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“I don’t renege on debts.” They were all useless, worthless words, in ragged harsh whispers, yet the moment went on.

Trying to finally break out of it, Chiara leaned back and tipped Vi’s face up, her fingers lingering on the angular jaw.

When their eyes met, the dream seemed to only deepen, Chiara finding herself even more powerless to shake it off, as the tears on those long, tangled lashes fell. First one, then another.

She’d cried earlier, when Vi had made her come. Now it was Vi’s turn. Was this the true debt they were paying back? And when had she started equating Vi’s betrayal with her own sins?

As if reading her thoughts—which had always been the case, and Chiara thought she should perhaps stop being surprised by it—Vi echoed the sentiment.

“Olddebts, Chiara?”

She tucked Vi’s head back against her shoulder, their identical height allowing them to fit like puzzle pieces. Chiara had a fanciful, fleeting thought that she’d heard the shallow click of cardboard slotting into its designated position. How quixotic of her to believe that she could just come over, fuck Vi, waltz back out and return to her life.

The fingers in her hair soothed, the gentle caresses interspersed with an occasional tug, as they’d hit a snag perhaps of Vi’s own making, since she’d had her hands in Chiara’s hair from the moment Chiara’d knelt in front of her.

As if apologizing, the lips whispered something against her skin and the fingers went back to work, carefully untangling the knot before starting over somewhere else.

It was sweet, Chiara decided, her mind sidestepping the gentleness and the murmurs, choosing not to hear and not to feel.

“I don’t have many old debts.”

The spell, the dreamlike moment, was instantly broken. The second the words were out of her mouth, Chiara knew it had been the wrong thing to say. So wrong, yet also the truth. Her guilt being what it was, and considering her feelings five years ago,Chiarastill wasn’t the one holding the thirty pieces of silver. She wasn’t the one who’d betrayed.

Nonetheless, it had been the wrong thing to say, because Vi stilled in her arms, then drew back and away, hastily zipping up her trousers and strolling unsteadily towards the bay of windows covering the entire wall overlooking the Village.

Her arms free and her mind reeling, Chiara finally looked around, taking in the cozy, pristine place she found herself in. Black and white photographs adorned the walls, and ivy grew in a myriad of pots scattered around the shelves. Chiara recognized the vision behind the monochrome creations and wanted to smile. Vi had lost nothing of her eye.

There was a comfortable chair and a fuzzy blanket in front of the windows, and Chiara realized instantly that this had to be Vi’s favorite spot. The stack of books by its side told her as much. She smiled. Some things never changed.

She must have said it out loud, because Vi turned sharply back to her.

“Would you have actually wanted them to?”

A lump in her throat seemed to have thorns, cutting her to ribbons. This woman always managed to. Chiara wondered whether it was intentional, or if it was some kind of supernatural ability. Because nobody, not her mother, not Frankie, not anyone else, saw her—and slashed through her with the skill and precision Vi did.

“That would imply you reading and being surrounded by all the books was a trait of yours I did not like.”

“Bookishness aside, was there actually anything about me that you liked?” Vi spat the last word, her voice rising from quiet to high-pitched, and Chiara felt that same shard twist at the stitches holding her chest together yet again. Or was it just her guilt?

“There were plenty of things I liked about you, Vi. What is it that you want?”

“I’m trying to understand what are you doing here.”

Her back against the glass and the booted legs crossed at the ankles, Chiara almost smiled at the oh-so-familiar pose. All Vi needed to do now was wrap her arms around herself, and the image could have belonged on a Parisian rooftop five years ago. Afraid of heights, yet trying not to show it.

When silence stretched, and Vi tsked, then lifted those lanky arms and held herself tight, Chiara did smile at the memory before reaching out on instinct to tuck another lock of hair behind Vi’s ear. Except her hand dropped at the last moment, the gravity of their situation weighing heavy.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here. Is that so strange? Is that so unusual for me, of all people? I wasn’t sure what I was doing here five years ago either—”

“Here?” The question was filled with anxiety, and Chiara could see Vi’s shoulders tense up further, her own mirroring them.

“With you. A different room. A roof. A studio. A Parisian street. Anywhere really. Just not where I was supposed to be, because it was with you. Of all the people, I wasn’t supposed to be with you. And yet I couldn’t help myself. I can’t seem to.”

“So I’m a mistake?” Vi’s voice was quiet as her teary eyes turned cold.

“A vice.” Chiara sighed. “One I have paid for, and for some reason, the price hasn’t been too high. Or time made it more palatable in dulling its steepness.”

“I told you that I didn’t do it—”