Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mira woke with a small shiver.

Not from the cold.

The room itself was warm enough, the blankets heavy and familiar around her shoulders. It wasn’t a sound that pulled her out of sleep either. No noise in the hallway. No phone buzzing. No nightmare unraveling at the edges.

Just a feeling.

Something quiet and insistent. Like… a strange, full-body awareness that something wasn’t right.

For a moment she stayed where she was, hovering in that soft space between sleep and waking, trying to catch hold of the feeling before it slipped away. Mira had learned a long time ago that her body noticed things before her mind did: Tiny shifts in the air, the wrong kind of silence, the subtle absence of something that should be there—especially when it came to them.

Even half-asleep and buried deep in dreams, she knew the differences—the small ones most people would miss entirely. She felt the mattress dip when someone rolled over, the sudden warmth pressed against her side, and heard the quiet rhythm of breathing that she sometimes counted just to fall back asleep.

Her body had memorized those things.

So when one of them changed, something internal in her always reacted.

Tonight was no different.

Her eyes opened slowly. The room was still dark, the early hour stretching quiet and soft around them. For a moment she didn't move, letting the fog of sleep thin out while the shapes around her settled into place.

Then she turned her head. Her vision was blurry without her glasses, the world reduced to soft shapes and shadowed outlines, but she didn't need perfect sight to recognize Zoey.

Zoey was still there beside her, curled slightly on her side, hair a mess against the pillow, breathing heavier than usual. Even through the quiet of the room, Mira could hear the faint congestion in her chest—the way the air caught a little before filling her lungs.

Mira frowned and reached out without thinking, brushing her thumb gently along Zoey’s cheek. Warm. Too warm. Not dangerously hot yet, but warm in that unmistakable way that made Mira’s stomach tighten.

Zoey scrunched her face slightly in her sleep and made a small, pitiful sound in the back of her throat. Then she leaned into the touch instinctively, her cheek pressing softly against Mira’s thumb like some sleepy part of her recognized the comfort.

Mira felt a small knot in her chest loosen at the reaction.

She made a mental note immediately—medicine when Zoey woke up. Water. Probably soup later if the fever stuck around. Mira watched her sigh softly, still asleep, breath evening out again after the brief disturbance.

Mira let her thumb rest there for another moment before pulling her hand back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the concern.

Zoey always did that. Even half unconscious she somehow managed to seek out affection like a plant turning toward sunlight.

Carefully, Mira shifted onto her other side—and the smile disappeared.

The space beside her was empty.

Not just empty.

Cold.

Mira stilled.

It wasn’t the first time she’d woken in the middle of the night to find Rumi gone.

Lately it had been happening more often. At first it had only been once or twice—easy enough to brush off. Rumi had always been a little restless at night, sometimes slipping out of bed to pace or grab water or sit somewhere quiet until sleep found her again.

But recently it had become… different. More frequent. More deliberate. Sometimes Rumi slipped out to sleep in her own room without saying anything beforehand. Mira would wake hours later and find the bed lighter, the door down the hall cracked open just enough to let a thin line of darkness spill into the hallway. Other nights Mira would notice the bathroom light glowing faintly beneath the door, the quiet hum of the fan running while Rumi lingered inside. And sometimes—

Sometimes she was just… gone.

Vanished quietly, like she’d been careful not to wake anyone. And then, hours later, she would return just as quietly. Sliding back under the covers with slow, practiced movements. Redistributing the blankets. Settling herself into the mattress as if she’d never left at all.

Like she didn’t want anyone to notice.

Mira noticed anyway.

She always did.

Her gaze lingered on the empty pillow beside her now, on the slight dent where Rumi’s head had rested earlier. The blanket was pushed aside just enough to show where she’d slipped out.

Her chest tightened.

Ever since the police station, things had been… different.

They’d all been shaken by it, of course. Anyone would be. What they’d relived that night had been enough to fracture anyone’s sense of reality.

But Rumi—

Rumi had been the one who cracked open.

Mira still didn’t really know what had flipped the switch in her. Outburst didn’t feel right. Breakdown felt too clinical, too neat for something that had been so messy and.. —whatever it had been, Mira had never seen anything like it from her before. Raw. Uncontained. Scary in a way that stuck under her skin.

Rumi had always been quiet, sure. Reserved. Careful with herself in that way people were when they’d learned early on that the world didn’t always treat softness kindly. But there had always been something steady underneath that. Something resilient.

The girl who had walked into their lives months ago had been fragile in some ways, yes—but she had still felt present. Still felt anchored to the world around her, still capable of reaching back when someone reached for her. But the girl who came back from the station…

Mira swallowed.

She felt different.

Like something inside her had folded inward.

Since that night, Rumi had been slipping further and further into herself. Not in loud, obvious ways. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would alarm a stranger watching from the outside. Just… small things.

She spoke less.

Laughed less.

Sometimes Mira would catch her staring at something for too long—a speck on the counter, a spot on the wall, the floor beneath her feet—like she’d drifted somewhere deep inside her own head and forgotten how she’d gotten there. She moved through the apartment like she was following a script someone else had written for her.

Cook.

Clean.

Sit with them on the couch.

Smile when Zoey said something ridiculous.

Technically there.

But not really here.

Sometimes Mira would look at her and feel like she was watching someone stand halfway out the door. Like Rumi had one foot planted firmly in their life and the other braced somewhere else entirely. Somewhere distant, somewhere cold—ready to leave if something pushed her too hard.

Mira hated that feeling. Hated the quiet distance in Rumi’s eyes lately. Hated how unreachable she’d started to seem.

She’d tried everything she knew how to do.

Soft jokes, light teasing, pulling her close on the couch when she noticed Rumi drifting, letting her sit in silence when it seemed like talking only made things worse. Giving her space when she thought maybe that was what Rumi needed instead.

None of it stuck.

Every time Mira thought she’d managed to reach her—thought she saw a glimpse of the girl she’d fallen for again—it was like her hands slipped right through the cracks.

Like trying to hold water.

And underneath all of it, there was the quiet, creeping truth Mira didn’t want to say out loud.

Rumi’s mental state had declined.

After the story about her childhood, there had been a shift—yes. Something heavier, something raw. But it had felt… contained. Like something that had been opened, but not unmanageable. Something Mira and Zoey could hold with her, steady her through, bring her back from when she drifted too far.

They had brought her back.

They could.

But this—

This wasn’t that.

This felt deeper.

Not like something that had been uncovered, but something that had been pulled loose—like tearing something out of the ground only to realize the roots were still there, tangled and endless beneath the surface, reaching further than they could see.

And no matter how carefully Mira reached for her, how gently she tried to hold on—

she kept losing her.

It wasn’t subtle.

Not to Mira.

And that—

That terrified her more than anything.

Slowly, Mira pushed herself up from the bed.

The blanket slipped down around her waist and the cool air immediately brushed across her bare arms, raising faint goosebumps along her skin. She reached for the nightstand automatically, fingers fumbling in the dark until they found her glasses. The familiar wired frame slid into place, and the world snapped back into focus. Soft shapes sharpened into edges. Shadows separated into furniture.

Behind her, Zoey shifted slightly in the bed. A small breath, a sleepy rustle of sheets.

Mira froze for a second, listening.

Zoey settled again.

Good.

Carefully, Mira slipped the rest of the way out of bed.

The floor was cool under her feet as she stood, pausing for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The apartment sat in that strange pre-dawn quiet where everything felt suspended, like the world hadn’t quite decided whether it was still night or already morning.

She stepped into the hallway.

The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath her weight as she stepped into the hallway, loud enough that she slowed instinctively, placing each step more carefully.

She paused, listening.

Nothing.

No running water. No cabinets opening. No quiet shuffling from the kitchen.

Her gaze moved automatically toward the bathroom. Dark. Then toward Rumi’s room, the door was open and Mira leaned just enough to see inside. Empty.

Her chest tightened—not sharply, not suddenly. Just a slow, familiar pressure settling in beneath her ribs. She lingered there for a moment longer than she needed to, staring at the untouched blankets, the stillness of the room.

Then she moved again.

“Ru?” she called softly.

Her voice barely disturbed the silence. It seemed to disappear almost as soon as it left her mouth.

No answer.

The kitchen was dark. Chairs pushed in. Counter clear. Sink empty. Nothing out of place.

The living room looked untouched.

For a brief second a worse thought flickered through her mind.

What if she left?

Rumi had never done that before. Not without saying something. Not without at least leaving a note.

But lately…

Mira pushed the thought away before it could root itself.

Her gaze moved across the room again. That was when she noticed the curtains. They were pushed aside just slightly but enoigh to see a faint silhouette behind the glass sliding door.

Mira’s shoulders loosened with a quiet exhale she hadn’t realized she was holding.

There you are.

She walked toward the door and slid it open carefully, cold air rushed in immediately, brushing against her arms and neck. The balcony was darker than the apartment behind her. Only the distant glow of streetlights reached this high, painting everything in dull silver and shadow.

Rumi sat on the floor near the railing.

A hoodie swallowed most of her frame, the fabric bunching around her shoulders and falling loose over her knees. The sleeves were pulled down over her hands, hiding her fingers completely.

Her knees were drawn tightly to her chest.

Arms wrapped around them.

Small.

Like she was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.

Like if she made herself compact enough, the world might stop noticing her altogether.

The wind tugged lightly at the loose strands of her hair, lifting them and letting them fall again.

She didn’t react.

Didn’t even seem to feel it.

She was staring straight ahead.

Not at the city.

Not at the streetlights.

Not at anything in particular.

Just… out.

And suddenly Mira understood why her body had woken her up. Because even from across the room—even through sleep—some part of her had felt the distance.

Mira stood there for a moment before stepping outside, door sliding shut behind her with a soft click, sealing the apartment’s warmth away.

The cold bit sharper out here. Not brutal, but enough that it crept quickly across her skin, curling around her bare arms and the back of her neck.

Rumi didn’t react to it.

Or maybe she did and just… didn’t care.

Mira watched her for another second, the way you watch something fragile before deciding how close you’re allowed to get.

Then she crossed the small stretch of balcony and lowered herself to the ground beside her, folding into the narrow space next to Rumi like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mira made sure their shoulders brushed.

Close enough to feel her there. Close enough to feel the quiet warmth of her body through the layers of fabric. The subtle rise and fall of Rumi’s breathing. The faint shift whenever the wind pushed against them.

Close enough that Mira could breathe her in.

Except—

She couldn't.

There was no lavender.

Her chest tightened slightly.

That scent used to cling to Rumi constantly. It lived everywhere—threaded through the fabric of her hoodies, tangled in her hair, soaked deep into her skin. Sometimes Mira would walk into a room hours after Rumi had left and still catch it lingering in the air.

Soft.

Familiar.

Comforting in a way Mira hadn’t even realized until it was gone.

Now there was nothing.

Just cold air and the faint smell of the city below.

The memory surfaced immediately.

The trash bag.

Rumi kneeling on the floor.

Wordless.

Methodical.

Bottle after bottle disappearing into the plastic. Lotions. Soaps. Oils. Candles. Sprays.

Everything lavender.

Rumi loved the scent. Said it helped her sleep. Said it made everything feel calmer somehow. A reminder of her mother.

And that night she’d thrown it all away like it meant nothing.

Mira had stood in the doorway watching.

Unsure whether to step in.

Unsure whether to ask.

Unsure if speaking would break something that was barely holding together.

In the end, she had stayed silent.

Because the look on Rumi’s face had made the answer very clear.

Don’t ask.

Not right now.

Maybe not ever.

Mira still didn’t know exactly why Rumi had done it. But she had a feeling. A quiet, ugly one that kept pointing in the same direction. Toward the man sitting in a cell right now.

Mira forced the thought away.

Not tonight.

Tonight was already heavy enough.

Silence settled between them again.

Not uncomfortable.

Just heavy.

Mira turned her head slightly, letting herself really look at Rumi.

It was something she’d always loved doing—studying the little details of Rumi’s face when she thought she wasn’t being watched. Memorizing the way her expressions shifted. The subtle lift of her eyebrows when she was amused. The tiny crease that appeared between them when she was concentrating.

Usually it made Mira feel warm.

Grounded.

Lucky.

Tonight it did the opposite.

Her stomach twisted.

Rumi’s gaze was distant, unfocused, like she was looking straight through the city instead of at it.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, the skin beneath them faintly puffed from hours of crying. The faint shine of dried tear tracks streaked down her cheeks, catching the weak glow of the streetlights below.

God.

How long had she been sitting out here?

Mira’s chest ached at the sight.

Rumi had always had bright eyes. That was the first thing Mira noticed when they met. Warm brown, alive with a kind of quiet curiosity that peeked out even when she tried to hide it. Even when she was nervous. Even when she was pretending she wasn’t paying attention.

Those eyes used to catch the light so easily.

Now they looked dull.

Muted.

Like someone had reached inside and turned the brightness down.

Mira swallowed hard.

Looking at her like this felt strange, like staring at the outline of someone she loved. The shape was still there. Same face. Same quiet presence beside her, but something inside it had gone dim. And Mira—

Mira didn’t know how to reach it.

“Rumi?” Her voice came out softer than she intended, careful in the way she always spoke when Rumi got like this—like one wrong tone might make her retreat even further into herself.

For a moment, Rumi didn’t move.

The city hummed faintly below them, wind whispering against the railing. Then, slowly, Rumi turned her head just enough for her gaze to flick toward Mira.

The movement was small, almost reluctant. But it was something.

Mira held still, like reacting too quickly might scare the moment away. From this angle, the streetlamp across the road caught along the curve of Rumi’s throat.

Her eyes immediately snagged on the faint discoloration there.

The rashes. The scratches.

It had faded since the reaction, the angry redness dulled into scattered patches of palish-pink across the delicate skin of her neck. The swelling had also gone down too.

Allergic reaction.

The words echoed in her head like something ugly.

Her and Zoey still hadn’t really talked about it out loud, but the guilt sat between them anyway. Heavy. Unavoidable. Because they had been the ones to give her the different brand of lavender lotion.

Mira swallowed hard, because even now, sitting here beside her, Mira couldn’t shake the feeling that they should’ve protected her better.

And somehow…

They hadn’t.

Mira was squeezing Zoey’s hand tightly while they sat in the stiff plastic chairs outside the interrogation rooms.

Waiting had never been Mira’s strength.

Especially not this kind. The kind that made every minute stretched too long. That made every muffled voice from behind a closed door make her ears prick. As if sensing it, Zoey squeezed Mira's hand, warm and steady.

Mira clung to that warmth more than she meant to.

Then—

A shout tore through the hallway. Muffled, but unmistakable.

“LET ME GO! HE HAS TO PAY!”

Mira’s entire body went cold.

For a second, the words didn’t register, just the sound—just the sheer force behind it.

Rumi.

She had never—never—heard Rumi yell like that. Not once. Not in anger, not in frustration—not even in the middle of an argument. Rumi didn’t yell. She withdrew. She shut down. She went quiet.

But this—

This was something else entirely.

There was rage in that voice. Utterly raw, unfiltered rage. It tore itself out of her throat like it hurt just to say the words.

Mira’s head snapped toward Zoey at the same time Zoey looked at her. The same realization hit both of them in the same second.

That was Rumi.

They both shot to their feet so fast the chairs screeched against the tile.

“What the—”

Another sound echoed from down the hallway.

Crying.

Not quiet crying.

Full-body sobbing.

Mira didn’t think. She was already moving.

Zoey kept pace beside her as they hurried down the hall, their footsteps echoing sharply against the tile. With every step Mira’s pulse hammered harder, a cold, crawling dread building in her chest—something was wrong, something was very wrong—

Celine was already standing outside the interrogation room when the door burst open.

Two detectives stumbled out first, looking startled and tense—

And then Rumi.

They were half-dragging her into the hallway.

Mira’s breath caught.

Rumi looked nothing like the girl who had walked into the station with them earlier. Her face was twisted with grief, tears streaming down her cheeks so fast they left wet streaks along her jaw, hair disheveled around her face, sticking to the damp skin there.

She was fighting them.

Actually fighting.

She was trying to pull away from them, trying to turn back toward the room.

“LET ME GO!” she screamed again, voice cracking so violently it sounded like it might tear apart entirely. “HE HAS TO PAY!”

The sound scraped down Mira’s spine.

Rumi sounded feral, like something had ripped open inside her and there was no way to contain it anymore.

“Rumi?!” Mira rushed forward instinctively. But before she could reach her, Rumi lurched forward and collapsed straight into Celine.

The sound that tore out of her chest didn’t even sound human. It was raw. A broken, jagged scream that dissolved into sobbing before it fully formed.

Celine barely managed to catch her as Rumi clung to her like she was drowning, fists twisting desperately into the fabric of Celine’s coat as if letting go would mean falling apart completely, words spilling out of her in frantic, tangled bursts.

“T-they killed her— they killed her— my umma— m-my umma—” Her voice cracked into a hoarse sob.

Mira felt the air leave her lungs.

Killed.

For a second, the word refused to make sense.

Celine froze too, clearly overwhelmed, her eyes darting over Rumi’s face like she was trying to piece together what had just happened.

“Rumi—what—what happened?” she asked breathlessly.

But Rumi couldn’t answer, her legs gave out completely beneath her. Celine dropped with her immediately, guiding her down before she could hit the floor.

“T-they killed her!” Rumi cried again, her voice tearing apart in her throat. “They killed her—my umma—”

Mira’s chest twisted painfully.

She had never seen Rumi like this.

Not once.

Even on her worst days, Rumi had always tried to hold herself together somehow. Even when she cried, she kept it quiet, controlled—like she was afraid of taking up too much space in the room. Like her grief had to stay small.

Contained. But this—this wasn’t contained.

This was grief ripping straight through her.

Zoey’s grip suddenly tightened painfully around Mira’s arm.

Mira barely felt it. She didn’t even realize she’d started moving until she was already halfway across the hallway, the distance between them disappearing step by step.

Rumi was shaking harder now. Her whole body trembled violently where she knelt on the tile floor, shoulders jerking with every sob.

Her breathing had turned ragged, frantic.

“They killed her— they killed her— they killed—”

The words dissolved into hysterical gasps.

“Rumi—hey, hey—slow down,” Celine tried gently, one hand hovering uncertainly near Rumi’s shoulder, like she wasn’t sure if touching her would help or make it worse.

But Rumi wasn’t hearing her. Her fingers suddenly clawed at the front of her hoodie. Hard and desperate. as if something was crawling under the fabric.

“GET IT OFF!” she choked. “GET IT OFF OF ME!”

Before anyone could react, Rumi grabbed the hem of the hoodie and yanked it over her head with shaking hands. The fabric caught briefly in her hair before she ripped it free and hurled it across the hallway like it had burned her. Curling forward right after, arms wrapping around her ribs—clutching her chest.

That’s when Mira saw it.

The rashes.

Bright red patches were spreading across Rumi’s arms, blooming rapidly against her skin. Angry. Inflamed. The skin looked hot. Swollen.

Mira’s stomach dropped so fast it made her dizzy.

“I— I can’t—” Rumi gasped, words barely coming out as her hand shot up to her throat—fingers clawing at her neck like she was trying to tear something off.

Mira’s brain stalled for half a second.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Her body moved before the thought fully formed, dropping down beside her immediately. “Rumi—hey—hey—look at me,” Mira said quickly, voice shaking. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

But Rumi only choked harder.

Her chest heaved violently as she tried to suck in air that didn’t seem to come. A horrible, tight wheezing sound escaped her throat.

The skin along her neck was swelling.

Right in front of Mira’s eyes.

Mira felt panic surge up her spine like ice water.

Cold.

Sharp.

Sudden enough to make her vision blur at the edges.

No.

No, no, no—

“What is happening to her?!” Mira demanded, her voice cracking as she looked up wildly, her gaze darting between the others like someone had to have an answer—someone had to know what was going on.

“I—I don’t know!” Celine said helplessly, her hands hovering uselessly near Rumi’s shoulders, like she wanted to help but didn’t know where to touch without making it worse.

Another choking sound tore out of Rumi.

Wet.

Strangled.

Like each breath had to force its way through something too tight.

Something closing.

Zoey swore under her breath.

“Shit.”

She dropped immediately to the floor on Rumi’s other side, the movement quick and decisive, grabbing Rumi’s wrist to steady it as her eyes moved fast—scanning, assessing.

Her gaze caught on the rash.

Spreading.

Up her arms.

Across her collarbone.

Angry.

Raised.

Her expression changed instantly.

Color drained from her face.

Recognition hit first.

Then fear.

“Shit—shit, shitshitshit—”

Mira’s stomach twisted violently.

“What?”

Zoey snapped her head up, eyes wide in a way Mira had never seen before—sharp, alert, terrified.

“She’s having an allergic reaction,” she said, her voice tight, controlled only by urgency.

The words didn’t land right.

Not at first.

Like they didn’t fit the moment.

“What?!”

“She needs an EpiPen!” Zoey barked, already turning, her focus snapping toward the detectives still standing frozen across the room.

“Don’t just stand there—get one!” she shouted.

The command cracked through the air.

