Page 3

HARPER

It took all but ten minutes to move out of my hotel room and another twenty to empty my storage unit. The U-Haul was embarrassingly bare. It's sad, that twenty-four years of life can't even fill half a U-Haul.

Every piece of furniture or kitchen appliance that was bought during our six years together is still at our apartment.

His apartment, and I've succumbed to starting over and trying to be okay with that.

I didn't notice the absence of my things when I decided to stay in a hotel but having next to nothing is becoming blatantly obvious as I sit in Amelia Bennett's apartment.

My apartment, I guess.

It's strange to call it that, even in my head. This place is nothing like me. It's bold, lived-in, chaotic in a way that somehow still feels intentional. Like someone actually lives here, not just passes through.

The couch I'm on is soft and worn, one of those expensive ones that still sags a little in the middle.

There's a blanket tossed across the back, half-folded, like someone meant to clean up but got distracted.

Coffee mugs on the table. A hockey stick leaning against the wall.

A beat-up leather jacket draped over the arm of a chair.

The scent of vanilla and something faintly citrus clings to the air, not overpowering-just warm.

There are picture frames everywhere. Some crooked, some layered on top of each other, none of them matching-but all full. Full of faces, of laughter, of messy group hugs on ice and beach days and birthdays and lazy afternoons. Family. Friends. A life.

There are dead flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter. Or maybe they're just tired. Still trying to be something they used to be. I get that.

I sit on the edge of the couch, not quite sure what to do with myself.

My suitcase is by the door, untouched. There are boxes lying around the living room making a mess.

My shoulders are stiff, like I'm waiting for someone to tell me I'm not supposed to be here.

Because, let's be real-I'm not supposed to be here.

The first time I met Amelia, she told me to fuck off.

The second time, I might've insulted her without meaning to. Now I'm sleeping in her apartment?

How did I even get here?

I tuck my legs under me, trying to make myself smaller. My fingers fiddle with the edge of the blanket like it'll ground me, like I'll find an answer stitched into the seam.

I haven't seen her yet. She let Audrey do the drop-off like I'm some stray animal being handed off gently, no sudden moves.

I don't blame her. She doesn't like me. And I don't really blame her for that either.

But the silence here is softer than the silence in the hotel.

It wraps around the edges instead of slicing through the center. It lets me breathe.

The view to the city is breathtaking, the skylights and the sunset distract me for a couple of minutes.

I sit cross-legged on the couch, turned just enough to catch the view.

My camera is in my bag, exactly where I left it, tucked under a hoodie I haven't worn in two days.

My fingers twitch toward it, muscle memory urging me to lift, aim, capture. But I don't.

Some moments... maybe they aren't meant to be taken. Maybe they're just meant to be felt. And God, I feel this.

The wind nudges at the glass like it's trying to remind me I'm not home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I take a slow breath, my chest tightening a little on the exhale. When's the next time I'll get a view like this? When will I ever sit in a place that feels so... borrowed and yet so beautiful?

My eyes drift from the windows, following the line of the apartment until they land on a wall of shelves-low, wide, overflowing. Not styled or curated, not for show. Just... used. The way books are meant to be.

I push myself up, walking quietly like I don't want to disturb- who? There's no one here. My hand grazes a spine here, a cover there. Romance. Lots of it. Some fantasy. A whole row of old paperbacks with creased corners and cracked bindings. One with a faded pink cover and doodles in the margins.

A tiny smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it.

Amelia Bennett reads romance novels. The kind with flowery titles and people kissing on the front.

Honestly, I wouldn't have guessed. The version of her that glared at me and said "fuck off" felt more like a crime-thriller type. Or horror. Maybe boxing memoirs.

I crouch, fingertips brushing the edge of a book that looks like it's been read a dozen times. There's a sticky note poking out of it, a scribbled heart drawn next to a quote. It feels private-too private, maybe. Like looking through someone's childhood diary.

The click of the front door halts my movements.

Oh, fuck no. Amelia was meant to be out all night.

Some swanky charity gala downtown for the city-photos, speeches, tiny glasses of champagne.

I figured I had hours to make this mess look intentional, or at least survivable.

I had a plan: unpack my books, fold the few clothes I brought, maybe light a candle to fake a sense of calm and cleanliness.

Instead, I look like I exploded in the middle of her living room. And now she's here. Early.

So much for first impressions. Or second.

Or whatever the hell this one is.

I shift awkwardly, trying to make myself physically smaller, as if that will somehow erase the disaster I've left behind.

