd wished to do with every other undeserving thing he'd ever received or done. 

He didn't get to sigh like he held the world on his shoulders. He didn't get to sigh like he'd ever held his tongue out of respect for my sensibilities. He didn't get to sit there, after calling me an idiot, and pretend like he was the one hard-done-by. Prick. 

I should've been the one sighing. 

I should've been the one insulting him. 

I should've listed every fucked up thing he'd ever put me through. 

I should've berated him until his undeserving smugness fell away. 

I should've ordered 5 more milkshakes and made him pay.

I didn't. 

Instead, I sat there. Aged vinyl sighed behind me as I stared into the leftover froth like it could solve the mysteries of the universe. I sat there, giving truth to his half-hearted insult of ‘idiot’ with every second of silence that passed. 

This is why most people called me an idiot, I think. When I got overwhelmed, I froze. My mind continued going a mile a minute while my stupid body sat there like the sack of meat it was. 

Sometimes my brain would focus too intently on a certain part of the conversation and fall down a rabbit hole of ideas and responses before a clumsy bouquet of words stumbled out of my mouth. Unfortunately, by this time, the conversation would have moved on, making me appear slow. 

Sometimes I continued the conversation in my head, so the words that eventually tumbled out seemed out of context, despite following the natural flow of conversation I completed internally. 

The wrinkle between Josh's eyebrows deepened. It was quite an ugly face, I mused. It would be a mammoth, but necessary, effort to remove his features from my photos. The only thing worse than a skeleton in the closet is an ugly skeleton in the closet.

Josh sighed again and rubbed his temples. 

“Let's just start again, Nate,” he groaned. 

That was it. The final push I needed. 

I stood from the diner booth with a start, knocking the table in my haste. Josh’s eyes darted to mine, confused and hideous. 

“That sounds like the worst idea imaginable,” I stated, gathering my bag. I glared at him just long enough to make him uncomfortable before stating, “I'd have to be an idiot to try again with you.” 

My shoulders lightened with every step I took towards the diner doors. This was it. Me, making a stand for myself. I wondered where it would take me next.