The detectives jolted like they’d been shocked, one of them stumbling over a chair in his rush before both of them bolted down the hall.

But Mira barely registered them leaving.

Because Rumi—

Rumi was getting worse.

Much worse.

Her breathing had turned ragged.

Desperate.

Each inhale scraping through her throat like it had to claw its way past something closing in, something tightening with every second.

Too shallow.

Too fast.

Not enough.

“Breathe—”

Mira’s voice broke apart halfway through, the word collapsing before it could fully form.

“I—I can’t—” Rumi gasped, the sound thin and strained, barely making it out. Her hands flew to her throat again, fingers clawing at her skin like she could tear the tightness away if she just tried hard enough.

Zoey grabbed her shoulders gently but firmly, trying to steady her. “Rumi—hey—look at me, okay? Stay with us.”

But Rumi couldn’t focus. Her head jerked side to side, breaths coming faster and faster in panicked bursts.

Air.

She needed air.

“I can’t—!”

Her chest heaved violently as she tried to drag oxygen into lungs that suddenly felt too small. The wheezing sound coming from her throat made Mira’s stomach lurch.

Mira felt something inside her chest fracture.

No.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

She leaned closer immediately, grabbing Rumi’s hand without thinking, fingers shaking so badly she nearly missed.

“Hey—hey—listen to me,” Mira said quickly, her voice breaking. “You’re okay. You’re okay, Ru. Just—” just what? Breathe?

Because Rumi was trying.

God, she was trying.

Her entire body was straining for air.

Her fingers dug painfully into Mira’s hand as she gasped again, her chest jerking violently with the effort. Tears streamed down her face.

“I can’t—I can't—Mir—,” she cried hoarsely. "Help me—"

The sound ripped straight through Mira’s chest.

Rumi twisted suddenly, her body folding forward as another wave of choking breaths tore through her.

That horrible wheezing whistle filling the hallway.

Zoey’s eyes were glassy too, panic flickering through them despite how hard she was trying to stay calm.

“Rumi—fuck—just—just hold on,” Zoey said, gripping her tightly. “You’re going to be okay.”

Mira felt like the floor was tilting beneath her.

Everything was happening too fast.

And too slow.

Every second stretched unbearably long while Rumi fought for air right in front of her.

“Rumi—stay with me,” Mira pleaded, her voice cracking completely now. “Look at me, okay? Look at me.”

Rumi’s eyes flickered toward her.

They were wild.

Desperate.

Mira had never seen fear like that in them before.

“I’m here,” Mira said quickly, squeezing her hand tighter even though her own fingers were shaking. “I’m right here. Just keep breathing.”

Another choking gasp tore out of Rumi’s throat.

Her chest heaved violently again.

But the air still wasn’t coming.

Mira had never felt so helpless in her life.

Rumi started to wheeze.

Her face scrunched tight with pain as her chest rose and fell in uneven jerks. Each breath seemed to catch halfway down her throat, like the air was being forced through something far too narrow. Rumi's fingers tightened painfully around Mira’s hand.

Her face scrunched tight with pain, chest rising and falling in uneven jerks as she tried to pull in air that just… wasn’t coming fast enough.

“Rumi—hey—hey,” Mira said quickly, though her own voice was shaking now.

Rumi’s eyes were glassy and unfocused now, darting wildly between faces as more panic flooded them—as her breathing turned sharper, louder.

The sound of it would stick with Mira for a long time.

That horrible, desperate wheeze.

Like every breath had to fight its way through something closing.

Rumi’s shoulders jerked as she tried to inhale again.

Nothing.

The air wasn’t coming fast enough.

Her skin had started to lose color now too, the flush of panic draining away and leaving something far worse behind.

Pale.

Too pale.

Mira felt her own lungs tighten in response, her body mirroring the panic.

“Rumi, breathe,” Mira pleaded, her voice cracking completely now. “Please—just breathe.”

Rumi shook her head weakly.

Her hand clawed at her throat again.

Her eyes were wide.

Terrified.

For one terrifying second Mira genuinely thought—

This is it.

That they were going to lose her right there on the cold tile floor of a police station hallway.

That this was how it ended.

Not some dramatic fight.

Not some final goodbye.

Just Rumi suffocating while they watched.

Her chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, grip tightening desperately around Rumi’s hand.

Then footsteps thundered down the hallway.

Someone shoved an EpiPen into Zoey’s hand.

Zoey didn’t hesitate. She jammed it into Rumi’s thigh with practiced urgency, holding it there while murmuring something Mira couldn’t even process.

Everything after that blurred together.

Voices overlapping.

More footsteps.

Paramedics suddenly crowding around them.

Hands gently but firmly pulling Rumi away.

Lifting her onto a stretcher.

Mira remembered grabbing Zoey’s hand so tightly her fingers went numb. She remembered refusing to let go. Remebered the nauseating smell of the hospital. Remebered Rumi laying in the hospital bed with an oxygen mask covering half her face, the clear plastic fogging faintly with every shaky breath she took.

Remembered her and Zoey sitting in the chair by the bed.

Neither of them had moved for nearly an hour.

Mira’s fingers were laced tightly with Zoey’s in one hand and wrapped around Rumi’s in the other.

She needed to feel both of them there.

Rumi looked small in the bed.

Too small.

Her skin was still flushed in places, faint patches of irritated red lingering along her arms and neck where the rash had spread earlier. The swelling had gone down some, but Mira could still see how raw her throat looked.

It made her stomach twist every time she glanced at it.

The doctor had explained it calmly, like it was a routine thing.

Mira sat there listening while the doctor spoke, but the words seemed to echo strangely in her head, like they had to travel through layers of fog before reaching her.

Apparently allergic reactions like that didn’t always hit immediately.

The lavender lotion they’d bought her—that had been it.

It could sit on the skin for hours without doing much at first. No obvious signs. Nothing alarming. Just… there. But stress, body heat, and adrenaline could increase blood flow to the skin—letting the allergen absorb faster.

And Rumi had been under a lot of stress.

So once her body finally reacted, it reacted all at once.

Fast.

Violently.

The yelling hadn’t helped either.

According to the doctor, the allergic reaction had already inflamed her throat and airway. All the screaming and crying during the interrogation had only irritated it further, straining her vocal cords on top of everything else.

Which meant now—

She wasn’t supposed to talk.

Not for a while.

“Her throat needs time to heal,” the doctor had said gently. “If she pushes it, she could worsen the inflammation.”

So they’d prescribed medication for the rash and swelling.

Antihistamines.

Anti-inflammatory pills.

A strict warning to avoid anything lavender-related again.

And vocal rest.

Lots of it.

Mira stared down at Rumi’s hand resting in hers.

Her fingers felt warm.

Alive.

But the memory of how cold they’d felt earlier—when Rumi had started choking—made Mira’s stomach twist again.

God.

They had almost lost her.

Because of lotion.

Because of something they bought.

Her throat tightened so suddenly she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying again.

How had they not known?

How had they not checked?

Mira’s grip on Rumi’s hand tightened unconsciously. Zoey must have felt it because her thumb brushed lightly over Mira’s knuckles, a silent grounding gesture.

Mira didn’t look at her.

She was afraid if she did, she’d completely fall apart.

Across the room, Celine sat in the chair near the window. Her posture was stiff, hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on Rumi like she was afraid to blink—like blinking might somehow make this real.

Mira wondered if she was replaying the same thing she was.

The panic in her eyes.

The way Rumi’s face had gone pale.

The way she’d said I can’t breathe.

Mira squeezed her hand again, softer this time, tears blurrring her vision.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered under her breath, though Rumi was half-asleep and probably couldn’t hear it through the oxygen mask.

But Mira needed to say it anyway.

Sorry they hadn’t protected her.

Sorry they hadn’t noticed sooner.

Sorry they almost lost her.

Her chest ached with the weight of it.

Because for a few minutes in that hallway—

Mira had truly believed she was about to watch one of the people she loved most in the world die right in front of her.

Her shoulders shook once.

Then again.

She tried to keep the sob quiet.

But it slipped out anyway.

Zoey’s hand squeezed hers tighter immediately.

The room stayed quiet. Only the slow hiss of the oxygen machine filled the space. And Mira sat there between the two people she loved most in the world—

Holding their hands.

Trying to convince herself that they were really still here.

And that she hadn’t almost lost them tonight.

Because the truth was—

She didn’t think she could survive feeling that kind of fear again

The memory of that night faded slowly as another gust of wind cut across the balcony, biting at Mira’s bare skin.

She blinked, the present settling back around her.

Her hand lifted without thinking, brushing quickly beneath her eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further.

For a moment, she stood there, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the street below.

She understood now.

She understood what Zoey and Rumi had meant—by tenfold—when they talked about that night with her. Watching her almost bleed out while they sat there helpless.

What it felt like to sit there and watch someone you loved slip somewhere you couldn’t follow. To see it happening in real time and still have nothing—nothing—you could do to stop it.

Before, she had listened. She had sympathized.

But she hadn’t really understood.

Not until she watched Rumi almost—

Mira swallowed hard, the thought cutting off before it could finish forming.

She understood now.

The helplessness.

That horrible feeling of being trapped in your own body while someone you loved was falling apart right in front of you and there was nothing—nothing—you could do to stop it.

All she could do was sit there and watch.

Watch Rumi’s skin turn red and angry.

Watch her throat swell.

Watch her struggle to breathe.

The memory still made Mira’s chest tighten.

It had scared her in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully shake.

And yeah… she could admit it now.

If Rumi ever told her she was willing to put herself in danger like that again—like Mira had once said she’d be willing to take a knife again—she’d probably lose it too.

Because seeing someone you loved hurt themselves on purpose?

Knowing they were willing to throw themselves away like that?

The thought alone made something in Mira twist painfully.

She sniffed quietly and turned her head.

Rumi was sitting exactly the same way she had been before.

Small.

Folded in on herself.

Her fingers were pressed lightly against the side of her throat, absent-mindedly tracing the skin there. The motion looked unconscious, like a habit her body had picked up without asking permission.

Mira noticed immediately.

Her eyes lingered on the spot.

The doctor had said her throat would heal—and it had.

Physically, at least.

The swelling had gone down a week ago. The rash had faded. Her breathing had gone back to normal.

But Rumi still rarely spoke.

Mira had started noticing it slowly at first.

Short answers.

Quiet murmurs.

Then fewer words altogether.

Now… most days, Rumi barely used her voice at all.

Mira didn’t know if it was because of the police station.

Or the grief about her mom.

Or the memory of choking on her own breath while panic clawed through her chest.

Maybe it was all of it tangled together in ways Mira couldn’t see.

Her voice had healed.

But something inside her clearly hadn’t.

Mira watched her for another second before bumping her shoulder lightly against Rumi’s. The movement was small, almost playful, but it was enough to ripple through the quiet space between them.

“You okay?”

Rumi blinked slowly and turned her head toward her. For a second—just one—Mira thought she might actually answer.

Her lips parted slightly.

Then the moment passed. Instead, Rumi reached into the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out her phone. The faint taps of her fingers against the screen sounded oddly loud in the still air.

Mira watched her type.

Rumi’s shoulders lifted faintly with each breath, the soft glow of the screen lighting her face for a moment before she finished.

Then she dropped her head forward again and slid the phone across the floor toward Mira.

Mira leaned down to read it.

What do you think?

She let out a soft sigh, though there was more fondness than frustration in it.

Yeah.

Fair.

She couldn’t even argue with that.

“Alright,” Mira muttered, pushing herself up with a small grunt as she stretched her stiff legs.

“Well,” she continued, brushing her hands against her thighs, “I think you should come inside before you catch a cold.”

Rumi didn’t move.

Not even a little.

She stayed exactly where she was—curled into herself, staring out at the street like the night had something important to say to her.

Mira waited.

A few seconds passed.

The wind shifted again, colder this time.

“Rumi.”

Still nothing.

Mira sighed again, though this time a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She knew that silence. Knew that particular kind of stubborn stillness.

It meant Rumi wasn’t refusing.

She just didn’t have the energy to move.

Mira bent down again. Without warning, she slipped her arms underneath Rumi and lifted her in one smooth motion.

Rumi let out a small sound of protest—but it was weak, more reflex than actual resistance.

A second later she curled instinctively against Mira, arms wrapping loosely around her neck while her legs hooked around Mira’s waist.

Mira adjusted her grip automatically, one arm secure under Rumi’s legs while her other hand came up to cradle the back of her head.

Her fingers slipped gently through the soft strands of her hair.

“You just did that so I’d pick you up, huh?” Mira murmured with a quiet snort.

Rumi huffed softly against her neck. The little burst of breath made Mira smile.

She turned and carried her back inside, sliding the balcony door shut behind them.

The warmth of the apartment wrapped around them almost immediately.

Rumi didn’t move.

She stayed curled against Mira’s chest the whole way down the hall.

Small.

Quiet.

Still here.

And Mira held her just a little tighter as they walked. Because tonight, after everything, that was enough.

Mira brushed her fingers gently through Zoey's bangs.

The strands stuck slightly to her forehead with sweat. Her skin was too warm beneath Mira's touch—the heat radiated upward into Mira's palm, a steady reminder that something inside Zoey was fighting.

Mira watched as she curled tighter around the pillow she was cuddling, letting out another soft moan, body trembling from the chills she was getting even under all the blankets.

She adjusted the blanket around Zoey's shoulders, careful not to wake her, and lingered there a moment longer than necessary-memorizing the rise and fall of her breathing, the way her brow smoothed once she settled again.

Then she looked to the other side of the bed.

Rumi lay bundled beneath the covers, pulled tight around herself like armor. Only the top of her head peeked out, hair splayed against the pillow. Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, glassy and far away—present in body only.

Not sleeping.

Not resting.

Just... gone somewhere Mira couldn't follow.

Mira's hand dropped to her lap.

She ran her fingers through her own hair, slow and frustrated, the motion grounding in a way nothing else was.

Zoey's pain was loud.

Obvious.

You could hear it in the whine in her throat, see it in the flush on her cheeks. Feel it in the heat of her skin.

It was burning and uncomfortable and miserable. But temporary, even if it felt awful now.

Rumi's was quiet. The kind that hollowed you out from the inside and left no marks anyone could point to and say there— that's where it hurts.

Mira hated this kind of pain the most.

The kind where the people she loved were hurting and there wasn’t anything clear she could do about it.

Both of her girls were hurting.

Just… in different ways.

And all Mira could do was sit there in the middle of it, heart pulled painfully between them, wishing love was enough to fix things that medicine and words couldn’t touch.

She wished she could take Zoey’s cramps away. Wished she could pull the fever right out of her bones. Wished she could crawl inside Rumi’s head and untangle whatever darkness had wrapped itself around her heart since the station.

But she couldn’t.

All she could do was take care of the little things.

Food.

Medicine.

Warmth.

Being there.

It felt small compared to what they needed.

But it was what she had.

Mira exhaled softly and pushed herself up from the edge of the bed.

“I’m going to the store to get some groceries,” she murmured gently. “I’ll make something when I get back, okay?”

“Take care of each other, okay?” Mira added quietly.

She leaned down first, pressing a soft kiss against Zoey’s hot forehead. Zoey sighed faintly at the contact, still half-buried in the blankets.

Then Mira stepped over to Rumi.

For a moment Rumi didn’t move. Then she leaned forward just enough to meet her halfway.

Mira pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead too, letting it linger a second longer.

Just to remind her—

You’re still here.

I still see you.

Rumi didn’t know how long she had been lying there after Mira left.

Time had stopped meaning much of anything lately.

Minutes, hours, entire afternoons—they all blurred together into the same dull stretch of nothing. Sometimes she would look at the clock and feel surprised that the numbers had even moved at all.

Right now the ceiling held her attention. Her eyes traced the same tiny specks in the paint over and over again.

Little clusters.

Little constellations.

She counted them.

One.

Two.

Three.

Her eyes moved slowly from one spot to the next.

Four.

Five.

Six.

She lost track somewhere around nine.

Her gaze drifted.

She blinked.

Then she started again.

One.

Two.

Three.

It gave her something to do. Something simple enough that her brain didn’t have to work very hard, because right now, thinking felt like wading through thick mud.

Every thought moved too slowly, like it got stuck halfway to the surface.

She tried not to think about her mother. Tried not thinking about the police station, or the way breathing had stopped becoming easy since then. The way panic had clawed its way up her chest like something alive.

Her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against the blanket.

Her throat still felt strange sometimes.

Not painful.

Just… remembered.

She swallowed once.

The movement felt too loud inside her body.

Her eyes drifted back to the ceiling.

One.

Two.

Three—

She lost it again, her mind tipping sideways—like a seesaw dropping suddenly to one end and she didn't bother to try and catch it.

Because right now she was feeling a lot.

Or maybe nothing at all.

It was hard to tell anymore.

Her chest felt heavy with a mixture of emotions—grief, anger, exhaustion, something hollow and aching—but her mind itself felt flat. Like all those feelings had been packed into her body while her head had been left behind somewhere else. Like her thoughts buzzed softly in the background.

Just… static.

Not actual ideas or memories. Just noise.

A tangled mess of scribbles and half-formed shapes that shifted around every time she tried to focus on them.

Her heart hurt.

Everything hurt.

But it felt distant.

Like the pain belonged to someone standing a few feet away from her rather than inside her own chest. Like she was floating underwater while the world moved slowly somewhere above her, and the only thing tethering her to the surface was a thin string.

Without it, she was pretty sure she would just drift. Sink quietly into that empty buzzing space where nothing really mattered.

Just then, a small sound came from beside her.

Soft.

Raspy.

“Rumi…?”

Zoey.

The sound tugged faintly at that invisible string.

Rumi blinked slowly and turned her head. Zoey was still curled in the blankets beside her, hair stuck to her forehead, cheeks flushed deep pink from the fever. Her eyes were half-open, heavy and unfocused.

“Rumi?” Zoey croaked again after a moment, voice thin and dry.

Rumi shifted slightly under the blanket.

Her lips parted automatically.

She meant to answer.

To ask what Zoey needed.

But nothing came out.

The moment the air tried to move past her throat, that familiar pressure settled there again.

Heavy.

Unyielding.

Like an invisible hand had wrapped around the base of her throat and squeezed just enough to remind her it was there.

Rumi swallowed hard.

Her fingers lifted instinctively, pressing against the side of her neck as if she could rub the feeling away.

It didn’t help.

It never did.

Her throat felt tight.

Breathing felt… shallow. Like the air stopped halfway down before it reached her lungs.

She tried to take a deeper breath.

It was never enough.

Her fingers lingered there for a moment longer before she forced herself to sit up.

The movement made the room tilt slightly.

She looked over at Zoey instead.

Just to show she was listening.

Zoey blinked up at her through heavy lashes, eyes glassy from the fever.

“Can you get me some water please…?” she murmured hoarsely.

Rumi swallowed again and nodded.

Talking felt impossible right now anyway.

She pushed the blanket off and stood, Her body feeling heavier than it should have—like gravity had quietly doubled overnight.

Still, she moved.

Her brain narrowed itself down to one simple task.

Water.
Just get water.

The thought came and went without resistance, settling into something simple enough to follow.

She moved through the apartment slowly, bare feet quiet against the cold floor, each step steady but distant, like the motion belonged more to habit than intention. The silence wrapped around her again as she stepped into the kitchen—thick, undisturbed, the kind that made every small sound feel louder than it should.

Cabinet.

Cup.

Her hand opened it automatically, fingers closing around a glass without needing to look.

Fridge.

Water.

She pressed the dispenser, and the stream poured out in a steady line, clear and uninterrupted. The sound filled the room, louder than expected, echoing faintly against tile and cabinets, cutting through the stillness in a way that felt almost too sharp.

She watched it.

The way the water rose.

The way it curved against the glass.

Her mind stayed blank.

Just the sound.

Just the glass.

Just the task.

When it was full, she released the button. The stream cut off abruptly, leaving the quiet behind it heavier than before.

She turned.

Walked back down the hallway.

Nothing had changed.

The room looked exactly the same as when she left it.

Zoey still curled in the blankets.

Rumi moved to her side of the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping softly beneath her weight.

Her lips parted.

She tried.

Even just a word.

Here.

But the pressure around her throat tightened instantly, that same invisible grip closing in, firm and unyielding.

Nothing came out.

Only a sharp breath slipped past her lips.

The effort faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind a faint flicker of frustration—small, contained, not strong enough to break through the numbness settling over everything else.

She used to be able to do this.

Something simple.

Something easy.

Now even the attempt felt like pushing air through something that refused to open.

The feeling didn’t spike.

Didn’t overwhelm.

It just settled.

Quiet.

Heavy.

So she didn’t try again.

Instead, she leaned forward and tapped Zoey’s shoulder lightly.

Zoey stirred, a faint sound leaving her as she shifted, pushing herself up just enough to respond.

Rumi slipped an arm behind her back, steadying her, guiding her upright with careful, practiced ease.

Then she brought the glass to her lips.

“Slow,” Zoey muttered hoarsely, her voice rough from disuse, before taking a small sip.

Rumi tilted the glass slightly.

Measured.

Controlled.

Zoey drank in small gulps, her throat moving with each swallow, slow but steady.