I crouch like I'm mid-task, like I've totally been productive and am absolutely in control. My heart thunders anyway.

Her voice slices through the silence, low and flat and dry as hell.

"What. The. Fuck?" her tone is dry and even.

Attempting to get myself together, I brush my hair away from my face and plaster on my most charming smile. It works everytime.

I raise a hand and wave like a total idiot. "Hi-" I offer, too cheerful, like I've bumped into her at the grocery store and not, you know, moved into her home.

But the greeting dies on my lips the moment I actually look at her.

I've seen her twice before-once in full gear, all armor and adrenaline, her eyes sharp as blades. The second time, she was casual at a bar, all hoodie and baseball cap, too cool to care.

But now Amelia Bennett is standing in her own doorway, in a perfectly tailored black suit.

Jacket open just enough to reveal the crisp white button-down underneath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows like she's been posing for a magazine cover without meaning to.

Her auburn hair is pulled back in some effortlessly messy twist, strands falling against the curve of her neck.

She's wearing rings-thin silver ones, scattered like an afterthought on her fingers-and a watch that probably costs more than my car. If I still had one.

She's taller than I remembered. Or maybe it's just the presence she carries. The way her eyes sweep the apartment, assessing. The quiet pressure of someone who owns every room she steps into.

And then she looks at me, and I have to suck in a breath.

Her eyes are impossibly blue. That kind of blue you see in paintings-intense, unreal, too much to be real life.

Her freckles are faint across her nose and cheeks, softened by the gold of the hallway light behind her.

She's-God-she's gorgeous. Beautiful in the way that stops people in their tracks.

The kind of that makes you forget what you were doing.

And this isn't news to me. The entire world knows how beautiful Amelia Bennett is, and they are not afraid to tell it.

The entire Bennett family looks like they've been created by goddess.

But fuck, having Amelia in front of me, looking at me like that, so fucking close is another fucking story. I don't think I'm breathing anymore.

"Harper," Amelia snaps me out of my trance.

Closing my mouth and crossing one leg over the other, I meet her eyes. "Hmm?"

"I asked what the hell happened to my apartment."

"Oh." I laugh, too fast, too awkward. "Yeah. Sorry. I, uh, thought you were coming home later? Audrey said you'd be out for the night, so I figured I had time to... settle."

She doesn't say anything.

I can feel her looking at me, her gaze like a scanner searching for any sign of weakness, or maybe just signs of intelligence. My hands fidget in my lap, fingers twitching like they want to pick up my camera and disappear behind the lens. I wish they could.

"Have you picked a room yet?" she asks, cutting off whatever excuse I might've started forming.

Her voice is low-raspy around the edges, like gravel smoothed by years of use. It's hot but now? Cold.

"No. Not yet." I shift again. "I was, uh, waiting for you to tell me. You know, in case you had a preference or-"

She arches a brow, unimpressed. "You've been here for two hours."

Okay, how the hell does she know that?

"I was just... I didn't want to assume," I mumble. "Didn't want to take the wrong one or something."

She doesn't respond. Instead, she walks past me, cool and unbothered, and hangs her keys on the tiny rack by the front door like she's done it a thousand times. Then she kicks off her shoes-quick, efficient-and heads toward what I assume is her bedroom, not sparing me a second glance.

I watch her retreat, feeling like I'm watching the third impression crash and burn in real-time. First one: awkward. Second one: terrible. Third one? Might as well set it on fire and bury the ashes.

My stomach twists with panic, and before I can overthink it, I blurt out, "I was thinking maybe we could have breakfast tomorrow."

She doesn't even slow down. Doesn't look back. "No."

Cool. Cool cool cool.

I try again. "I just thought... I don't know. We're living together now, so maybe it'd be nice to get to know each other a little?"

"No."

I bite down the disappointment and laugh under my breath-part nerves, part surrender. "Okay. No breakfast. That's cool. Um, what about coffee? Just coffee? A low-stakes beverage between two people who, by total misfortune, now share a roof?"

She ignores me.

"I mean, who knows?" I add, trying to soften the moment with something light. "Maybe we'll even be friends."

That gets her attention. She stops, glancing over her shoulder. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes narrow just slightly.

I raise both hands like I'm surrendering to a hostage negotiation. "Okay, no friends. Got it. No friends. No food. No fun. Strictly a roommate situation. I'm on board."

For a split second, I swear her mouth twitches. Just the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner. A maybe-smile. But it vanishes before I can decide if I imagined it.

She turns around-suddenly, fully-and I take an instinctive step back. She's right there, and it's like the room gets smaller. Her eyes are level with mine, impossibly steady, and the weight of them makes my spine straighten.