Some of the tension in her face eased as the water settled, the dryness fading just enough to soften the tightness in her expression.

Rumi’s free hand lifted, brushing gently through Zoey’s damp bangs, pushing them back from her forehead.

Her skin was still hot.

Too warm.

The heat lingered against Rumi’s fingertips even after her hand pulled away.

Zoey let out a quiet breath when she finished, her body sinking back into the mattress, tension loosening in small increments.

“You’re the best…” she murmured, her voice soft and drowsy as she settled deeper into the blankets.

Rumi blinked.

The words landed softly.

But not lightly.

They caught somewhere in her chest, tightening something there in a way she didn’t quite understand, unfamiliar and quiet but impossible to ignore.

She looked down at the empty glass in her hand, her grip shifting slightly as if she needed something to focus on, something simple to anchor herself again.

Then she moved.

Slowly.

Carefully.

She slid toward the edge of the bed, shifting her weight to stand so she could take it back to the kitchen—

A hand closed around her arm.

Warm.

Firm enough to stop her.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to keep her there.

Rumi paused, turning her head. Zoey was looking up at her through half-lidded eyes, fever-glossed but soft.

“Cuddle with me?” she mumbled.

Rumi blinked once.

Twice.

Her throat tightened slightly again, that familiar pressure settling at its base as if her body still expected her to answer out loud. Instead she swallowed and nodded. Rumi then set the glass on the nightstand and crawled carefully into the bed beside her. The moment she settled into the mattress, Zoey moved. She latched onto Rumi immediately, curling against her like it was instinct.

One arm slipped around Rumi’s waist.

Her head tucked under Rumi’s chin, pressing against her chest.

Rumi felt the heat of Zoey’s body instantly.

She was burning.

Even through the blanket, the warmth radiated off her in waves.

Rumi knew she’d probably start overheating in the next minute.

But the thought of pulling away didn’t even cross her mind.

Zoey let out another soft sigh, relaxing fully once she was settled against her.

Her mouth hung slightly open as she breathed through it, her nose probably too stuffed to bother with.

Each breath was warm where it brushed faintly against Rumi’s collarbone, soft and damp with the lingering heat of Zoey’s fever.

Rumi stared down at the top of her head, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

She’d probably get sick from being this close.

The fever alone was enough of a warning.

But the thought barely registered.

She didn’t really care.

Her hand lifted slowly, almost without her thinking about it, like something in her body had already decided before her mind could catch up. She tilted her head just slightly, enough to see Zoey’s face more clearly, and then pressed the tip of her finger gently against her cheek.

There wasn’t really a reason for it.

She just… wanted to feel her.

Zoey’s skin was warm beneath her touch.

Soft.

A little damp, the heat of the fever clinging to her in a way that made her feel almost fragile.

Rumi’s finger moved without much thought, tracing lightly over the small constellation of freckles scattered across Zoey’s cheekbone. She followed them slowly, her gaze narrowing in quiet focus as if mapping something delicate.

She hadn’t noticed a certain spot the first time they met.

Or the second.

It had taken time.

A quiet moment, stretched out and unimportant, when she’d been lying across Zoey’s lap watching TV—half distracted, half comfortable—before she’d realized they didn’t just sit on her cheeks.

They kept going.

Tiny specks trailing down along the side of her face, scattered and uneven, catching the low light in faint, almost imperceptible ways. They slipped under her chin, stopping just above her throat—like something had been flicked across her skin and left to settle wherever it landed.

Rumi traced one absentmindedly.

Then another.

Her touch was light.

Careful.

Like she wasn’t sure if they would stay if she pressed too hard.

Zoey smelled like vanilla today.

Not strong.

Not overwhelming.

Just there—soft and warm, something that settled quietly in the air between them, close enough that Rumi picked it up without trying.

It lingered when she breathed in.

Sat low in her chest.

Familiar in a way that didn’t need naming.

She liked that.

That it changed.

That Zoey never smelled the same two days in a row.

Sometimes it was peaches—bright and sweet, almost too much, like sunlight pressed too close.

Sometimes cherries, sharper, lingering longer.

Sometimes something softer, something she couldn’t quite place but always recognized the moment it reached her.

Today it was vanilla.

Simple.

Warm.

Steady.

Rumi inhaled slowly through her nose without meaning to, the scent filling her lungs before settling deeper, somewhere quiet.

For a moment—

the buzzing in her head dulled.

Not gone.

But lowered.

Enough to notice.

Enough to feel the difference.

She watched Zoey as she slept, her gaze moving slowly, taking in the details one at a time like they mattered more than anything else in the room.

The way her eyelashes rested against her cheeks, casting faint shadows in the dim light.

The slight crease between her brows, even now, like some part of her refused to fully let go.

The uneven rhythm of her breathing—how it caught, then smoothed, then caught again.

Rumi followed each shift without thinking.

Cataloguing.

Freckles.

Warm skin.

Vanilla.

Soft, uneven breaths.

The steady weight of Zoey’s arm draped loosely across her waist, grounding without pressing, present without demanding anything.

Each small detail anchored her.

Quietly.

Like something thin and fragile had finally found something solid enough to wrap around.

Zoey shifted slightly in her sleep, her grip tightening for just a second, a small, unconscious check.

Still there.

Rumi’s chest rose slowly beneath her.

The pressure at her throat hadn’t disappeared.

It lingered.

But it had changed.

Less like something closing in.

More like something resting there.

Waiting.

Rumi placed her hand lightly against Zoey’s back, her palm settling into the warmth through the fabric, steady and unmoving.

And stayed still.

Holding onto the moment.

Reminding herself not to fall asleep.

“Why does everything hurt so much, Umma?”

Her voice sounded small.

Smaller than she remembered it ever being.

Warm fingers moved through her hair.

Slow.

Careful.

The touch didn’t just comb through the strands—it lingered, repeating the same gentle motion over and over, like time had settled into that rhythm and refused to move forward.

Rumi blinked her eyes open.

Light spilled from above her, but it wasn’t steady. It shifted faintly, like sunlight moving through water, soft and distorted at the edges. It blurred everything it touched, turning shapes into outlines, details into impressions.

She couldn’t see her mother’s face clearly.

Only the silhouette.

Soft.

Familiar.

Unmistakable.

And somehow, that was enough.

It was always enough.

Her head rested in Mi-yeong’s lap.

The fabric beneath her cheek was warm, softer than it should have been, like it held memory instead of texture.

Safe.

The word came without thinking.

“What do you mean, my little plum?” her mother asked.

Her voice didn’t echo.

It wrapped.

Gentle and close, like it didn’t have to travel through the air to reach her.

The nickname pressed softly into Rumi’s chest.

And something there ached.

She closed her eyes again as the feeling built, heavy and familiar, rising faster than she could stop it.

“I—” Her voice caught, fragile, like it might break if she pushed too hard. “My heart hurts.”

The words felt small.

Childish.

But they were the only ones that fit.

“It feels like…” she whispered, her voice thinning, stretching, searching for something it couldn’t quite hold onto. “Like there’s too much in it.”

The space around her shifted faintly.

Not visibly.

But she felt it.

Grief.

Fear.

Guilt.

Things without shape, without clear edges, pressing in anyway.

“It’s heavy,” she murmured. “Like it’s going to break.”

A tear slipped down the side of her face.

Slow.

Warm.

It didn’t fall far.

Mi-yeong’s fingers caught it before it could, her thumb brushing gently beneath Rumi’s eye, the motion so familiar it felt like it had happened a thousand times before.

“Why?” Rumi whispered.

The word barely made it out.

Because I failed you.

The thought surged up immediately, sharp and overwhelming, pressing hard against the back of her throat like it needed to be spoken.

Like it would suffocate her if it wasn’t.

But her mouth wouldn’t move.

Her lips parted—

Nothing.

The words stayed trapped.

More tears spilled instead.

Her hands came up to cover her face, small and shaking, her shoulders trembling as something inside her finally cracked open, the pressure spilling out without form, without control.

“I’m sorry,” she choked.

The words came out broken.

Incomplete.

“Don’t cry, Rumi.”

Her mother’s voice softened further, if that was even possible.

“It’s okay.”

The fingers in her hair never stopped.

Slow.

Steady.

Unchanging.

Like they existed outside of time.

“Repeat after me, okay?”

Rumi lowered her hands slowly, her vision still blurred, her breath uneven.

She felt smaller like this.

Not just in size—

but in everything else.

Stripped down to something simpler.

Something that only needed comfort.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re strong.”

“I’m strong.”

“You’re loved.”

“I’m loved.”

The words came easily.

Too easily.

Like they didn’t belong to the moment, but to something older—something practiced, something learned a long time ago and never forgotten.

The warmth beneath her head felt real, soft and steady in a way that made it easy—dangerously easy—to believe in, to sink into, to let herself rest there just for a moment longer.

For a second, Rumi almost believed it.

The world held still around her, suspended in the gentle rhythm of her mother’s fingers moving through her hair, the quiet weight of her presence, the softness of her voice wrapping around her like it always had. Nothing shifted. Nothing broke.

Then—something did.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sudden. Just a pause, small enough to miss if she hadn’t been listening for it, if something deep in her chest hadn’t tightened in warning before her mind could catch up.

Her mother’s hand didn’t stop moving.

But the warmth changed.

Barely.

Just enough.

“It’s your fault.”

The words came softly, carried on the same voice, the same tone, the same gentle cadence—and somehow that made them worse, made them settle deeper, made them feel like they belonged there.

Rumi repeated them before she could stop herself, the words slipping out too easily, like they’d been waiting.

“It’s my fault.”

Silence followed, immediate and complete, not settling but cutting through everything that had been there before.

Rumi blinked, her brow pulling together as something twisted wrong in her chest, the feeling slow but unmistakable, like the world had tilted just slightly off its axis.

Why would Umma—

A drop hit the back of her hand, warm enough to make her flinch, then another followed, and another, each one landing heavier than the last until she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

She lowered her hands slowly, her gaze catching on the dark spots spreading across her skin, the liquid thick and wrong as it smeared beneath her fingers when she wiped at it.

Not rain.

Too warm.

Too heavy.

Red.

Her breath caught sharply, her chest tightening as the realization hit all at once, her head lifting slowly like she already knew what she was going to see, like dread had settled before her eyes could confirm it.

The light above flickered once, twice, then steadied—and suddenly her mother’s face was clear.

Too clear.

Pale in a way that didn’t look human anymore, drained and still and wrong, her eyes open but hollow, something missing behind them that should have been there.

And from the corners—

blood.

It streamed steadily, not dripping but flowing, slipping down her cheeks in thin, endless lines, pooling at her jaw before falling again, over and over like it wouldn’t stop.

Rumi’s body locked completely, every muscle freezing as her breath stuttered and then disappeared entirely, her lungs forgetting how to work, her chest tightening around nothing.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t breathe.

“Rumi,” her mother murmured, her voice unchanged, still soft, still familiar, still wrong.

Her hands moved again, brushing over Rumi’s cheeks the same way they always had, slow and careful, except now her fingers were cold and slick, dragging across her skin and leaving wet, dark streaks behind.

“Why didn’t you help your mother?”

The words were quiet, almost tender, like they were meant to comfort instead of accuse, and that made them sink deeper, made them wrap tighter around her chest.

“While I slowly lost my breath.”

Her hands slid down from Rumi’s face, over her jaw, down to her throat, fingers settling there lightly at first, resting against the frantic pulse beneath her skin.

“I couldn’t breathe,” she whispered.

The pressure came slowly, tightening inch by inch, deliberate, controlled, like she wanted her to feel it, to understand it, to live it.

Rumi’s lungs stuttered, her body jolting as panic surged through her, her chest heaving uselessly as air refused to come the way it should.

“I’m sorry,” she choked immediately, the words breaking apart as they forced their way out. “I’m sorry, Umma—I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

Her hands wrapped around her mother’s wrists, fingers trembling, but she didn’t pull, didn’t fight, just held on like letting go would make it worse.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she gasped, her voice cracking under the strain. “I froze—I just stood there—I didn’t—”

The grip tightened.

Her vision flickered.

Darkness creeping in at the edges.

“I thought someone else would help,” she sobbed, her breath coming in sharp, broken pieces. “I thought—it would stop—I thought—”

Nothing filled her lungs.

Nothing stayed.

“I should’ve done something,” she whispered hoarsely. “I should’ve saved you.”

Her mother didn’t respond, didn’t react, just watched her, blood still streaming endlessly from her eyes, her expression unchanged, that same deep, unbearable hurt sitting there like it would never leave.

Rumi’s grip weakened but didn’t let go, her fingers tightening just enough to hold on, not to stop it—just to stay.

Her vision tunneled.

Her chest burned.

Her body trembled.

“I deserve it,” she rasped, the words barely audible.

She didn’t fight.

Didn’t pull away.

She just held on and waited, her lungs screaming as the air disappeared, as everything narrowed down to the pressure around her throat, to the weight of her mother’s hands, to the certainty that this was what she deserved.

“Why, Rumi?”

The voice shifted, closer now, wrapping tighter.

“Why?”

Rumi.

“Rumi—”

“Rumi!”

The world snapped back all at once, her body jerking upright with a violent gasp as air tore into her lungs too fast, too sharp, her chest heaving as the room spun around her, reality slamming into place before she could catch up.

Her hands flew to her throat instinctively, fingers digging into the skin there as she dragged in a sharp breath that burned all the way down into her lungs.

Air rushed in too fast.

Too cold.

Her chest convulsed with the effort of it, ribs expanding painfully as she sucked in another breath and then another, each inhale scraping down her throat like broken glass. The sound of it filled the quiet room—ragged, uneven, too loud.

Her pulse hammered wildly beneath her fingertips where they pressed against her neck. The skin there throbbed. Like something had only just released its grip.

For a moment she couldn’t move—couldn't think. Her heart hammered in her chest so violently it felt like it might tear through her ribs, the pounding echoing inside her skull. Panic still clung to her chest like a weight, the phantom memory of fingers tightening around her throat refusing to disappear.

She could still feel them.

Still feel the pressure.

Still hear her mother’s voice.

It’s your fault.

Rumi squeezed her eyes shut. Another breath tore into her lungs, sharp enough to make her flinch.

After a minute, the room slowly swam back into focus.

Dark.

Quiet.

Mira’s bedroom.

The faint outline of the dresser.

The dim light leaking under the door.

Not—

Rumi swallowed hard.

The movement hurt.

Her face felt damp.

She wiped at it with the heel of her hand and realized her cheeks were soaked, tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes. When she blinked they spilled over again, sliding down the sides of her nose.

Her breathing hitched.

Rumi stared down at her hands.

They were shaking.

Not just her fingers.

Her entire body trembled, muscles still locked tight from adrenaline that hadn’t drained away yet, chest rising and falling unevenly.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The air finally began reaching the bottom of her lungs again.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Her fingers stayed curled against her throat, pressing lightly into the skin there like she needed to keep checking.

Still open.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

“Rumi…”

The voice came softly from somewhere to her left.

Rumi froze.

Every muscle in her body locked at once.

Her head turned slowly toward the sound. For half a second—one awful, suspended moment—her mind expected something else.

Blood.

Her mother’s pale face in the dark.

Something standing there watching her.

Instead she saw Zoey.

Zoey stood near the edge of the bed, half swallowed by the shadows of the room. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, lashes damp from fever, cheeks flushed in that sick, overheated way that made her look smaller than usual.

She was leaning forward slightly, like gravity itself had become a problem. One hand clutched the edge of the nightstand for balance, while the other twisted nervously at the hem of her shirt, wringing the fabric over and over between her fingers.

Her nose scrunched faintly.

She sniffed.

Her voice came out small.

Miserable.

“I threw up.”

Rumi blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Her brain was still halfway tangled in the nightmare, struggling to rearrange the pieces of reality back into something that made sense.

The words didn’t land right away.

“I threw up,” Zoey repeated weakly, as if the clarification might somehow make the situation easier to understand.

Rumi stared at her. The silence stretched between them, thick and slightly surreal.

Her lungs were still pulling in air too quickly.

Her throat still felt tight.

Her heart was still racing.

And Zoey had apparently woken up just long enough to deliver this tragic announcement. Somewhere in the back of Rumi’s mind, a tiny piece of logic flickered weakly to life.

Right.

Reality.

Not blood.

Not ghosts.

Not her mother standing over her with red-streaked eyes.

Just Zoey.

Zoey, who currently looked like she might collapse into a dramatic puddle on the floor.

She sniffed again and shifted her weight slightly. The movement was unsteady enough that Rumi immediately sat up straighter without thinking, the instinct to catch her overriding everything else for a moment.

Zoey’s knees wobbled.

Her expression twisted faintly with misery.

“I think,” she added after a moment, voice hoarse and pitiful, “I might do it again.”

Rumi exhaled slowly through her nose, dragging a hand down her face.

The soapy water churned slowly inside the washing machine, swirling in a steady circle as the bedsheets folded and flipped over themselves beneath the foam.

Rumi watched it spin.

The movement was simple. Predictable. Almost hypnotic.

She sat on her haunches in front of the machine, arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting against them as she stared through the small glass window.

The soft mechanical hum filled the laundry room.

It was… calming.

Not comforting exactly.

Just something steady to focus on.

Her thoughts had been loud all day. Loud in a way that didn’t even sound like thoughts anymore—just static. A dull buzzing that sat behind her eyes and made everything feel far away.

But the washing machine didn’t require thinking.

It just spun.

Round.

Pause.

Round again.

Rumi followed the motion with her eyes as a corner of the sheet surfaced through the suds before disappearing again.

Unexpectedly, a weight settled against her back.

Warm.

Heavy.

Insistent.

Rumi stiffened slightly.

Then a familiar voice mumbled against the back of her neck.

“Sorry for barfing all over the sheets…”

Zoey.

Her voice sounded rough and a little slurred, the words melting together in a way that made her sound half-asleep.

Rumi turned her head slightly.

Zoey’s face hovered somewhere above her shoulder, peering down with those wide brown eyes that looked glassy and unfocused. Her hair was a mess again, strands sticking out in every direction like she’d lost a fight with a pillow.

Her cheeks were still pink from fever.

She looked… miserable.

And extremely pleased with herself for making it this far.

Rumi blinked slowly.

Zoey rolled forward a little more, clearly giving up on standing properly, and slumped heavily against Rumi’s side instead.

Her entire body sagged into her like a tired cat.

Rumi reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

Her thumbs moved slowly across the screen before she turned it toward Zoey.

It’s whatever, but you should be in bed right now you’re still sick.

Zoey squinted.

Her eyes narrowed dramatically as the brightness of the screen assaulted her fever-addled brain.

She leaned closer.

Then finally finished reading the message.

All she did in response was let out a quiet huff of air and bump her shoulder into Rumi.

“Surprisingly,” Zoey muttered, voice thick with exhaustion, “I feel better now that I threw up.”

Her forehead dropped against Rumi’s shoulder.

“Plus I want to stay by you.”

Her arms slid lazily around Rumi’s waist as if she had decided that was the most logical place for them to go.

“I don’t want you to be lonely.”

Rumi let out a quiet breath through her nose.

It wasn’t quite a sigh.

More like air escaping before she could stop it.

She reached up and placed her palm against Zoey’s forehead, brushing her messy bangs away from her face.

Still warm.

Not burning like earlier, but definitely not normal either.

Zoey blinked slowly up at her, eyes still slightly unfocused.

Rumi raised an eyebrow.

Zoey grinned back at her with the confidence of someone who was very obviously unwell.

“I’m serious,” Zoey insisted, lifting her head just enough to speak properly. “Maybe some more water and something to eat and I’ll be good.”

Her smile widened into something completely dorky.

Rumi stared at her for a second.

Then she typed again.

You look high Zoey.

Zoey burst into sudden giggles.

The sound was bright and a little wheezy.

But the giggles quickly collapsed into a violent sneezing fit.

“I’m not—” sneeze “—I’m not high!”

Rumi waited patiently while Zoey sniffled and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt like a feral creature.

Then she typed again.

I don’t think you should be exerting yourself this much so relax until Mira comes back.

Zoey groaned dramatically.

“Ugh, fine.”

She slumped harder against Rumi.

“But carry me back to bed?”

Her voice softened near the end, eyes lifting in a pleading look that was equal parts pitiful and manipulative.

Rumi rolled her eyes.

But something small tugged at the corner of her mouth anyway.

The movement surprised her.

It had been hours since her face had done that.

Maybe longer.

She stood up.

The washing machine continued its steady spinning behind them.

Zoey didn’t hesitate.

Not even for a second.

She launched herself forward, arms looping around Rumi’s shoulders as her legs locked around her waist, clinging tightly like she had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“Okay—yeah—no,” Zoey muttered immediately, her voice muffled into the hood of Rumi’s hoodie as her grip tightened instinctively. “I’m a bit dizzy now.”

Rumi adjusted her hold automatically, hands sliding under Zoey’s thighs to support her weight, steadying her without needing to think about it. Zoey felt warm against her back—solid, grounding in a way that settled something quiet in Rumi’s chest as she turned and started toward the bedroom.

Each step felt more deliberate than usual, like she was aware of the weight in a different way—not burdensome, not heavy in a bad sense, but there. Present. Real. Something she could hold onto.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Rumi turned slightly, shifting her stance just enough for Zoey to slide off her back. Zoey landed onto the fresh bedsheets with a small huff, the fabric crinkling beneath her as she flopped back for a second before propping herself up on her elbows, looking up at Rumi.

“Can you get Nimbus for me?” she asked, her voice softer now, a little worn but still threaded with that familiar lightness. “I need some soul healing purrs.”

Rumi nodded.

Simple.

Easy.

She turned and stepped out of the room again, her pace slower now as she moved into the hallway, her thoughts catching up to her in that quiet space between rooms.

Where would he be?

Nimbus wasn’t exactly predictable, but there were patterns—little habits she’d picked up over time. He liked warm places. Soft places. Places where he could disappear completely and pretend he wasn’t there.

Zoey’s room.

That was the most likely.

Rumi stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the familiar chaos of plushies scattered across the bed and floor, her eyes scanning for any sign of grey fur tucked between the colors. Nothing obvious. No movement. No flick of a tail.

For a moment, she just stood there.

Listening.

Then she parted her lips and let out a soft whistle, the sound quiet but sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

A beat.

Then—

movement.

Nimbus’s head popped up from somewhere deep within the pile of plushies, his ears twitching as his eyes locked onto her. He blinked once, like he had to confirm it was actually her, before launching himself out of the pile in one smooth motion.

A few plushies tumbled after him, sliding down in a small avalanche as he landed.

Rumi let out a quiet huff of amusement, the sound barely there but real, as she walked over and crouched down slightly, her hand reaching out to meet him.

He leaned into her immediately.

Purring.

Loud.

The vibration traveled up through her fingers as she ran her hand along his back, slow and steady, and she felt it—subtle at first, then more noticeable—the way her shoulders loosened, tension easing little by little under the simple, familiar motion.

It was easier like this.

No thinking.

No explaining.

Just this.

As she moved to scoop him up, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

The sound felt louder than it should have.

Sharper.

Rumi stilled for a second before pulling it out, her thumb unlocking the screen automatically.

JeansNew:
Hey, you’ve been mia a few weeks after you told me you were going to the police station..

Just wanted to check in, everything okay?

Let me know when you can!

Rumi stared at the messages.

Longer than she meant to.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving, the words sitting there in that same blunt, unfiltered way messages always did—expecting a response, expecting something back.

Police station.

The words sat heavier than the rest.

Her chest tightened faintly, not sharp, not overwhelming—just enough to make her aware of it.

She could respond.

She should respond.

It would be easy to type something short. Something simple. I’m okay. Just busy. Something that would close the loop without opening anything else.

Her thumb shifted slightly.

Paused.

The thought lingered.

Then faded.

She locked her phone.

The screen went dark.

The messages disappeared with it.

Nimbus let out a soft, questioning chirp in her arms, shifting slightly as if reminding her he was still there.

Rumi exhaled quietly, adjusting her hold as she scooped him up fully, one hand supporting his weight as he settled against her, purring louder now.

She turned and walked out of the room, carrying him back down the hallway.

Back to Zoey.

The blinding light of her phone screen filled the dark room. The bold white numbers stared back at her.

8:00.

Rumi watched them for a second, the glow reflecting faintly in her tired eyes. The brightness made them sting, but she didn’t look away. It felt almost accusatory somehow—like the screen itself was pointing out how another night had passed without her sleeping.

Another night gone.

Another morning starting whether she was ready for it or not.

The numbers shifted.

8:01.

Her alarm went off immediately, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet without hesitation.

Rumi’s thumb moved automatically, pressing the stop button before the second chime could even finish.

Silence returned.

Get up.

The thought drifted through her head slowly. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just… there.

A suggestion.

Her body listened anyway. The routine of it all—waking up at the same time, turning the alarm off, forcing herself upright—had become something like scaffolding lately. Thin, maybe fragile, but enough to keep her from collapsing completely. Because without it—without the small structure of those steps—she was fairly certain she would just lie back down, pull the blanket over her head, and stay there until the heavy clouds in her mind finally decided to clear.

Or until they didn’t.

Rumi rubbed the crust from the corners of her eyes with the heel of her hand and blinked slowly, hoping to ease the dry, burning sting that came from having them open for most of the night.

Ever since that nightmare, she'd been to scared to fall asleep again—too afraid she’d end up right back there. Too afraid she’d see that look on her mother’s face again—staring down at her like she had already decided Rumi had failed her. Too scared to see the blood, the quiet disappointment in her voice, to feel those hands again, curling slowly around her throat, tightening until the air disappeared from her lungs.

A humorless breath slipped out through her nose. Her hand moved before she realized she was doing it, sliding up slowly to her throat, fingertips brushing the skin there carefully—gingerly, like if she pressed too hard it might break.

The phantom pressure was still there.

Not real.

But close enough that every swallow reminded her of it.

The irony of it all settled heavily in her chest. Choking her fa—no, that man, he didn't deserve that title anymore—at the police station. And now the same pressure wrapping around her throat every time she tried to breathe too deeply felt almost comical.

She swallowed again, the movement slow and deliberate. Her throat worked around the familiar motion. Something she seemed to be doing more often lately. Testing it.

Checking.

Making sure it still worked.

Her lips parted.

She tried to speak.

“R-ru…”

The sound caught immediately. Her throat tightened around the attempt, the word crumbling before it could fully form.

“…r—ru…”

She tried again, pushing the air harder this time. Nothing. The muscles in her throat resisted the effort, squeezing tighter the more she forced it. Rumi swallowed again, but the movement hurt slightly this time.

She let out a quiet breath.

Defeated.

She couldn’t even say her own name anymore. That thought landed heavier than it should have.

Her mouth closed slowly.

Would she ever get to use her voice again?

Or had something inside her throat broken for good?

Was this it?

The thought lingered longer than she wanted it to. Her fingers moved automatically, picking at the edge of her nails. The small, repetitive pressure grounded her just enough to notice the familiar tightening behind her eyes.

No.

Don’t start that.

She could feel the spiral beginning already—the slow slide into every worst-case scenario her brain could invent. She forced the thought away before it could dig its claws in. Before it could grow and turn into something heavier that would follow her around the rest of the day.

Rumi pushed herself to her feet. For a moment she swayed slightly, the room tilting before settling again.

Routine.

She focused on that instead.

Bathroom.

Brush teeth.

The toothpaste tasted faintly minty and too sharp against her tongue, the foam gathering at the corners of her mouth while the quiet buzz of the electric toothbrush filled the small tiled room. Rumi moved the brush from tooth to tooth slowly, methodically, watching the motion in the mirror without really focusing on it.

The mirror caught her reflection.

She didn’t linger there long. Her eyes flickered upward for half a second—just enough to register the dark shadows sitting under them, the faint puffiness around the edges, the slightly hollow look that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago—before drifting away again.

Looking too closely felt unnecessary.

Hoodie.

Jeans.

Shoes.

Phone.

Each movement felt practiced. Like she was following a checklist someone else had written down for her a long time ago and her body had memorized it since.

Pull the hoodie over her head.

Slide her arms through the sleeves.

Step into her jeans.

Tie her shoes.

Pick up her phone.

Routine carried her through the motions the way muscle memory always did—quietly, efficiently, without asking whether she actually felt like doing any of it.

Somewhere down the hall she could hear movement.

A cabinet closing.

The soft clink of ceramic against the counter.

The faint hiss of boiling water.

Mira.

Rumi stepped out into the hallway, her footsteps soft against the floor as she followed the sound toward the kitchen.

When the hallway opened into the kitchen, she saw Mira leaning against the counter.

Her arms were folded loosely around herself, shoulders slightly hunched forward in that thoughtful posture she always slipped into when her mind wandered somewhere else. Her attention was locked on the glass kettle sitting on the counter, watching the water inside it bubble and churn as it heated.

Steam curled upward in thin white ribbons.

Mira looked deep in thought.

Like always, Rumi paused for a second in the doorway. And like always, Mira noticed her anyway.

Before Rumi could even say anything—or not say anything—Mira’s head turned, her gaze lifting instinctively as if some quiet part of her had already registered the shift in the air behind her.

Their eyes met.

Mira’s expression softened immediately. It always did that when she looked at Rumi.

Rumi wasn’t sure when that had started happening, but it had become so consistent she almost expected it now.

Still, something small twisted in her chest anyway.

Guilt.

A quiet, persistent kind. She had slept in her own room again last night.

Even though lately sharing the bed with both of them had started feeling… different.

What used to feel warm and comforting had shifted into something heavier. Too many bodies. Too much warmth. Too much closeness pressing in from all sides when her mind already felt crowded enough.

Sometimes it felt suffocating.

And the guilt of that thought only made it worse.

“Morning,” Mira said gently, straightening a little as she pushed herself away from the counter.

Rumi’s lips twitched faintly. For a second she almost answered automatically. But the faint pressure around her throat tightened—like a quiet warning beneath her skin—and the sound died before it could even form.

So she settled for a nod.

The movement was small, barely more than a dip of her chin as she stepped further into the kitchen.

Why even bother trying?

“Tea?” Mira asked, already turning toward the cabinet like she knew the answer.

The quiet familiarity of it made something soften faintly in Rumi's chest. She nodded again.

Mira grabbed another mug without hesitation and set it on the counter beside her own, moving easily through the motions of preparing both cups at the same time.

Rumi watched her move around the counter for a little while, following the small, careful motions of her hands as she prepared the tea. The way Mira worked was calm. Precise. Every movement measured and deliberate in a way that always made the kitchen feel quieter somehow.

But after a moment Rumi’s focus drifted.

Her mind wandered the way it had been doing a lot lately—slipping sideways when she wasn’t paying attention. Her attention snagged instead on the low humming sound of the refrigerator across the kitchen.

It was a quiet sound.

Easy to ignore.

But once she noticed it, she couldn’t stop hearing it.

The steady vibration filled the room like background noise, soft and constant, blending with the faint clink of the spoon against ceramic.

“—y… honey?”

Rumi blinked.

Her eyes snapped back toward Mira.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Mira was holding the honey bottle halfway between the counter and the mug, clearly having already asked the question once.

Realization crossed her face slowly.

Rumi probably hadn’t heard her.

Or maybe she had and just hadn’t reacted.

“I asked if you wanted any honey,” Mira reiterated gently, lifting the bottle slightly for emphasis.

Rumi gave a small thumbs-up.

The motion felt strangely formal.

Mira nodded once and squeezed a small stream of honey into the tea before stirring it again, the spoon tapping lightly against the side of the mug.

When she finished, she slid the cup across the counter toward Rumi.

Rumi picked it up carefully, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. Her fingers brushed briefly against Mira’s when she took it, the contact fleeting but noticeable.

She nodded again.

Thank you.

“You’re welcome,” Mira said with a small smile.

She grabbed her own mug and leaned lightly against the counter beside Rumi, blowing across the surface before taking a cautious sip.

Rumi stared down into her tea while it cooled. Steam curled lazily upward, fogging the rim of the mug.

She could feel Mira’s gaze on her.

That quiet, thoughtful kind of looking Mira did when she was trying to figure something out.

Rumi didn’t look back.

“Ru.”

Mira’s voice came a moment later.

Soft.

Rumi lifted her eyes.

“Did you get any sleep?”

The question landed gently, but it still made something tighten faintly in Rumi’s chest.

Of course Mira had noticed. The dark circles under her eyes probably made it obvious. Rumi blinked slowly, thinking about how to answer.

Normally she would’ve just said something simple.

Not really.

I’m fine.

Just tired.

But the words didn’t come anymore. Her throat felt tight even thinking about trying. Instead, she lifted one hand and tilted it side to side.

Sort of.

It felt like a clumsy gesture the moment she did it. Like she was trying to explain something complicated using the language of a shrug.

Her hand dropped back to the mug as a quiet thought slipped through her mind before she could stop it.

Am I really going to spend the rest of my life doing this?

Charades.

Thumbs up.

Typing things on her phone.

Waiting for people to guess what she meant.

The idea of it all made her stomach churn unpleasantly.

Her fingers tightened around the mug and she took a small sip of the tea, the warmth sliding down her throat in a soothing line.

It felt good.

Not just the taste—the warmth itself. Like it was loosening something tight inside her chest.

“—more… okay?”

Mira’s voice reached her again.

Rumi blinked.

She had missed the first part of the sentence.

Again.

She looked at Mira, trying to piece together the meaning from the tone instead. Instead of asking Mira to repeat herself again, she just nodded.

Mira studied her for a second.

Then nodded back slowly.

Her hand lifted, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair gently behind Rumi’s ear.

The gesture was careful.

Familiar.

“I’m going to go get dressed, okay?” Mira said softly. “I’ll meet you by the door.”

Rumi nodded again.

Before she could step away, Mira reached out and pulled her into a quick, gentle hug. Then, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Rumi’s forehead.

The contact was brief.

But the spot where Mira’s lips touched seemed to buzz afterward, a quiet warmth spreading outward through her skin.

Rumi stood there for a moment after Mira walked away.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

The warmth of the tea.

The faint lingering heat on her forehead.

Both settled quietly in her chest.

And for a second—just a second—the tight knot in her stomach loosened.

The walk to campus was quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet.

Just… the absence of conversation.

Their footsteps echoed faintly against the pavement as they moved along the path with the rest of the early morning crowd. Students passed them in small clusters, voices blending together in low murmurs that drifted through the cool air. Above them the sky hung a dull, pale grey, the kind that looked like it might break into at any moment.

Wind moved lazily through the trees, brushing against the loose strands of Rumi’s hair and tugging lightly at the sleeves of her hoodie.

Mira stayed close beside her. Close enough that their arms brushed every few steps. Close enough that when Mira’s fingers slipped into hers, Rumi felt it immediately. The small squeeze that followed was gentle. Grounding.

Rumi squeezed back automatically.

After a minute Mira spoke up.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar hint of dry amusement, “but you and Zoey’s shouts that night at the fashion show were heard by half my classmates.” She let out a quiet snort. “Now they can’t help but bring it up every single day.”

Rumi huffed softly through her nose. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she shook her head.

Of course they did.

Zoey and her had practically screamed across the room.

Mira smiled when she saw the reaction. The expression softened her face, like the small sound had been enough to reassure her.

Then the quiet slipped back in, settling between them the way it had been doing a lot lately.

Not heavy. Just… unfamiliar.

Rumi could feel Mira looking at her again out of the corner of her eye.

Waiting.

For something.

A comment.

A joke.

A random observation about a passing dog or a stupid billboard or the way someone's backpack looked like it was about to rip.

Something Rumi would normally say without thinking.

Rumi glanced at her.

Mira hesitated. Then she shook her head quickly, straightening her shoulders with a soft sigh. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I keep forgetting.”

Her eyes flicked toward the ground.

“I’m so used to you carrying the conversation.”

The words landed heavier than Mira probably intended. Something inside Rumi tightened. A small, uncomfortable knot forming in her chest. She blinked slowly, processing it all.

It was strange.

She kept forgetting too.

For years talking had been the easiest thing in the wolrd for her. Words had always come out before she even fully thought about them.

Now they just…

Didn't.

It was like there was a door inside her throat that refused to open, and every time she reached for the handle something in her chest tightened and pulled her back.

She almost kept walking without responding.

Then she remembered.

Right.

Her phone.

She wasn’t actually ignoring people.

She just… had to do it differently now.

A small frown tugged at her mouth as she pulled the phone from her pocket. Her thumbs hovered over the screen longer than necessary. Her lips pressed together slightly as she typed.

Sorry.

She held the phone out for Mira to read.

Mira immediately shook her head.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said quickly, her eyes meeting Rumi’s. “It’s fine. We’ll… figure out how to make this work.”

Rumi nodded once.

Short.

Curt.

Her hand slipped out of Mira’s almost without thinking, fingers drifting down to her nails to pick at them. The motion started small. Just her thumb pressing against the edge of one nail.

Then another.

The slight pressure grounded her in a strange way—something repetitive her body could focus on when the rest of her thoughts started tangling together.

Mira noticed.

Of course she noticed.

“Have you thought about seeing a speech doctor?” Mira asked after a moment, her voice careful, almost tentative. “Just to check what’s going on. Maybe they could help you get your voice back.”

Rumi’s mouth opened automatically.

The response came to her immediately—quick, instinctive, sitting right there at the back of her throat.

But the words never made it out.

Her throat tightened before they could form, the familiar pressure closing in like a door slamming shut inside her chest. The moment passed in silence, leaving behind the same quick frustration that had been following her around for days now.

She pulled her phone from her pocket again and started typing, her thumbs moving harder against the screen than they needed to. The small taps sounded sharper in the quiet street as they walked.

She turned the screen toward Mira.

Why should I?

Before Mira could even respond, Rumi’s thumbs were already moving again, the words coming faster now—sharper.

I’m just a girl who got scared and stopped talking.

Her jaw tightened as she added another line, pressing a little harder into the screen than necessary.

Why would any doctor take that seriously?

Mira slowed.

Then stopped walking entirely.

Rumi had no choice but to stop too.

“What?” Mira said, turning toward her fully now, her brows pulling together in confusion that quickly edged into concern. “Rumi, that’s not what this is.”

Rumi glanced down at her phone, the glass reflecting the dull grey of the sky above them. For a second she just stared at her own warped reflection—then her fingers moved again.

It kind of is.

Mira exhaled sharply through her nose.

“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “You want to talk.”

Her gaze locked onto Rumi’s face, steady and unwavering in that Mira way that made it difficult to look anywhere else.

“I can see that. You try sometimes.”

Her voice softened slightly, but the weight behind it didn’t.

“That means something is stopping you.”

Rumi stared at the words for a second before typing again, slower this time.

Or maybe I just don’t want to anymore.

Mira didn’t respond right away. She just stared at the screen for a while, then her gaze met Rumi's.

“Do you actually believe that?” she asked quietly.

Rumi didn’t answer.

Her thumb drifted down to the edge of her nail without her even thinking about it. She pressed at the thin strip of skin there, picking lightly, then harder when it didn’t tear the first time.

The small sting barely registered.

Mira sighed.

“Rumi, listen to me.”

She stepped a little closer now, her voice lowering slightly as people passed by them on the sidewalk.

“You lost your voice after a severe allergic reaction and one of the most traumatic nights of your life.”

Her tone stayed calm.

Measured.

But there was a firmness underneath it that Rumi couldn’t ignore.

“That’s not something you just brush off.”

Mira tilted her head slightly, searching her face.

“Do you hear me?”

Rumi stared at her for a moment before looking down again. Her thumbs moved across the screen once more.

I can’t talk. I’m not deaf.

Mira let out an irritated breath, bumping her shoulder lightly against Rumi’s.

“That’s not what I meant,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead. “And you know it.”

Rumi looked away. The embarrassment crept up on her slowly, heat spreading across her chest and up the back of her neck. Because Mira wasn’t wrong.

She did try sometimes.

Every once in a while the words would sit there in her throat, ready, waiting to come out. And then something inside her would lock. Like a hand tightening around her airway.

Like the memory of those fingers around her throat at the station had burrowed somewhere too deep inside her body. The worst part was that Mira could see it.

Her fingers moved again before she could stop them. The phone was already in her hands, thumbs hovering for only a second before the words appeared.

You said you were used to me carrying conversations. Looks like that’s over.

Mira’s expression shifted almost immediately.

“That’s not—”

She stopped herself mid-sentence, exhaling through her nose once more as one hand dragged back through her hair.

“Okay,” she said more carefully this time. “That came out wrong.”

Rumi didn’t answer.

Her attention had already drifted back to her hands.

The buzzing in her head had started again.

It wasn’t loud—just a faint static building somewhere behind her temples, the kind that made it harder to focus on anything people were actually saying. The feeling crawled under her skin, restless and irritating, like something inside her needed somewhere to go.

Her thumb pressed along the edge of her nail again, catching the thin strip of skin there. Picking. Pulling. The motion was small, practiced. Familiar.

The skin there had already gone tender from the way she’d been worrying at it all morning, but the sharp sting that followed was immediate, clean. It cut through the static for a second, grounding her just enough to quiet the buzzing in her head.

She knew what she was doing.

She’d known that feeling before.

It was the same place the urges used to start when she was younger—the small, mindless picking that came first. A warning sign she used to recognize in herself before things ever got worse.

And yet her fingers kept moving anyway.

Mira noticed.

“Hey—”

She reached out and gently took Rumi’s hand before she could pull away, her fingers curling around it just enough to still the movement. Mira turned it slightly, her gaze dropping to the reddened skin around Rumi’s nails before lifting back up to her face.

“Rumi…”

Her voice was quiet.

Soft.

Concerned.

But Rumi felt something else in it.

Something heavier.

Disappointment.

The thought hit her immediately, twisting sharp in her chest.

Rumi pulled her hand back quickly, shame washing over her so suddenly it almost made her dizzy. She shoved the hand deep into the pocket of her hoodie like she could hide the evidence there and looked away, her shoulders curling inward without meaning to.

God.

Why couldn’t she stop doing that?