Then she exhales. Not in frustration exactly, but something heavier.

Like the kind of breath you let out when you've already been patient longer than you meant to be.

"Look, Harper..." Her voice is quiet, but it lands hard.

"I don't want this to come out wrong, but I don't want you here.

I didn't ask for you to move in. The only reason you're in this apartment is because you're friends with Audrey.

That's it. I like this place," she goes on, eyes flicking around the apartment.

"It's mine. It's where I go when the world feels too loud.

So no, Harper, we're not going to be friends.

We're going to coexist. You'll be here, and I'll be here, and eventually, you'll figure out a different situation. "

Then, with a glance that's not unkind, just final, she turns and reaches for her bedroom door.

"First room on the right," she adds, her voice lower now. "Better lighting."

And then the door closes behind her with a quiet, decisive click.

For a second, I just... stand there. The hallway feels colder somehow. The walls closer. I blink a few times, like maybe I can clear the sting behind my eyes just by willing it away.

Ouch.

Not that I didn't see it coming. Audrey warned me.

Told me Millie wasn't big on strangers, especially not in her space.

But hearing it-flat out, no sugarcoating-from her mouth?

It lands harder than I want to admit.

I adjust the strap of my camera bag on my shoulder and walk toward the first room on the right.

My sneakers barely make a sound on the hardwood, but it still feels like I'm intruding with every step.

I open the door.

The room is empty-no furniture, no framed pictures, no cozy throw blankets like the rest of the apartment.

But somehow, it still manages to take my breath away.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along the far wall, washing the room in soft amber light from the setting sun.

The entire city spills out in front of me, blurred towers and moving lights and the kind of horizon that photographers chase for years.

I can't even help it-my breath catches. My fingers twitch.

It's the light. Golden and warm and just a little too perfect, like it was made for a lens. Like it was made for me.

I blink, stepping inside fully now. The walls are a clean, soft cream, catching the light in all the right places. There's nothing here, but it doesn't feel cold. It doesn't feel abandoned. It feels... offered.

Did she choose this for me?

I lower my camera bag to the windowsill like it might shatter if I'm not gentle. It makes the softest sound against the wood, and still, it echoes too loud in the silence around me.

There's no bed here. No chair. No framed photos or hints of a life lived. Just four clean walls and the floor beneath me. So I sit. Slowly. Carefully. The hardwood is cool against my legs, grounding in a way that almost hurts.

The view outside is ridiculous-like something out of a dream. The city stretches far and wide, lights flickering on one by one as the sky fades from burnt orange to deep blue. It should be calming. It should be magic.

But none of this feels real.

The last six years of my life are still tucked into drawers and closets I don't have keys to anymore.

On a couch I picked out with hands that thought they were building something permanent.

In a kitchen where I used to dance barefoot with a man who swore I was his whole world, even while someone else's lipstick stained his collar.

I walked away with boxes and a camera bag.

Everything else-every piece of furniture, every photo in a frame, every curtain and wine glass and record I bought for Sunday mornings-it's still in his apartment. And I'm not even sure I want it back. I just want... something that's mine again.

And then there's my mom. God, my mom. Her voice on the phone is thinner now, weaker.

Like every call might be the last one. The chemo is working, they say.

But it's not working fast. And I'm so tired of pretending I'm not scared.

That I've got this under control. That I'm not watching the woman who raised me disappear piece by piece while insurance bills stack on my kitchen table-well, what used to be my kitchen table.

I haven't slept. Not really. Not in days.

My fingers twitch more often now, shake when I try to focus my lens. Sometimes I can't tell if it's from exhaustion or just everything pressing down on me at once. It's hard to breathe with this much fear.

And now I'm here. In a stranger's apartment. Not even a friend's-a stranger's. With all my stuff shoved into cardboard boxes, and no idea how long I can stay before I wear out the thin thread of grace I was offered.

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, hard.

It doesn't stop it. The tight pull in my throat. The sudden, raw heat behind my eyes. The tears come anyway-slow and stinging, tracing down my cheeks without permission.

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

Like maybe pain will hold me together. It doesn't.

I curl in a little tighter.

One knee drawn up, my arms wrapped loosely around my shins, chin resting on the soft fabric of my sleeve.

The city glows outside, indifferent. Distant.

Beautiful in a way that almost feels cruel.

And I just sit there, letting it all catch up. The heartbreak. The loss. The fear. The fact that I don't have a home anymore. No friends. No boyfriend. Nothing.

Alone, in a stranger's room.