“I’m sorry,” Mira said quickly, stepping a little closer. Her voice had softened even more now, careful and gentle in a way that almost made it worse. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Rumi shook her head faintly but didn’t look up.

“I’m not mad at you,” Mira added quietly.

Rumi stepped back anyway. The movement was small, but the distance between them widened all the same. The tension in her shoulders didn’t leave.

Mira watched her for a long moment, her brow knitting slightly as she tried to read the expression Rumi was carefully hiding. Then she sighed.

“You’re mad at me.”

Rumi pulled her phone out again.

Her thumbs moved over the screen.

No.

Mira raised one eyebrow almost immediately.

“Liar.”

Rumi looked down at the screen again, thumbs hovering above the keyboard for a moment before she finally typed again.

Maybe a little.

Mira nodded slowly, like she’d expected that answer.

“Okay.”

She stepped forward again and gently cupped Rumi’s cheek, her thumb brushing lightly along the edge of her jaw.

“You’re allowed to be,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

The wind picked up slightly around them, pushing cool air through the street and tugging at the sleeves of Rumi’s hoodie. Rumi stared down at the phone still resting in her hand.

Because the truth was—she wasn’t just mad at Mira. She was embarrassed. Embarrassed that Mira had seen her picking at herself like that. Embarrassed that she couldn’t even hold a normal conversation anymore without needing a phone between them like some kind of translator.

And underneath that embarrassment was something even sharper.

Frustration.

A thick, burning frustration that sat in her chest and nowhere else to go.

Because if she could just say any of this out loud—if the words would just work—the whole conversation would be easier.

She could explain herself.

Argue back.

Make a joke and break the tension the way she normally would.

But instead she was stuck standing here under a grey sky, typing out pieces of herself on a screen while Mira watched her like she was something fragile.

Her fingers curled slightly around the phone.

And somewhere inside her chest, that tight pressure around her throat lingered again.

Quiet.

Unmoving.

Like a fist resting there.

She hated it.

Every breath seemed to brush against that invisible wall, reminding her that something inside her wasn’t working the way it was supposed to anymore.

Things weren’t looking up for her at all.

They reached campus not long after that. The sidewalks were busier here, the quiet residential streets giving way to the low hum of university life. Students moved in loose clusters toward the buildings, backpacks slung over shoulders, half-awake conversations drifting through the cool morning air. A bike rolled past them. Someone laughed somewhere behind them. The world kept moving in that ordinary way it always did.

Mira had tried to fill the silence as they walked.

Not constantly—she wasn’t forcing conversation in that obvious, overcompensating way—but every so often she would say something small out loud, like she was testing the space between them, making sure it didn’t stretch too far into something uncomfortable.

Little observations.

A passing comment about someone’s ridiculous shoes.

A quiet remark about how the sky looked like it might start raining at any second.

A half-amused prediction that Zoey was almost definitely going to text them something dramatic before noon.

It reminded Rumi a little of the way Zoey talked.

Except Mira did it more carefully.

More awkwardly.

Like she was still learning how to hold a conversation on her own in a space Rumi used to fill without thinking. Like she was trying to keep things normal, even when nothing about this felt normal anymore.

Rumi noticed the effort.

She just didn’t know what to do with it.

Eventually, they slowed near the path that split off toward their different buildings, their steps falling out of sync as the moment stretched between them.

Mira stopped.

Rumi turned toward her just as Mira stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.

The hug came without warning.

Warm.

Familiar.

Mira held her close, her arms firm around Rumi’s shoulders as her chin rested lightly on the top of her head.

She didn’t let go right away, holding her longer than usual.

Rumi hugged her back automatically. Because honestly, she needed it.

Needed the steady weight of Mira’s arms around her, the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her body pressed close—it settled something restless in Rumi’s chest that she hadn’t realized had been winding tighter all morning.

For a few seconds she just stood there, letting herself lean into it.

After a moment Mira pulled back slightly, though her hands stayed resting on Rumi’s shoulders. She leaned down a little, peering at her with those soft, searching eyes. The kind that always looked like they were trying to understand something deeper than what was being said.

It made something inside Rumi’s chest ache. She didn’t trust herself to hold that gaze for too long.

Mira reached down then, gently taking Rumi’s arms from around her waist.

Her hands slid lower until she found Rumi’s fingers—the same fingers that had been worrying at her nails all morning—and gently stilled them.

There was no hesitation in the way Mira moved after that.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted Rumi’s hand between both of hers and brought it up toward her mouth.

And kissed her fingers.

One after the other.

Soft.

Deliberate.

Familiar.

She was careful not to press too hard against the raw skin around the edges, her lips barely brushing over the irritated places like she already knew where they were without needing to look too closely.

Rumi’s breath hitched anyway.

Because this wasn’t new.

Mira had done this before. And every time, Mira had treated her the same way. Like something worth being gentle with.

That was what made it worse.

Her eyes burned almost instantly, the sting rising too fast for her to stop it.

Because Mira remembered.

Because Mira always noticed.

Because even now—when Rumi couldn’t say anything, couldn’t explain, couldn’t even stop herself—Mira still knew exactly what this meant.

Mira looked up at her then, her expression softening the moment she saw the shift in Rumi’s face.

Of course she noticed that too.

She always did.

A small smile touched her lips, quiet and warm in that way that never felt forced.

“Remember what I told you,” she murmured gently. “When you feel like doing it, okay?”

Rumi sniffed, nodding quickly as she blinked against the sudden blur in her vision, trying to keep the tears from spilling over.

The reminder settled between them.

Not heavy.

Not accusing.

Just… there.

Soft.

Steady.

A thread of care Mira had placed in her hands, something for her to hold onto later when things got harder again.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Mira leaned down and kissed her.

The kiss was soft at first, gentle in that familiar way that always made something inside Rumi loosen without her realizing it.

Rumi leaned into it instinctively, her fingers curling into the fabric of Mira’s sleeves as she pulled a little closer. The warmth of her mouth, the steady pressure of her body against Rumi’s—it cleared her head for a moment, like someone had carefully untangled the tight knots that had been sitting behind her eyes all morning.

For a few seconds, everything felt simple again.

Just Mira.

Just warmth.

Just this.

When Mira finally pulled back, her thumb brushed lightly along Rumi’s cheek, lingering there for a moment like she didn’t quite want to let go yet.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” she said softly.

Then she smiled a little.

“I love you.”

The words hit Rumi like a reflex.

Her chest tightened immediately, the response rising up so quickly it almost surprised her.

Automatic.

Familiar.

“I—”

Her lips parted.

“I—I…”

The sound caught halfway up her throat.

Her breath faltered.

The muscles in her throat tightened sharply around the word before it could form properly, like something inside her body had slammed a door shut at the last second.

“L—”

The syllable cracked weakly as it slipped out, thin and broken.

“Lo…”

Her voice wavered, fragile and strained.

Rumi tried again.

Her chest tightened as she forced more air up from her lungs, the word sitting right there—so clear in her mind it almost hurt.

“…Lov—”

Nothing.

The sound collapsed before it could become anything real.

Her throat closed completely.

Rumi froze.

Her lips slowly pressed together again.

For a second she just stood there, staring at Mira as the realization settled in all at once.

She couldn’t say it.

Not even that.

Not even I love you.

The thought landed like something heavy dropping straight through her chest. She had said those words to Mira a hundred times before.

Casually.

Easily.

Sometimes half-laughing, sometimes whispered against her skin before they fell asleep.

They had never been difficult.

They had never even required thinking.

And now—now the words were stuck somewhere inside her throat like broken glass.

Her chest felt tight.

Her throat burned.

Her eyes stung as the pressure behind them built too quickly for her to stop it.

“Hey— it’s okay,” Mira quickly said once she saw the look on Rumi’s face. But Rumi was already shaking her head, Tears welling in her eyes before she could stop them.

No.

It wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t even close.

Her hands fumbled for her phone, fingers clumsy and shaking as she pulled it from her pocket. The screen blurred slightly through the tears gathering in her eyes as she forced herself to type.

The letters looked wrong.

Crooked.

Too slow.

She held the phone up between them.

No it’s not okay.

Guilt flashed across Mira’s face immediately.

“Rumi—”

She reached out and caught Rumi’s arm just as she started to turn away.

Rumi spun back toward her, breath uneven as her thumbs moved quickly across the screen again before Mira could finish whatever she was about to say.

Forget it.

She swallowed hard and typed another line.

See you later.

“Rumi wai—”

But Rumi pulled her arm free before Mira could finish the sentence. She turned and walked away, fast enough that Mira’s voice faded behind her almost immediately.

Her vision blurred as she wiped roughly at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to clear them before anyone else noticed.

Her breathing came uneven.

Sharp.

Embarrassed.

Humiliated.

Because the worst part wasn’t the silence. The worst part was that the words were still there inside her.

Clear.

Simple.

Uncomplicated.

The way they had always been.

I love you.

And somehow—

they still couldn’t reach her mouth.

Rumi stared at the blank document glowing on her laptop screen.

The cursor blinked patiently in the top corner.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Finally getting into the classes she wanted after switching her major was supposed to feel amazing. She had spent months stressing over it—changing schedules, reworking requirements, convincing herself she had made the right choice.

She was happy about it.

In a sense.

At least she didn’t have to sit through literature lectures anymore, pretending to analyze poems she couldn’t bring herself to care about.

But right now that relief felt distant.

Like something she had decided in theory rather than something she actually felt.

Her mind was somewhere else entirely.

The assignment prompt sat at the top of the screen:

Write a short scene that explores a character’s emotional conflict without directly stating what they feel. Focus on physical details, environment, and internal thoughts to reveal their state of mind.

Underneath it—

Nothing.

Just the blinking cursor.

Rumi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She waited for something to come to her.

An image.

A sentence.

A single word.

Anything.

But her thoughts felt thick and sluggish, like they were moving through mud. Every time she tried to focus on the assignment, her mind slipped away again before anything solid could form.

The sound of typing filled the classroom around her.

Keys clicking rapidly.

Pages rustling.

Someone clearing their throat.

The professor’s voice drifted through the room as he paced slowly between rows of desks, continuing his lecture about narrative perspective and emotional subtext.

Rumi heard it.

But it didn’t really land.

The words reached her ears and then dissolved somewhere before her brain bothered processing them.

She stared at the screen.

The cursor blinked again.

And again.

Her fingers lowered onto the keyboard.

For a moment, they just hovered there, poised above the keys like they were waiting for permission.

Then she started typing.

The sky was—

She stopped.

The words sat there, thin and incomplete, blinking back at her like they expected something more.

Rumi stared at them for a second.

Then deleted them.

The cursor blinked again.

Empty.

Waiting.

Around her, the class carried on like nothing had stalled.

Students leaned forward over their laptops, typing steadily, the quiet rhythm of keys filling the room. One girl near the window had already filled half a page, her fingers moving quickly, almost frantically, like she was chasing a thought that might slip away if she slowed down for even a second.

Rumi watched her for a moment.

Then looked back at her own screen.

Still blank.

She envied that.

The ability to just… start.

Instead, she sat there.

Watching.

Her gaze drifted after a while, pulled away from the empty document like it physically couldn’t stay there for too long. It slid toward the window, catching on the pale grey sky outside. Then to the back of someone’s chair. Then to the thin beam of light cutting through the room, where dust floated lazily in the air, moving slow and aimless.

Anything but the screen.

Anything but the expectation sitting in front of her.

The cursor kept blinking.

Patient.

Unchanging.

Eventually, the professor’s voice faded into the background entirely, the lecture blending into a low, indistinct hum as her thoughts slipped away again—back into that same dull, familiar static that had been following her since morning.

When class ended, she had written nothing.

Not even a sentence.

Her next class wasn’t much different.

She took a seat in the back this time, farther from the front, farther from the pressure of being seen. She opened her laptop again, pulled up the notes, and tried to follow along as the professor spoke, his voice steady and clear as he moved through the material.

But it didn’t stick.

The words reached her ears and then… didn’t land.

They slid past, dissolving somewhere before they could take shape into anything she could hold onto.

Her thoughts kept drifting, slipping through her fingers (see what I did there eh eh) like something she couldn’t quite grasp, always circling back to that same low buzzing in her head.

By the time the lecture reached halfway, exhaustion had started to settle in.

Her eyelids felt heavier with every passing minute, the burn behind them growing sharper the longer she forced them open. She hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Every time she’d closed her eyes the night before, something had dragged her back up again.

Her body was paying for it now.

The warmth of the classroom didn’t help. It wrapped around her like something heavy, pulling her down inch by inch.

She tried to focus.

Forced her eyes toward the board.

Typed notes she didn’t really read.

But the words blurred anyway.

Her head dipped slightly.

She blinked hard and lifted it again.

Held it there.

Then, a minute later—

it dipped again.

This time she didn’t fight it.

Rumi folded her arms on the desk and lowered her head onto them, turning slightly so her cheek rested against the fabric of her sleeve.

Just for a second.

Just to rest her eyes.

Sleep pulled her under almost immediately.

.

.

.

.

She woke to the scrape of chairs against the floor.

Voices overlapping.

Backpacks zipping.

The sound of the room moving again.

Rumi blinked slowly, her vision taking a second to catch up as she lifted her head. The classroom came back into focus around her in pieces—half-empty desks, students filing toward the door, the professor gathering his things at the front.

Class was over.

Of course it was.

A dull heaviness settled deeper into her chest.

She rubbed at her eyes, pushing herself upright as she quickly started gathering her things, movements slightly clumsy from sleep as the last few students filtered out.

She was halfway out of her seat when a voice cut through the room.

“Rumi?”

She paused.

Turned.

The professor stood near the front, watching her over the rim of his glasses.

“If you’re planning on sleeping through the lecture,” he said dryly, “you might as well save yourself the trip and stay home.”

The words weren’t loud.

But they were just loud enough that the few remaining students glanced over.

Rumi blinked.

Heat crawled up the back of her neck.

Shame settled heavily in her stomach.

She nodded once.

A silent apology.

Then quickly slipped out of the room before the professor could say anything else.

Great.

First week of her new classes and she had already managed to ruin her first impression.

She walked outside into the courtyard, the cool air brushing against her face as students moved through the open space between buildings.

Her head still felt foggy.

Maybe tea would help.

The campus café sat just across the courtyard.

Something warm.

Something simple.

That sounded manageable.

She had just started heading in that direction when an arm suddenly hooked around her shoulders.

Rumi flinched. Her body jerked instinctively as she turned her head.

Jinu.

“Hey what’s—” He paused mid-sentence.

His eyes scanned her face.

Then he whistled softly.

“Oh wow.”

He leaned back slightly to look at her properly.

“You look like shit.”

Rumi didn’t react.

Didn’t even bother acknowledging the comment.

She just kept walking.

Jinu easily matched her pace.

“What’s going on?” he asked, leaning closer like he was inspecting her. “First you don’t answer my texts, you leave me on read for like three days, and now you’re ignoring me in real life?”

He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

“Seriously. Did I do something?”

Rumi sighed quietly through her nose.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before she typed.

Been busy.

Jinu leaned over slightly to read it as she held the screen up. He let out a small huff through his nose but didn’t call her out on the lie.

He knew it was one.

They both did.

But he didn’t push it.

Instead he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and continued walking beside her, his steps falling into rhythm with hers as they crossed the courtyard.

For a while he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at her.

Not in the casual way he usually did either—no teasing grin, no half-amused expression like he was waiting to make a joke.

This time he was studying her.

Rumi noticed it out of the corner of her eye.

When she glanced at him properly, she saw the playful edge he usually carried had disappeared.

Jinu kicked a small pebble across the pavement. “Heard about the person who stabbed Mira being your dad…”

The words landed quietly.

But they still hit like a brick.

Rumi’s shoulders stiffened immediately.

Her body reacted before her mind even had time to catch up.

Her chest tightened.

She stopped walking for half a step, fingers already digging into her pocket again as she pulled her phone back out.

Her thumbs moved quickly across the screen.

Don’t call him that again.

She turned the screen toward him.

Her expression didn’t change, but the message spoke sharply enough on its own.

She didn’t want that word attached to him.

Not anymore.

Just thinking about him made something ugly twist in her stomach—anger, disgust, something darker that sat heavy behind her ribs and made the noise in her head louder.

Jinu blinked when he read it.

Then nodded quickly.

“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

They started walking again.

But he didn’t stop looking at her.

His gaze lingered a little longer than usual, like he was trying to piece together what exactly was going on behind the quiet expression she was wearing.

“It must’ve been a lot,” he said after a moment.

His tone had shifted somewhere along the way.

Softer now. More careful.

“Zoey told me you got antagonized by that detective… over what happened with Mira.” He glanced sideways at her, not fully turning, like he didn’t want to corner her with it. “I’d be pissed too. That guy had no right to do that.”

Rumi shrugged.

The motion was small. Barely there.

The kind of shrug that was meant to close the subject before it could open.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like it had already passed.

But her body didn’t seem to agree.

Just hearing it—that detective, what happened—was enough to drag the memory forward again, sharp and immediate. The interrogation room. The way the walls had felt too close. The detective’s voice pressing in from across the table, calm in a way that hadn’t felt calm at all.

Her throat tightened.

Subtly at first.

Then more.

The air in her lungs felt thinner, like it had to squeeze through something on the way in.

Rumi swallowed.

The motion felt heavier than it should have, like forcing something down that didn’t want to move.

Jinu noticed the shrug.

He looked at her for a second longer this time, something quieter settling into his expression.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t pushy.

If anything, it dipped softer, like he was giving her space even while asking. “You don’t have to—but you can. With me.”

Rumi shook her head immediately.

No.

The response was instinctive, almost too fast.

Because even the idea of talking about it made something in her chest pull tight. Talking meant thinking, and thinking meant it all came rushing back—the choking, the panic, the way her body had turned against her while everyone stood there watching, helpless.

Her throat pulsed.

A dull, throbbing pressure that spread upward, slow and creeping, like invisible fingers tightening around her airway.

She swallowed again.

Harder this time.

As if she could force the feeling back down where it belonged.

What was done was done.

There was nothing left to say about it.

Jinu ran a hand through his hair, exhaling quietly, like he understood that “no” meant more than just the word.

“Zoey also told me you had a pretty bad allergic reaction,” he said after a moment, easing into the next thought instead of pushing the last one. His voice still carried that same careful concern. “Said you had to go to the hospital.”

He glanced at her again, more briefly this time.

“That must’ve been scary.”

Rumi’s jaw tightened.

The memory came faster this time.

The hallway.

The sharp, uneven wheeze tearing out of her throat.

The panic clawing up through her chest as her body tried—and failed—to pull in enough air.

She could almost hear it again.

Feel it.

That awful, desperate need to breathe and the way it just… wouldn’t come.

She exhaled slowly through her nose.

Shrugged again.

Smaller this time.

But the weight in her chest had deepened, pressing harder against her ribs with every step, like something sitting there that refused to move.

Without really thinking about it, she picked up her pace.

Jinu adjusted with her immediately, keeping step beside her without commenting on it.

“And you can’t really speak right now…” he added after a moment.

There was a pause before he finished the thought, like he was choosing his words carefully, trying not to step in the wrong place.

“That’s… a lot to deal with.”

He glanced at her again, expression softer now, more searching than before.

“Are you still getting used to it,” he asked gently, “or is it… something else?”

Rumi kept walking.

Her gaze stayed fixed ahead. But inside, the noise in her head had started rising again. Every mention of it. Every reminder. Each one felt like another hand pressing down on that tight place in her chest.

Her throat throbbed.

The pressure sitting there like a warning.

And for a second she had the sudden, irrational urge to run.

Just… away.

Away from the questions. Away from the way each one seemed to press a little too close to something she was trying not to touch.

“I mean, apparently you’re allergic to lavender now? That doesn’t make any sense,” Jinu continued, still talking as they walked. “Because that stuff was basically your whole identity—well, not identity, I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean.”

He glanced sideways at her.

“There were times I remember you being weirdly serious about those little rituals you had. Putting certain oils on at certain times, that specific soap you liked, the candles—”

Rumi stopped walking.

The movement was abrupt enough that Jinu took another step before realizing she wasn’t beside him anymore.

He turned halfway, still mid-sentence.

“I mean, that must be a lot… since it meant so much to you and—”

His phone pinged.

The sound cut through his words.

Jinu frowned slightly, glancing down at the screen out of reflex.

Another ping followed almost immediately.

Then another.

He looked up.

Rumi stood a few feet behind him now, her head lowered as her thumbs moved rapidly across her phone screen. Her shoulders were tight, the tension in them visible even from where he stood.

Ping.

Ping.

Jinu unlocked his phone.

Three new messages.

All from Rumi.

The first one read:

Can you stop talking?

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

I already told you I don’t want to talk about it. Yet you keep bringing it up like you’re narrating every worst part of the past few weeks back to me.

If I say I don’t want to talk about something, that also includes hinting at it, analyzing it, or turning it into a conversation topic.

The final message came a second later.

So if there isn’t anything else you want besides throwing everything I’m trying not to think about back in my face, you can kindly leave me alone.

Jinu blinked at the screen.

He looked up just in time to see Rumi walk past him.

Her expression was tight, her jaw set in a way that made it clear she wasn’t just annoyed—she was holding something back. There was no hesitation in her steps either. No pause. She moved like she had already decided the conversation was over before he could catch up.

Jinu blinked once, caught off guard, then shoved his phone back into his pocket and hurried after her.

“Well—sorry,” he muttered, a breath slipping out through his nose as he matched her pace. “I won’t bring it up anymore. Jeez. No need to bite my head off about it.”

Rumi didn’t respond.

Didn’t slow down.

Didn’t even glance at him.

Her silence stretched between them, heavier than anything she could’ve said.

Jinu’s shoulders dropped slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling again, this time quieter.

"You really are going through a lot, huh,” he said after a moment.

No teasing this time.

No edge.

Just something softer.

Something uncertain.

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve seen you act like this.”

Still nothing.

Rumi kept walking.

Her steps were steady, but there was something rigid in the way she held herself, like every movement was controlled too tightly—like if she loosened even a little, something might slip through.

They reached the campus café.

Jinu stepped ahead this time, moving just slightly faster so he could reach the door before her. He pulled it open and held it there, one hand braced against the handle.

The warmth hit immediately.

Coffee.

Tea.

Something sweet underneath it all.

Comforting.

Normal.

Rumi walked past him without saying anything.

Not like she could anyway.

The café was already full when they stepped inside, the air thick with overlapping conversations and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. Laughter spilled from one table, bright and easy, while somewhere near the window someone typed steadily on a laptop, headphones in, detached from everything else. It was warm. Lived-in. Comfortable in a way that made something in Rumi’s chest tighten.

She slipped into line, tilting her head up toward the menu board, trying to focus on the neat rows of drinks and prices. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Slow. Steady. Her fingers crept up anyway, nails catching against the skin at the edge of her thumb, picking, worrying, grounding herself in the small sting.

Jinu shifted beside her, a subtle step closer, his shoulder almost brushing hers.

The line moved.

Too quickly.

By the time they reached the front, the words on the menu blurred together. She looked up at it again, like maybe this time something would stick, like maybe this time her brain would cooperate, but her thoughts felt distant, muffled, like she was trying to reach them through water.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

The barista’s voice was gentle, practiced, paired with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Rumi’s lips parted.

Nothing came out.

She fumbled for her phone instead, pulling it from her pocket and opening her notes app, the screen lighting up too bright against her eyes. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then started moving—slow at first, then stopping, backspacing, starting again. The words wouldn’t come out right. Too many options. Too many ways to say something so simple.

Why is this so hard?

Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t know why.

She paused, staring at what little she’d managed to type, then erased it again.

The barista was still waiting. Rumi glanced up, catching the slight strain at the edges of it now, the way it flickered just a little.

Someone behind them cleared their throat.

The sound cut through everything.

Heat crept up the back of her neck.

She tried again, thumbs pressing clumsily against the screen, but the letters blurred, her chest tightening, breath catching in a way that made everything feel suddenly too close, too loud—

Jinu cleared his throat.

“She’ll take the jasmine green tea.”

Rumi’s fingers froze mid-motion.

That—

That wasn’t what she was going to type.

The barista nodded immediately, already turning toward the register. “Got it. And what about you?”

Just like that.

The moment shifted past her.

Rumi stared at her phone for a second longer, the unfinished sentence still sitting there, half-formed and useless, before her hands slowly lowered. Jinu was already ordering, his voice easy, unaffected, like nothing had happened at all.

A beat later, the barista looked back up—but not at her.

At him.

“Does she want it iced or warm?”

Rumi blinked.

The question hung in the air.

She was standing right here.

Jinu glanced at her briefly.

“Uh—probably iced.”

Probably.

The word landed somewhere deep, dull and heavy.

Close enough.

Good enough.

The barista nodded, typing it in without hesitation.

“Name for the order?”

“Jinu,” he said, already pulling out his wallet. The receipt printed with a sharp, final sound.

And just like that—

It was over.

Rumi slipped her phone back into her pocket, the screen going dark before she could look at it again. The words she hadn’t finished typing stayed there, unsaid, unseen, like they didn’t matter anymore.

They moved to the side to wait. When the drinks were ready, the barista slid them across the counter without looking up, calling out Jinu’s name. He picked up both cups before she could reach for hers.

“Here,” he said, passing one to her with a small, easy smile. “What you usually get.”

Rumi took it automatically.

Cold condensation dampened her fingers, the chill seeping into her skin.

Usually.

Usually didn’t mean always. But correcting him now would mean pulling her phone back out, unlocking it, typing everything out again—trying to find the right words, waiting while he read it, turning something small into something noticeable. Into something that would slow everything down. The thought of doing all that over a drink settled heavily in her chest, suddenly exhausting.

So she just nodded.

They stepped back outside, the door swinging shut behind them with a dull click, and the shift was immediate. The noise of the café dropped away all at once, like someone had pressed mute on the world. Rumi hadn’t realized how loud it had been until it was gone.

The quiet should have felt like relief.

Instead, the buzzing in her head rushed forward to fill the space, louder now, sharper without anything to drown it out.

She walked beside Jinu, her gaze fixed on the cup in her hand, watching the pale tea slosh around the ice with each step. The condensation had started to drip down the sides, cold against her fingers, but she didn’t adjust her grip. Didn’t lift it. Didn’t drink.

She still hadn’t taken a sip.

Jinu noticed.

"—on't like it?"

His voice reached her in pieces, like it had to travel through water to get there. Rumi’s brows knit faintly, her focus slipping—not to him, not to the question—but inward, downward, into the familiar space of her hoodie pocket.

Her thumb found the edge of her nail.

There it was.

A thin strip of skin, barely lifted, just enough to catch.

Her nail slid beneath it.

Pressed.

Pulled.

A sharp, precise sting bloomed along the edge of her finger, clean and immediate. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second, her chest loosening just slightly as the sensation cut through the noise.

The buzzing softened.

Not gone.

But quieter.

Manageable.

Jinu said something again—she didn’t catch the words, only the shape of them, the rise and fall—but it didn’t reach her, not really. Not the way the sting did.

Her thumb shifted to another finger.

Pick.

This one resisted.

For a second.

Then gave.

Another quick sting, a little deeper this time, spreading warmth through the tender skin. Her breathing slowed without her meaning to, shoulders dropping a fraction as something in her finally, finally eased.

There was a rhythm to it.

A quiet, hypnotic repetition—the drag of her nail, the catch, the pull. The way the rough edges smoothed under pressure, the way each tiny sting grounded her just a little more.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

Just one more.

Her nail scraped across the same spot again. The skin there was already reddening, sensitive, the sting sharper now.

She knew that.

Somewhere, a small, distant part of her brain recognized it immediately.

You’re doing it again.

But the thought felt far away. Muted. Lacking weight.

Because this—this was easier.

The sharp, controlled sting in her fingertip was easier to hold onto than the dull, spreading ache in her chest. Easier than the heaviness still sitting there from the café, from the way the moment had slipped past her before she could grab onto it.

Jinu’s voice cut through again.

Closer this time.

Clearer.

“Rumi..”

Her thumb stilled mid-motion.

Only then did she realize he had been talking to her the whole time.

Rumi glanced over, a little delayed, like she was surfacing from somewhere deeper than she meant to go. Jinu was already looking at her, his expression tight with concern, eyes searching her face like he was trying to piece together something she hadn’t said out loud.

“You haven’t touched it,” he said, motioning lightly toward the cup in her hand.

Her grip tightened almost instinctively, fingers curling more firmly around the plastic. The condensation smeared against her skin, cold and damp, but she didn’t loosen her hold.

She didn’t look at him.

The buzzing in her head shifted, spreading upward, pressing behind her eyes now, sharper than before—like it was trying to force its way out.

Jinu let out a slow breath beside her, the sound quiet but heavy.

“Is that not the one you wanted?”

Rumi stopped walking.

The sudden halt pulled him up short too, his steps faltering just enough to match her stillness. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then she pulled her phone out again.

This time her thumbs moved faster—no hesitation, no stopping to rethink, the words coming out in a quick, almost rigid line of motion.

You didn’t ask me.

She turned the screen toward him.

Jinu read it, his eyes scanning once, then again, slower. His shoulders dropped slightly, something in his posture loosening—not in relief, but in recognition.

“Yeah,” he admitted after a second, quieter now. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

The apology settled between them, simple and direct.

Rumi stared at her screen a moment longer, the bright white text glowing starkly against the dark background of the notes app. It looked flat. Final. Her own thoughts, stripped down into something blunt and emotionless, like they belonged to someone else.

Then she locked the phone and shoved it back into her pocket.

Silence followed.

Not the easy kind. Not the kind that softened things.

This one stretched.

Lingering just a little too long, filling the space between them until the air itself felt heavier, harder to move through.

The buzzing in her head didn’t ease.

If anything, it built.

It had started earlier as something dull, something she could push to the background if she focused hard enough—on the menu, on her breathing, on anything else—but now it felt louder. Sharper. Like a swarm trapped somewhere behind her eyes, restless and agitated, with nowhere to go.

Beside her, Jinu shifted his weight.

The movement was small, almost careful, like he was choosing what to say next with more thought than usual.

“Zoey and Mira are worried about you, you know,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter, edged with something tentative.

Rumi bit the inside of her cheek.

Of course they were.

She didn’t need him to tell her that.

She saw it every time Zoey looked at her lately—the way her gaze lingered just a second too long, soft but searching, like she was constantly checking for something just beneath the surface. Waiting for it to crack.

Mira was worse.

Mira didn’t just look—she hovered.

Always nearby. Always watching. Like if Rumi was left alone for too long, something irreversible might happen. Like she might fall apart the second no one was there to catch it.

Rumi hated it.

Hated feeling like she had become the center of everyone’s quiet concern.

Hated the weight of it. Hated the way it made her feel smaller, fragile in a way she didn’t know how to argue against.

Hated that they weren’t wrong.

Jinu nudged a small pebble across the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe, sending it skittering a few feet ahead of them.

“I’m worried about you too,” he added, softer this time, the words landing more carefully.

“You’ve been off lately.”

A pause.

“And we all see it.”

Rumi looked away, her gaze dropping somewhere past him, unfocused. Her thumb dragged slowly along the edge of one of her nails, tracing the uneven skin there like it was something to concentrate on, something small and contained.

The skin there was already rough.

Tender.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Jinu said, his voice quieter now, but steadier. “That thing where you disappear without actually disappearing.”

Rumi’s fingers curled into the sleeves of her hoodie. The words settled into her chest, heavy and uncomfortable, pressing in a way she didn’t know how to shift away from.

She hated how easily he could still read her. Hated how he noticed things she didn’t even realize she was doing until it was already too late to stop.

Jinu watched her for a moment, silent, like he was waiting—giving her space she didn’t know how to fill—space she couldn't fill.

Then, more carefully, “…Have you thought about seeing Dr. Yoon?”

Rumi didn’t answer.

The suggestion alone made her stomach tighten, something cold coiling low in her chest. Seeing Dr. Yoon meant sitting in that too-quiet office, meant questions she couldn’t avoid, meant pulling things into the open that she had been deliberately skirting around, refusing to look at too closely.

Talking meant thinking.

Thinking meant remembering.

And remembering—

Her throat tightened.

Not that it mattered.

It wasn’t like she could talk anyway.

The buzzing in her head sharpened again, spreading outward, a low, relentless vibration that seemed to settle into her chest, into her ribs, into the spaces between her breaths.

Jinu didn’t push.

Not right away.

His gaze dropped instead, following the small, repetitive motion of her hands—the way her thumb had slipped back out from her sleeve, dragging slowly across the skin beside her nail again.

Pressing.

Scraping.

A little harder this time.

The skin had already begun to split, a faint sting sparking at the surface, but it barely registered beneath everything else.

“You’re doing it again,” he said quietly.

Rumi’s hands stilled.

Her head lifted.

Her eyes snapped up to his.

Jinu gave a small nod toward her fingers.

“That.”

Rumi’s thumb pressed harder against the torn skin.

Almost defiantly.

Jinu’s jaw tightened.

“You used to do that before things got bad.”

The words hit like ice water.

Rumi felt the heat rush into her face instantly.

Her stomach dropped.

Her mind didn’t even try to argue with the statement. Because somewhere deep down she knew exactly what he meant.

Her fingers curled inward quickly, disappearing into the sleeves of her hoodie again, like hiding them might erase what he’d already seen. Undo it. Take it back.

It didn’t.

She shifted, taking a step to move around him, to slip past before the moment could stretch any further—

But Jinu stepped forward too.

Not sudden. Not aggressive.

Just enough.

Enough to block her path without touching her, without forcing anything, but still there—solid, unavoidable.

His voice lowered.

“You look exactly like you used to.”

The words hit her like a slap across the face.

For a moment, Rumi didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t look away.

Then heat rushed violently into her face, crawling up the back of her neck and burning behind her ears. Her chest tightened so suddenly it almost knocked the breath out oHer phone was already in her hands before she consciously registered grabbing it.

Her thumbs moved fast.

Too fast.

And what is that supposed to mean?

She shoved the screen toward him, the motion sharp, almost jarring.

Jinu blinked, caught off guard. “What? No—”f her.

But she was already typing again, the buzzing in her head sharpening into something louder now, something that vibrated through her ribs like electricity, restless and overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

Do I look pathetic?

She thrust the phone closer this time, the edge of it nearly brushing his chest.

“Rumi—”

Her thumbs didn’t stop.

Do I look weak?

His expression shifted immediately, the casual concern he’d been holding cracking under the weight of her words, something more serious taking its place, something that tried to catch up to where she already was.

“Rumi, that’s not what—”

Her chest felt too tight.

Too hot.

The words kept spilling out through her thumbs.

Do I look like some damaged girl who can’t stop mauling her own body?

Her breathing had turned uneven now, shoulders rising and falling harder than they should have for someone just standing on a sidewalk.

Her next message came even faster.

Is that what you think?

She shoved the phone toward him again.

Harder.

Huh, Jinu?
Do I look disgusting to you?

Her hands were trembling.

She barely noticed.

My body’s a temple, isn’t it? I’m not supposed to defile it. Not turn it into something ugly. That’s what Celine always used to say.

The words felt bitter, sharp against the back of her throat even though she wasn’t speaking them out loud, each one hitting just as hard as if she had.

You would have agreed with her then too, right?

She raised her arm to shove him again—but Jinu caught her wrist before she could.

His grip wasn’t rough.

Just firm enough to stop her.

Grounding in a way that only made everything inside her spike higher.

“That’s fucked up, Rumi,” he said, brows pulling together, his voice low but edged now. “You of all people should know I would never—”

He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to rein himself in mid-sentence, trying to keep from saying it the wrong way.

“I was the one who showed you it was okay to love those parts of yourself,” he continued, steadier now, but no less intense. “That they were human. Not whatever bullshit Celine fed you all those years.”

His grip loosened, but he didn’t step back.

“I’ll let it go,” he added after a beat, quieter, more controlled. “Because I know this isn’t you. And you’ve got a lot going on right now.”

A pause.

“But that was messed up.”

Rumi yanked her hand free immediately, the movement sharp and defensive. Her fingers went straight to her wrist, rubbing over the spot he’d held like she could erase the feeling of it, like she needed something to focus on that wasn’t him.

Her breathing had started to come down—but not fully. Not evenly. The adrenaline was still there, buzzing under her skin, making her hands tremble as she pulled her phone back out.

She typed anyway.

Then why would you say that?

The words came out tighter this time, less frantic but heavier, each letter pressed into the screen with lingering force.

The buzzing in her head hadn’t eased.

If anything, it had grown louder, roaring now, her thoughts jagged and restless as they ricocheted through her skull, refusing to settle.

Jinu dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose.

“Because I’ve seen this before.”

The words were calm.

Too calm.

It cut through everything else.

Rumi’s jaw tightened instantly, her head shaking in a sharp, immediate denial before she could even form a response.

“No,” Jinu continued, talking over it—not harshly, but firmly enough that it stopped her from interrupting.

“You stop sleeping.”

His eyes flicked over her face, lingering just long enough on the faint shadows beneath them.

“You start saying things that sound like you’ve already given up.”

Her grip tightened around her phone.

His gaze dropped to her hands.

To the raw skin around her nails.

“You start picking at yourself.”

Her fingers curled reflexively, like she could hide them again—but it was too late.

His voice lowered, quieter now, more careful.

“And then… picking stops being enough.”

A beat.

“You move on to cutting.”

The word hung there.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

He paused, like even saying it had taken something out of him, then looked back at her, his expression no longer frustrated—just serious. Focused.

“Rumi,” he said carefully.

“…are you thinking about hurting yourself again?”

The question landed softly.

Not accusing.

Not angry.

Just real.

Like he had been carrying it for a while before finally saying it out loud.

Rumi stared at him.

For a second, nothing connected. The words hovered in front of her, distant, almost unfamiliar, like they didn’t belong to her.

Then the meaning hit.

All at once.

Her stomach dropped.

And the anger followed immediately after.

Hot.

Sharp.

Explosive.

Her phone trembled in her hands as she typed, her thumbs pressing harder now, faster, like the force of it might push the feeling out of her chest.

Why would you even ask me that?

She shoved the phone toward him so hard it nearly hit his chin.

Jinu didn’t flinch.

Didn’t step back.

“Because I’ve seen this before,” he said again, quieter this time.

Steadier.

Like he wasn’t going to take it back.

That only made it worse.

The message appeared almost instantly, her thumbs moving before she could even think to stop them.

I’m not like that anymore.

Jinu’s eyebrow lifted slightly, just a fraction, but it was enough—enough to feel like doubt, like he didn’t fully believe her even now.

“Rumi—”

She shoved him.

Hard.

The force of it pushed him back half a step, his shoe scraping faintly against the pavement. A couple of students passing by slowed without meaning to, their attention snagging on the sudden movement before they quickly looked away again, pretending they hadn’t seen anything.

Rumi shoved him again.

And again.

Each push sharper than the last, like she could force something out of him—an answer, a reaction, something that would match the intensity clawing its way through her chest.

Her breathing had gone uneven, rising and falling too fast, too shallow, her lungs struggling to keep up with the pace her body had set.

The words were screaming inside her head.

Do you think I cut myself over the smallest inconvenience?

Do you think I’m so unstable I need someone watching me twenty-four hours a day?

Is that what you see when you look at me now?

But none of it came out.

None of it.

The thoughts slammed hard against the inside of her skull, building and building with nowhere to go, no release, no way to translate them fast enough into something real.

All she had was the phone in her shaking hands.

Her thumbs moved again.

Faster this time.

Angrier.

Each tap landed harder than it needed to, the impact stinging faintly against her skin as if the force alone might make the words carry more weight.

You don’t know anything about what’s going on.

She shoved the phone toward him again, the motion abrupt, almost reckless.

Jinu read it.

Then looked back up at her.

His expression didn’t change.

Not even a little.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Something twisted sharply in Rumi’s chest—hot, ugly, humiliating in a way that burned deeper than the anger itself. Because the worst part wasn’t even the question he had asked.

It was this.

This feeling.

The way she couldn’t respond the way she was supposed to.

The way she normally would have.

Normally, she would have yelled.

Her voice would have cut through everything, loud and sharp and undeniable. She would have torn into him without hesitation, told him exactly how wrong he was, exactly how insulting that question had been, and he would have felt it immediately.

Everyone would have.

There would have been no confusion.

No doubt.

Just clarity.

Instead—

she was standing here, shoving him in uneven bursts and typing into a screen like a kid throwing a tantrum.

The thought hit hard.

Her stomach twisted, tight and sour, something sinking low and heavy as the realization settled in.

Her fingers clenched harder around the phone until her knuckles ached, the plastic creaking faintly under the pressure.

Jinu let out a quiet sigh.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said.

His voice wasn’t defensive.

Wasn’t sharp.

Just tired.

“But I know what the beginning of it looks like.”

The sentence landed like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of her in a way she hadn’t braced for.

Something inside her snapped tight.

Her head shook immediately, fast and sharp, the motion almost frantic.

No.

No.

That wasn’t what this was.

It couldn’t be.

The buzzing in her head surged, louder, more chaotic, until it felt like it was pressing against the inside of her skull, trying to break through.

And then—

heat stung suddenly behind her eyes.

Tears.

She didn’t even remember when they started forming.

Her vision blurred.

Her throat tightened painfully, like something was lodged there—thick and immovable. All the words she couldn’t say, all the things she should have been able to throw back at him, sat there instead, pressing upward, burning.

Jinu watched her carefully, the shift in her immediate, his expression changing as concern flickered across his face.

“Rumi—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She shoved past him, hard enough that his shoulder knocked against hers as she forced her way around him, the contact jarring but not enough to slow her down.

“Rumi—”

His hand reached for her arm.

Reflex.

She slapped it away instantly.

The motion was sharp, quick, almost violent in how immediate it was—like her body reacted before she even had the chance to think about it.

Then, without turning back, without even looking at him, she lifted her hand and flipped him off.

The gesture felt small.

Childish.

But it was the only thing she had.

The only thing that didn’t require her voice, didn’t require her to fight past the tightness in her throat or the chaos in her head. It was simple. Clear. Enough to get the point across.

Fuck you, Jinu.

Her steps quickened, almost uneven as she walked away, her sleeve coming up to her face as she wiped furiously at her eyes, smearing the tears away only for more to replace them just as quickly.

Her breathing had gone ragged now, uneven and shallow, each inhale catching slightly before it could fully settle. Her chest ached with it, tight and sore, like it was being pulled in too many directions at once.

Her throat burned.

The buzzing in her head surged back in, louder than before, filling every quiet space the café noise had once occupied, pressing in from all sides until it felt impossible to escape.

And the worst part—the part she hated the most—was that the question wouldn’t leave.

It didn’t fade.

Didn’t soften.

It stayed.

Lodged somewhere deep, repeating over and over again no matter how fast she walked, no matter how hard she tried to drown it out.

Are you thinking about hurting yourself again?

The words echoed in her head, relentless, following her across the courtyard, slipping into every pause between her breaths, every step against the pavement.

And she hated it.

Hated how it lingered.

Hated how it stuck.

Hated how it didn’t feel easy to ignore.

The apartment was quiet when Rumi stepped inside.

Not the empty kind of quiet that made the rooms feel hollow—just the soft, lived-in stillness of a place where someone else was nearby but not making much noise.

Her shoulders sagged slowly as the door shut behind her.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Just a small release, like her body had been holding itself upright all day and finally realized it didn’t have to anymore.

The silence helped.

A little.

The buzzing in her head hadn’t disappeared. It was still there under the surface, vibrating faintly behind her temples like a low electrical hum.

But at least it wasn’t getting louder.

She slipped off her shoes near the door, nudging them aside with her foot. Her bag slid down her arm and dropped onto the floor with a soft thud, the strap folding over itself as it landed.

The sound stirred something in the living room.

The couch cushions rustled.

Rumi looked up.

Zoey was sprawled across the length of the couch like a cat that had claimed the entire piece of furniture as personal territory. One leg hung loosely over the armrest while the other was bent slightly, her laptop balanced precariously on her stomach.

Her head turned toward the door.

“Hey,” she said.

Her voice was soft.

Careful.

It had been like that lately—gentler than usual, like Zoey was constantly measuring her tone without meaning to. Like she was afraid one wrong word might crack something fragile.

Rumi lifted one hand in a small greeting.

Zoey studied her for a second.

Her eyes moved slowly over Rumi’s face, taking in the tiredness there, the tightness in her posture, the faint redness around her eyes.

“You look like you fought a war.”

Rumi huffed quietly through her nose.

Not quite a laugh.

Just air leaving her lungs.

She shuffled further into the apartment, her movements slow and slightly uneven. Her body felt heavier with every step, like gravity had quietly doubled while she was outside.

Zoey shifted on the couch at the sound, glancing up for only a second before she slid sideways, making space without hesitation.

“C’mere.”

Rumi didn’t argue.

She didn’t have it in her to argue.

She crossed the remaining distance and dropped onto the couch beside her, the cushions dipping under her weight as a quiet exhale slipped out of her chest. It felt like something she’d been holding in for too long. She leaned almost immediately, her body tilting sideways until her head found Zoey’s thigh, resting there like it had done it a hundred times before.

The relief was instant.

The soft give of the couch beneath her.

The steady warmth of Zoey’s body under her cheek.

The faint, familiar scent of her shampoo clinging to her clothes—clean and comforting and hers.

It wrapped around Rumi without asking, settling over her shoulders like something safe, something she didn’t have to think about.

Zoey didn’t hesitate either.

Her laptop clicked shut without so much as a glance, set aside like it didn’t matter anymore, and a second later her fingers slipped into Rumi’s hair.

Slow.

Gentle.

Careful in a way that felt instinctive.

The touch sent a quiet ripple through her, something tight in her chest loosening just enough to breathe around. Zoey’s fingers moved absentmindedly, combing through the strands, her nails lightly tracing against Rumi’s scalp in soft, repetitive motions that made the tension melt in small, steady increments.

The effect was immediate.

Almost embarrassingly so.

Rumi felt her breathing begin to slow, her chest rising and falling more evenly now, each inhale deeper than the last, like her body was finally remembering how to settle.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The apartment stayed quiet around them, the kind of quiet that didn’t press in or suffocate, but softened the edges of everything instead. No noise. No expectations. Just the faint rustle of fabric, the occasional shift of Zoey’s hand through her hair.

Rumi reached for her phone after a moment, her movements slower now, less frantic. She typed carefully this time, her arm lifting slightly so Zoey could see.

You’re here early?

Zoey leaned forward just enough to read it, squinting a little before she let out a soft, tired chuckle and leaned back again.

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. “My second class got cancelled, so I just came back.”

She paused, then added with a quiet hum, “Honestly, good thing too. I still feel kinda under the weather.”

Rumi nodded against her, the movement small.

She shifted slightly, curling in closer without really thinking about it, her head sliding from Zoey’s thigh to rest more comfortably against her stomach instead. The position felt softer somehow, more secure—like she could sink there and disappear if she wanted to, tucked into the warmth and the steady rhythm of Zoey’s breathing.

Her fingers drifted absentmindedly across Zoey’s leg, tracing the tiny freckles scattered along her skin. She connected them in quiet, invisible patterns, slow and deliberate, like it gave her something gentle to focus on.

Something simple.

Something that didn’t fight back.

Her mind had started to quiet.

Not completely.

The fight with Jinu still lingered somewhere in the background—the sharp edges of it dulled but not gone. The anger. The humiliation. The way his words had stuck under her skin.

Are you thinking about hurting yourself again?

It was still there.

But it felt farther away now.

Muted.

Like it had been pushed behind a door she didn’t have to open yet.

Because right now—with Zoey’s fingers moving softly through her hair, steady and familiar, and the quiet of the apartment wrapped around them like a shield—she could breathe.

Zoey’s fingers continued moving lazily through Rumi’s hair while Rumi stared up at the ceiling, letting her mind drift in that quiet space between exhaustion and sleep.

The rhythm of Zoey’s hand was slow and steady, the kind of absentminded motion someone fell into when they weren’t really thinking about it. Her nails barely scratched against Rumi’s scalp, just enough to send small shivers of relief down the back of her neck.

Rumi focused on that.

The feeling of it.

The warmth of Zoey beneath her.

The soft rise and fall of her breathing.

Anything that wasn’t the lingering echo of Jinu’s voice in her head.

It almost worked.

Almost.

Until Zoey spoke again.

“Jinu texted me earlier.”

Rumi’s body went still.

The shift was subtle, but Zoey felt it immediately.

Her fingers paused for just half a second in Rumi’s hair before continuing again, slower now, more deliberate, like she was trying not to startle her further.

“He said he ran into you near campus,” she added carefully.

Rumi reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her phone.

Her fingers moved across the screen.

Yeah.

Her thumb hovered for a moment before she added another line.

We talked.

She lifted the phone slightly so Zoey could read it.

“Mm.”

The hum was quiet.

Neutral.

But Rumi could feel the change in her anyway.

She could feel it in the way Zoey’s body moved beneath her—the easy, relaxed sprawl from before tightening just slightly, her posture adjusting in a way that was small enough to miss, but not small enough for Rumi.

A thread of tension.

Light.

But there.

“Was it… a good talk?”

The question settled into the space between them, gentle on the surface but carrying something heavier underneath.

Rumi didn’t answer right away

Her gaze drifted upward instead, unfocused, tracing nothing along the ceiling as the moment stretched just a little too long.

Her thumbs moved slowly this time, less certain, the words forming with a kind of dry, brittle humor that didn’t quite land even before she finished typing them.

Jinu’s evil. He wants me to burn.

She held the screen up.

Zoey read it.

Then let out a small snort of laughter.

“That’s not true.”

Her fingers resumed their path through Rumi’s hair, slipping easily through the strands again, but the rhythm had changed—just slightly more thoughtful now, less absent.

“Jinu cares about you,” she continued, nudging Rumi’s head lightly with her knee. “And don’t roll your eyes like that. I’m serious.”

Rumi hadn’t even realized she had.

Her gaze flicked away anyway, instinctively avoiding Zoey’s.

“When I say that,” Zoey added, softer now, “I mean it.”

There was a brief pause.

“And he’s a little upset with how things ended.”

Her fingers slowed again, just a fraction.

“And how you were treating him.”

Rumi turned her head to the side with a quiet huff, the movement small but pointed. Her lips pressed together as her arms folded loosely across her chest, shoulders pulling in just enough to close herself off.

Of course he told Zoey.

Of course he did.

Leave it to Jinu to go running to her girlfriend afterward.

Stupid Jinu.

Zoey’s fingers continued their slow path through her hair.

“Maybe you should talk to him later,” she said gently. “Clear things up or something.”

Rumi knew what she meant.

It wasn’t subtle.

Maybe you should apologize.

Her jaw tightened, the muscle ticking faintly as the thought settled in.

Except that wasn’t how it felt in her head.

Jinu was the one who had crossed a line.

Those questions—

the way he had looked at her when he asked them—

like he had already decided something about her before she could even respond.

She bet he hadn’t told Zoey that part.

Her thumbs moved again.

She held up the phone with a small, crooked smile—something that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I’ll apologize when I get my voice back!

Zoey stared at the screen for a second.

“Rumi…”

The softness from before didn’t disappear—but it shifted, edged now with something more serious.

She didn’t look amused.

Rumi huffed quietly and pushed herself upright, the movement small but deliberate as she scooted away from Zoey, inch by inch, until she reached the far end of the couch. The space between them wasn’t large, but it felt bigger than it should have, stretched thin with something unspoken.

She leaned her head against the armrest, turning slightly so she faced away.

Zoey watched her for a moment.

Then sighed.

“Rumi,” she said, her voice softer now, but threaded with a knowing kind of patience. “I know you’re sulking.”

Rumi didn’t move.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t even react.

“Come back.”

She stayed exactly where she was.

The silence that followed wasn’t as easy as before. It lingered differently, heavier, like it was waiting for one of them to give in first.

A few seconds passed.

Then the couch shifted.

Rumi barely had time to register it before arms wrapped around her waist from behind, warm and solid, pulling her backward across the cushions like she weighed nothing. The movement startled a quiet breath out of her, her body going momentarily stiff before instinct took over.

The familiar scent hit her immediately.

Peaches.

Soft and sweet and unmistakably Zoey.

Zoey pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, lingering just long enough to ground it.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she murmured, her voice low against her skin.

Rumi didn’t argue.

Didn’t pull away.

Instead, she shifted back into her, almost unconsciously, letting herself settle against Zoey’s chest this time. The position felt different—closer, more enclosed—but she didn’t resist it.

Zoey let out another quiet huff, softer this time, more tired than frustrated.

“I know you’re hurting,” she said, her voice gentler now, the edge from before worn down into something more careful. “But it wasn’t very cool to take it out on Jinu.”

A small pause.

“You regret it, don’t you?”

Rumi’s lips pressed together as she bit down lightly, the question settling somewhere uncomfortable in her chest. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned her head, pressing her face into Zoey’s shirt, the fabric warm and familiar beneath her cheek.

For a moment, she stayed like that.

Still.

Quiet.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

Her hands tightened in the fabric of Zoey’s shirt, fingers curling like she needed something to hold onto, something steady.

Zoey didn’t say I told you so.

Didn’t push.

Her arms just tightened slightly around Rumi in response, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head again, fingers slipping into her hair like before.

The apartment settled into a soft, steady quiet, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the slow, absent rhythm of Zoey’s fingers moving through Rumi’s hair. The warmth of the couch beneath them, the weight of Zoey’s body behind her, the gentle repetition of touch—it all worked together to soften the tightness that had been coiled in Rumi’s chest all afternoon.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

Manageable.

Her eyes drifted half-closed again, her breathing finally evening out, each inhale deeper, steadier than the last as the earlier tension slowly unraveled.

Then—

the front door opened.

The sharp click of the lock turning cut cleanly through the quiet.

Rumi’s shoulders tensed on instinct, her body reacting before her mind could catch up, the calm she’d just settled into rippling slightly at the edges.

Mira stepped inside, shrugging the strap of her bag off her shoulder as she nudged the door shut behind her. She paused when she saw them on the couch, her movement stilling for just a second.

Her expression softened immediately.

“Hey,” Mira said quietly, her voice warm, careful in the way it always was when she first walked in. “You’re back early.”

Rumi lifted her head just slightly, enough to acknowledge her without fully pulling away.

Zoey hummed in response, her hand still moving in slow, absent circles against Rumi’s back.

“Class got cancelled,” she said lazily. “Yay me.”

Mira nodded once and set her bag down by the door before walking over. Her movements were slower than usual, like she was gauging the mood of the room before stepping too far into it.

She sank down onto the couch beside them, the cushions dipping softly under her weight.

Mira leaned in just slightly, nudging Rumi’s leg with her knee—gentle, grounding, enough to pull her attention without forcing it.

“Rough day?” she asked.

Rumi shrugged.

The motion was minimal.

Noncommittal.

Barely there.

Mira didn’t look away.

Her gaze lingered a second too long, tracking the details Rumi hadn’t meant to give away—the faint redness around her eyes, the way her lashes still clumped slightly, the tension in her shoulders where they curled inward like she was trying to take up less space than she actually did.

Something in Mira’s expression shifted.

Subtle.

But intentional.

“Rumi… about earlier,” she said carefully, her voice quieter now, more deliberate.

Rumi’s stomach tightened instantly.

The fragile quiet she had just managed to settle into cracked open without warning. Her hand slipped out of her sleeve almost on instinct, already reaching for her phone before the thought had fully formed.

Her thumbs moved quickly.

Forget it.

She added another line beneath it, faster this time.

It’s fine.

She turned the screen toward Mira.

Mira’s brow furrowed almost immediately, the crease forming deep enough that it didn’t disappear when she blinked.

“Rumi…”

Rumi’s jaw tightened.

She looked away.

Anywhere but at that expression.

The one Mira got when something mattered.

When she wasn’t going to let it go.

“What happened earlier?” Zoey asked suddenly, her voice cutting into the moment as she glanced between them, confusion threading through her tone like she’d just realized she’d missed something important.

Rumi pushed herself upright quickly, pulling away from Zoey’s warmth like it had suddenly become too much, too close, too revealing. Her body folded in on itself instead, knees drawing up to her chest as she wrapped her arms around them and lowered her head.

Making herself smaller.

Contained.

The way she always did when something felt too big to face head-on.

“She tried to say ‘I love you’ this morning,” Mira murmured quietly.

“And… couldn’t.”

The words were soft.

Careful.

But they still landed like a punch.

Rumi felt it in her chest first—sharp and sudden—before the heat rushed up her neck and into her face, burning behind her ears as everything tightened all over again.

The couch shifted beside her as Zoey moved closer.

“Oh, Rumi…”

The sympathy in her voice made something twist painfully in her chest, sharper than before, the softness of it almost worse than anything else. Rumi pressed her face deeper into her knees, hiding, willing the sting behind her eyes to stop before it spilled over again.

But the memory had already come back.

Too clear.

The moment from that morning—the way the words had caught in her throat, the way her chest had locked up around them, the silence that had followed.

The look on Mira’s face.

“I’m just trying to tell you—” Mira started gently, her voice threading carefully through the space between them.

Rumi’s thumbs were already moving again.

Faster now.

Tighter.

just drop it. it’s fine.

She held the phone out without looking up, the message blunt, stripped of anything that might invite more conversation.

Anything that might make this worse.

Mira exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound quiet but edged with something tighter than before.

“You keep saying that,” she replied, her voice controlled, but only just. “But it’s obviously not fine.”

Rumi’s grip tightened around her phone, her fingers pressing into the edges hard enough that the plastic creaked faintly in her hands.

“You can’t keep bottling everything up like this, Rumi,” Mira continued, leaning forward slightly now, her tone still even but carrying more weight. “You have to talk to us.”

Rumi lifted the phone again.

Her fingers moved faster this time.

More force behind each tap.

How?

She turned the screen toward them, the word sitting there stark and sharp.

I can’t talk.

Mira shifted on the couch, her posture tightening, something in her jaw setting as she looked at the screen.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Rumi didn’t look away this time.

She held her gaze.

Her thumbs moved again.

Then what did you mean?

The question sat heavier than the first, less defensive on the surface—but sharper underneath.

Mira pushed up from the couch suddenly, the movement abrupt enough to break the fragile stillness that had been holding the room together. She dragged a hand through her hair as she took a short step away, pacing just once like she needed the space to keep from saying something worse.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than either of them. “Yeah. I can’t deal with this right now.”

The words slipped out rougher than she intended.

Heavier.

Rumi’s head snapped up.

Her thumbs were already moving.

This as in what?

She didn’t wait.

Didn’t pause.

You can’t deal with me?
Like I’m some kind of problem you have to manage?

Mira turned back toward her, both hands lifting slightly in frustration, her composure cracking just enough to show through.

“Rumi—I didn’t say any of that,” she said quickly, her voice tightening. “Why do you keep making it—”

“Mira.”

Zoey’s voice cut through the room.

Not sharp.

Not raised.

But firm enough that it stopped the sentence where it was.

She was already shaking her head slightly, her expression steady—not dismissing Mira, not siding against her, just grounding the moment before it could escalate any further.

“Take a breath. Please.”

Mira stilled.

For a second, she just looked at Zoey, something unspoken passing between them—frustration, restraint, understanding.

Then she exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing down a fraction.

“Right,” she muttered, quieter now.

Her hand came up to rub at the back of her neck, the motion tired more than anything else.

“I’m going to go make lunch.”

She turned toward the kitchen, taking a few steps before pausing, like she almost kept going—and then didn’t.

Her eyes flicked back to Rumi.

The frustration hadn’t disappeared.

But it had softened.

Shifted into something more measured.

“But we’re not done talking about this,” she said, her voice quieter now, steady in a different way. Not pushing—but not backing off either. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

A cabinet opened.

Closed.

The small, ordinary sounds carried faintly into the room, filling the space she’d left behind.

Rumi stayed curled on the couch, her body folding back in on itself like it had before, knees pulled close, shoulders drawn inward.

Her chest tightened again.

The buzzing returned.

Louder than it had been just minutes ago.

And even though Mira’s words hadn’t been angry—not really—they didn’t feel gentle in her head.

They echoed.

The faint sounds of cabinets opening and closing filled the kitchen.

Then the soft hiss of oil hitting a hot pan.

The smell followed soon after—warm rice, something savory simmering in soy and garlic, the faint sweetness of onions caramelizing. Normally those smells would have pulled Rumi out of whatever mood she was in.

Normally she would have said something.

Made a comment.

Teased Mira about cooking too much again. Today the sounds and smells just floated around the apartment without landing anywhere.

Rumi sat at the kitchen island with her arms folded on top of the counter, her phone resting loosely between her hands. The screen had gone dark minutes ago, but she kept staring at it anyway.

Her reflection stared faintly back at her from the glass.

She barely registered it.

Across the room, Mira moved through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, each motion precise in a way that felt almost deliberate. She pulled a pan from the cabinet, rinsed rice under the tap, stirred something in the skillet with slow, controlled movements.

Nothing was rushed.

If anything, it was the opposite.

Measured.

Careful.

But there was a stiffness to it—a subtle tightness in the way her shoulders held themselves, the way her movements didn’t quite flow the way they usually did. Like she was focusing a little too hard on each step, grounding herself in the process, turning something familiar into something she could control.

Like cooking had become something to concentrate on instead of something she normally enjoyed.

Zoey lingered nearby, leaning against the edge of the counter with her arms loosely crossed, her posture relaxed on the surface but her attention anything but. Her gaze moved slowly between the two of them, like she was silently assessing the emotional weather of the room—trying to figure out just how fragile things were right now.

She didn’t say anything.

No one did.

The pan sizzled softly.

Utensils clinked against ceramic bowls.

Minutes passed like that, each one quiet and contained, the normal sounds of the apartment filling in for everything that wasn’t being said.

Eventually, Mira set three plates down on the island, one after the other, the soft ceramic thud grounding in its finality.

Steamed rice sat neatly mounded beside glossy slices of bulgogi, the thin strips of marinated beef glistening under a dark soy glaze, sesame seeds scattered lightly across the top. A small dish of kimchi rested beside each plate, bright and sharp against the warmth of everything else.

“Okay,” Mira said quietly.

“Lunch.”

The smell hit Rumi immediately.

Garlic.

Sesame oil.

The rich, warm sweetness of the marinade.

Normally, that alone would have been enough. Enough to pull her out of whatever she was in, enough to make her stomach tighten with hunger before she even realized it.

Normally, Mira’s cooking was comfort.

One of those small, steady things that made the apartment feel like home.

Today, it just… lingered.

Heavy in the air.

Unanswered.

Rumi didn’t move.

Zoey slid into the stool beside her, the legs scraping softly against the floor as she reached for her chopsticks, her movements intentionally light, like she was trying to shift the mood without forcing it.

“This looks amazing,” she said, her voice brighter than the room called for, a small smile pulling at her lips as she glanced toward Mira. “You’re spoiling us.”

Mira gave a quiet hum in response, the sound distracted, her attention not fully landing.

She didn’t sit.

She stayed where she was, one hand resting flat against the counter, her weight leaning into it slightly like she hadn’t decided yet whether she was part of this moment or just orbiting it.

Rumi’s gaze stayed fixed on the plate in front of her.

Steam curled slowly upward from the rice, soft and constant, the warmth brushing faintly against her face.

Her stomach felt hollow.

Not hungry.

Just empty in a way that sat heavy instead of light.

Jinu’s voice.

The argument.

The embarrassment.

The way Mira had looked at her earlier that morning.

All of it layered on top of each other until even the idea of eating felt exhausting.

She didn’t touch the food.

For a while the only sound in the room was Zoey eating.

The soft tap of her chopsticks against ceramic.

The faint hum she made under her breath when something tasted good, quiet and absent, like she wasn’t fully aware she was doing it.

Then Mira spoke.

“Rumi.”

Rumi blinked, her attention lifting slowly, like she had to pull herself back into the room.

Mira didn’t repeat herself.

Her gaze dropped deliberately to the untouched plate in front of Rumi, lingering there for a second—long enough to make the point—before returning to her face.

“Eat.”

The word wasn’t sharp.

Wasn’t raised.

But it carried weight.

Enough that Rumi felt it settle somewhere low in her chest, her shoulders sinking just slightly under it.

She hesitated.

Her fingers twitched faintly against her lap before she reached for her phone, the motion automatic now, familiar in the way breathing was.

Her thumbs moved quickly.

I’m not hungry.

She turned the screen toward Mira.

Mira read it.

Didn’t respond right away.

Her eyes stayed on the message for a second longer than necessary, like she was choosing her next move carefully, weighing whether to push or let it go.

Then she looked back up.

The expression she gave Rumi wasn’t angry.

Wasn’t even particularly hard.

But it was firm.

Steady.

The kind of look that didn’t ask.

The kind that didn’t leave space for negotiation.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The silence stretched between them again, heavier this time, more defined, like it had edges now.

Rumi felt it pressing in.

Waiting.

She held Mira’s gaze for another second—just long enough to make it clear she could push back if she wanted to.

Then she let out a quiet breath through her nose.

Not quite a sigh.

But close.

Her hand moved.

She picked up her chopsticks.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like the act itself meant something.

She gathered a small bite—rice, a thin strip of beef—careful, controlled, like she was measuring out exactly how much she was willing to give.

Then lifted it to her mouth.

The food was good.

Of course it was.

Warm.

Soft.

Rumi chewed slowly, her gaze drifting down toward the table again as the flavors settled on her tongue. The beef was tender, the marinade rich with garlic and sesame, the rice still steaming faintly beneath it.

Across from her, Mira relaxed just a fraction.

It was subtle—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Her shoulders lowered slightly, some of the tightness leaving her posture now that Rumi had actually taken a bite.

Zoey, watching the whole exchange, leaned back slightly on her stool, her expression shifting into something lighter, almost amused in a quiet, relieved way.

“See?” Zoey said lightly after a moment. “Your cooking continues to be the backbone of this household.”

Mira huffed softly through her nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough.

She didn’t answer.

The silence returned almost immediately.

But it had changed.

Not as tight.

Still careful.

Still measured.

But no longer on the verge of snapping.

Zoey let it sit for a minute.

Then, like she couldn’t quite leave it there, she tried again.

“So—” she began, scooping another bite of food onto her chopsticks, “my art professor basically destroyed my soul today.”

Rumi glanced up briefly.

Zoey was already leaning forward slightly, the dramatic storyteller energy she carried beginning to wake up.

“We had critique for the sculpture projects,” Zoey continued, “and apparently my piece is ‘emotionally confusing.’”

She rolled her eyes.

“Which I thought was the point of art, but apparently not.”

Rumi lowered her gaze back to her plate, listening as she pushed another bite of food together.

Mira nodded along while she ate quietly.

Zoey kept going.

“I mean, I spent two weeks making that thing look unstable on purpose,” she said, gesturing with her chopsticks for emphasis. “It’s literally about emotional imbalance.”

Zoey sighed dramatically.

“Anyway, he told me it looks like ‘a chair that lost the will to live,’ which honestly—rude.”

Rumi’s lips twitched faintly before she could stop herself.

The reaction was small.

Barely there.

But Zoey caught it instantly.

“Thank you,” she said, pointing a chopstick toward her triumphantly. “Someone appreciates my suffering.”

Rumi ducked her head slightly, focusing on her plate again.

For a moment it almost felt normal.

Like she was still part of the conversation.

Then Mira cleared her throat.

“My class was chaos today,” she said, setting her chopsticks down for a second.

Zoey immediately turned toward her.

“Oh?”

Mira rubbed lightly at the bridge of her nose before continuing.

“One of the second-year students tried to dye fabric in the communal sink again,” she said. “Except she didn’t realize the dye hadn’t been diluted properly.”

Zoey winced.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Mira replied dryly. “It stained the entire basin and half the countertop.”

Zoey burst into laughter.

“Please tell me someone documented this.”

“Three people did,” Mira said, deadpan. “Before Ms. K even arrived.”

The conversation rolled forward easily after that.

Zoey asked questions.

Mira answered.

They bounced observations back and forth, occasionally laughing, occasionally groaning about professors and deadlines and studio disasters.

Rumi listened.

She followed every word. Her eyes drifted between them as they talked. She knew exactly where she would normally jump in. There were moments where a response formed automatically in her head.

A joke.

A comment.

Something sarcastic.

Something supportive.

Something.

But the rhythm of conversation moved too quickly now. By the time she reached for her phone, the moment had already passed. Another topic had started. Another response. Another laugh.

And suddenly she was just…

watching.

It wasn’t that they were ignoring her.

Not really.

They just forgot.

Or maybe they assumed she didn’t want to interrupt.

Or maybe conversation simply moved too fast to leave space for someone who needed thirty seconds to type.

Either way—

the flow of it slipped past her.

She pushed another bite of food around her plate.

The quiet realization settled slowly in her chest.

This was new.

This strange feeling of sitting inside a conversation instead of being part of it. Rumi swallowed another bite of food that suddenly felt heavier than it had a minute ago.

Eventually, the conversation slowed.

It didn’t stop all at once—just tapered off gradually, the small comments and half-finished thoughts thinning until there was nothing left to carry it forward. Zoey wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned back slightly in her chair, exhaling through her nose as she shifted her weight.

Then she looked at Rumi.

“What about you?”

Rumi looked up.

Both of them were watching her now.

Not intensely.

Not harshly.

But expectant.

Waiting.

It was familiar.

This part.

The rhythm of it.

Lunch had always been like this—an easy back-and-forth, trading stories, complaining about professors, laughing over things that didn’t matter. It was one of those small, unspoken routines that made everything feel stable. Predictable. Safe.

Normal.

Rumi hesitated.

Her phone rested beside her hand on the counter, the screen dark now, waiting.

She could type something.

She could explain.

The argument with Jinu.

The way everything had spiraled.

The exhaustion sitting heavy in her bones.

The buzzing that hadn’t really left all day.

But trying to pull all of that into words—into something small enough to fit into a message—felt overwhelming all of a sudden.

Too much.

Too messy.

Too hard to make sense of.

So she didn’t.

She just gave a small, almost absent shrug.

Mira sighed softly.

It wasn’t sharp.

Wasn’t irritated.

Just… tired.

Like she had expected more, but didn’t have it in her to push again right now.

She finished the last bite of her food and stood, carrying her plate over to the sink. The sound of running water filled the space briefly as she rinsed it, her movements quieter than before, the earlier tension still lingering in the way she held herself.

“I’m going to shower,” she said after a moment.

Then she glanced back toward Rumi.

“And then we can talk on the couch, okay?”

Rumi’s fingers curled slightly against her phone.

The buzzing in her chest stirred again, faint but immediate, like something waking back up at the idea.

But she nodded anyway.

Time passed.

Or at least, it must have.

Rumi didn’t really notice when.

At some point, she had moved from the bedroom to the couch. She didn’t remember deciding to. Didn’t remember the walk, or sitting down, or how long she had been there.

She just… was.

Zoey pressed warm against one side of her, half-slouched into the cushions, her leg thrown lazily over Rumi’s thigh like she needed the contact to stay grounded. Mira sat on her other side, posture more upright, but close enough that their shoulders brushed every so often.

The TV was on.

Muted.

Just flickering light filling the room.

All three of them had their phones out.

Rumi’s screen lit up with a soft ping.

The sound felt louder than it should have.

She glanced down.

A new group chat.

Created by Zoey.

Rumi lifted her gaze slightly, eyes flicking toward her.

Zoey gave her a small, almost sheepish smile, rubbing the back of her neck.

“You can text us here,” she said gently, her tone careful but not overly soft, like she was trying to meet Rumi where she was instead of stepping around it. “That way you don’t have to keep showing your screen back and forth. It’ll be easier.”

Another ping followed almost immediately.

Mira:
We’ll talk here too so it’s fair, okay?

Rumi looked over at her.

Mira gave her a small thumbs up.

Steady.

Encouraging.

Not pushing—just… there.

Rumi hesitated for a second.

Then she nodded.

A small, quiet movement.

Something in her chest loosened just a little.

This was easier.

Typing meant she could stop.

Delete.

Reword.

It gave her space to think—or at least try to.

Another message came through.

Mira:
So what’s going on?

Rumi’s lips pressed together.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

The blinking cursor waited.

Mira:
And don’t say it’s “nothing” or “it’s fine” either. Talk to us.

Zoey:
You don’t have to pretend with us, Ru :(
You don’t have to hold everything in by yourself.

Rumi’s chest tightened.

Her thoughts stirred faintly in the back of her mind.

Not full thoughts.

Just fragments.

Broken, jagged pieces.

Her mother’s face.

The hospital room.

The interrogation table.

The sound of her own voice screaming.

Her throat closing.

The dream.

Her fingers curled slightly against the edges of her phone.

Thinking about it felt like pressing down on a bruise that covered her entire chest.

Not one spot.

Not something contained.

Everywhere.

If she pushed even a little—

everything would spill out.

And she didn’t know if she could stop it once it started.

Her thumbs moved before she could overthink it.

Rumi:
It doesn’t matter now.
It’s in the past, so why even bring it up.

The message sent.

Too quickly.

Like she needed it out of her hands.

Zoey and Mira both looked up at the same time.

Their expressions shifted.

Concern.

Frustration.

Something heavier underneath.

“Because if you keep everything locked up like that, it’s going to eat you alive,” Zoey said, her voice softer now but still firm. “It is eating you alive. We can tell.”

Rumi bit the inside of her lip.

Rumi:
Use the chat.

The message came out sharper than she meant it to.

Zoey blinked.

Then immediately— “Oh—right. Sorry.”

Her fingers moved quickly.

Zoey:
You need to talk to someone about it eventually. Even if it hurts.
Even if it’s just a little.

Just tell us what’s going on in that beautifully stubborn head of yours?

Zoey glanced up at her, those big soft eyes full of something that made Rumi’s chest ache.

Care.

Too much of it.

Rumi swallowed hard.

Her throat still felt tight when she did.

Mira’s phone lit up next.

Mira:
Would it be easier to talk about it in therapy rather than with us?
I know how much Dr. Yoon helped you before.

She could probably help you work through whatever’s going on right now.

Rumi stared at the message.

Her fingers stilled completely.

Something sharp twisted low in her chest.

First Jinu.

Now Mira.

The word therapy sat there on the screen like it was something simple.

Something reasonable.

Something she should agree with.

But all it did was make something inside her tense.

Tighten.

Because therapy meant saying it out loud.

Making it real.

Admitting things she could barely even think in full sentences.

Her jaw clenched.

Her grip on her phone tightened slightly.

They were trying to help.

She knew that.

She knew that.

But it still felt like they were pushing her toward something she wasn’t ready to face. Like they were gently, carefully trying to pry open a door she was holding shut with everything she had.

Rumi’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard again.

The cursor blinked.

Waiting.

Her chest felt tight.

Her thoughts crowded closer this time—louder, messier, harder to ignore.

They didn’t stay in fragments anymore.

They pressed.

Overlapping.

Pushing against each other until it all became too much noise to separate.

Her mother’s voice.

The interrogation room.

The way the air had disappeared from her lungs.

The way she had just… watched.

Her fingers tightened around her phone.

The cursor blinked.

Waiting.

Rumi:
No.

That was it.

One word.

Short.

Final.

She hit send harder than she meant to.

The message sat there on the screen.

Heavy.

She didn’t look up.

But she heard it anyway—

Mira’s sigh.

Quiet.

Frustrated.

Close.

Mira:
Bottling it in isn’t healthy, Rumi.
It isn’t for you—and it isn’t for us either, because it’s affecting you.

The words came through one after another.

Measured.

Controlled.

But there was something under them now.

Something tighter.

Mira:
You’re pushing people away because of it.
You were doing okay before you spoke to him.
This has something to do with him, Rumi. I just know it.

Rumi’s jaw tightened as she read it.

Her grip on her phone sharpened.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Too warm.

Like the air wasn’t moving enough.

Rumi:
How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want to talk about it.

The message came out harsher this time.

There was no hesitation.

No softening.

Mira’s reply came almost immediately.

Mira:
However many times it takes for you to understand that you shouldn’t keep it in.

Rumi’s chest tightened.

Something sharp flared under her ribs.

“This is what I mean,” Mira said aloud now, her voice no longer filtered through a screen. “You get defensive like we’re the bad guys, when we’re just trying to understand what’s going on and maybe take some of the weight off you.”

Rumi stared at her phone.

Didn’t look up.

“It’s like…” Mira hesitated for half a second, her expression tightening—not in anger, but in frustration she didn’t quite know how to soften. “It’s like pulling teeth sometimes. And I hate that, because I know you don’t mean to make it that hard.”

“Mira,” Zoey cut in gently, her voice softer but edged with concern, “getting mad at her isn’t going to make her say it any easier—”

“I’m not mad at her!" Mira shot back quickly. “I’m frustrated. There’s a difference.”

The words came out sharper than before.

Rumi flinched.

Barely.

But she felt it.

“I’m frustrated because she’s dealing with all of this alone,” she finished, quieter now, her voice softening into something more honest. “When she doesn’t have to.”

Her gaze flicked to Rumi again, not accusing—just steady. Open.

“You have two people right here who want to be there for you,” she added, more gently. “Who aren’t going anywhere.”

The room felt too loud.

Even without raised voices.

Every word seemed to land harder than it should have, echoing slightly, like there was too much space for it inside her head.

Rumi’s chest tightened again.

Not sharp.

Not choking.

Just pressure.

Building.

Layering.

Too much of it sitting in one place.

Her thumbs hovered over her screen, unmoving now, the cursor blinking patiently like it was waiting for something she couldn’t quite give it.

Then—

something brushed against her arm.

Light.

Warm.

Rumi glanced down.

Zoey’s hand.

It slid gently along the sleeve of her hoodie, slow enough not to startle, until her fingers curled loosely around Rumi’s wrist. Not restraining. Not pulling.

Just there.

Grounding.

Steady.

“I’m sorry about everything that’s happened, Ru,” Zoey murmured, her voice quieter now, a little rough around the edges in a way that felt real, not polished or careful.

Her grip tightened slightly.

Then her arm moved, slipping around Rumi’s waist as she pulled her closer—not forcefully, not trying to fix anything, just drawing her in like she was something worth holding onto.

Like she wasn’t going anywhere either.

“I’m sorry,” Zoey repeated, quieter this time, the words softer but heavier somehow, like she meant them to sink deeper instead of just pass through. “About what you had to go through because of him.”

The words didn’t hit all at once.

They settled.

Slow.

Heavy.

Not sharp like Mira’s earlier, not pushing or pressing for anything in return—but they didn’t ease anything either. They just… stayed there, sinking into her chest, pressing outward from the inside.

Rumi squeezed her eyes shut immediately, her head shaking before she even realized she was doing it.

Too much.

Everything felt like too much.

The room felt smaller.

The air thicker.

The sound of their voices too close, too present, like there wasn’t anywhere for it to go but straight into her.

And underneath it—

the memories, shifting, stirring, clawing closer the longer she didn’t push them away.

“No, listen,” Zoey continued gently, pulling back just enough to cup Rumi’s face between her hands. Her thumbs brushed lightly across her cheeks, catching tears as they fell, her touch soft in a way that didn’t demand anything but still held her there.

Careful.

Steady.

“I know you’re going through a lot of pain right now,” she murmured. “I can see it, Rumi.”

Rumi didn’t move.

Didn’t open her eyes.

Like if she stayed still enough—quiet enough—this would pass. Zoey’s voice softened further, dropping into something almost fragile.

“We’re just trying to understand—”

Rumi’s eyes snapped open.

The moment shattered.

Her fingers were already moving.

Rumi:
But you’ll never understand.

The message sent instantly.

Sharp.

Clean.

Final in a way that made it feel heavier than anything she’d said before.

Zoey didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

“You don’t know that, Ru,” she said quickly, her voice catching slightly, the break in it small but real. “I’m worried about you. I can see you slipping and acting like no one would notice—”

Her hands tightened just a fraction against Rumi’s face.

Not enough to hurt.

But enough to feel like she was holding on.

“I’m scared,” Zoey admitted, the words coming out quieter now, more raw, tears slipping free and tracking down her cheeks without her bothering to wipe them away. “I’m scared you’re going to slip too far and we won’t be able to reach you.”

The words wrapped around Rumi’s chest.

Tight.

Not hands.

Not like the dream.

But close enough that her breath caught anyway.

Mira exhaled sharply beside them, the sound quieter now, less sharp than before, but still carrying weight.

“Do you hear that?” she asked, her voice lower, more controlled, but no less intense. “We’re not trying to attack you. We’re scared.”

Rumi’s breathing hitched again, uneven, her chest rising too fast, not settling fully before the next breath came.

Her thoughts surged.

Louder.

Faster.

Overlapping.

You didn’t help her.
You let it happen—

Her fingers trembled against her phone, the screen still lit, still open, like it was waiting for her to say something else she couldn’t shape into words.

“I can’t help if you don’t let me in, Rumi,” Mira added, her voice tightening again—not angry, but strained, like she was trying to hold something steady that kept slipping. “We can’t just sit here and watch you fall apart.”

Fall apart.

The phrase echoed immediately, catching and repeating, sticking to everything else already spinning in her head.

Zoey’s hands were still on her face.

Warm.

But not steady anymore.

Shaking slightly where her thumbs rested against Rumi’s cheeks.

“I don’t care how ugly it is,” Zoey said, her voice cracking openly now, no attempt to smooth it out. “I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense. Just—please.”

Her grip tightened just a little more, like she was afraid Rumi might disappear if she didn’t.

“Let us in.”

Too close.

Too much.

Too loud.

Not in volume—

but in everything else.

Rumi’s chest rose sharply.

Her breath didn’t feel like it was going deep enough again.

Her vision blurred.

Her thumbs moved.

Rumi:
She didn’t just get sick.

The message appeared.

Rumi stared at it.

Her chest rose too fast.

Another message.

Rumi:
They killed her.

Silence.

It dropped over the room instantly.

Zoey’s hands stilled.

Mira didn’t move.

Rumi couldn’t stop.

Rumi:
My mom didn’t just die.
She was murdered.

The word sat there.

Heavy.

Final.

Her throat tightened.

Her breathing broke.

Tears dropped down onto the screen as she typed.

Rumi:
And I didn’t even know.

Her breathing broke.

A sharp inhale that didn’t fill her lungs properly.

Rumi:
I thought she was just sick.

I thought it was random.

I thought I just got unlucky.

Her fingers trembled against the screen.

The words came faster now.

Messier.

Like they’d been waiting for a way out.

Rumi:
But it wasn’t random.

Her chest hurt.

Everything hurt.

Rumi:
It was him.

It was his family.

Her vision blurred completely now.

Rumi:
And I was sitting there watching her die thinking it was normal.

Parading around, wearing what killed her.

The words sat there.

Heavy.

Ugly.

Unfixable.

Rumi’s lips trembled as she finally looked up from her phone.

Mira and Zoey were staring at her.

Not just concerned.

Not just worried.

Shocked.

Like the ground beneath them had shifted and they didn’t know where to stand anymore.

For a second—

Rumi hated that look more than anything.

Rumi:
So now what?

Her thumbs moved faster.

Harder.

Rumi:
Now that you know what are you going to do?

Her chest rose sharply.

Too fast.

Rumi:
everything still hurts.

She’s still dead.

The word dead sat there like something rotten.

Rumi:
nothing changed.

No weight was lifted off my shoulders.

You can’t even say anything.

She glanced up again.

They couldn’t.

They didn’t.

And something in her twisted harder because of it.

Rumi:
this is why i didnt wanna tell you in the first place

Her chest felt tight.

Too tight.

Rumi:
now im just thinking about it all over again

Mira moved first.

“Rumi, I’m so sorry—”

The words barely made it out.

Rumi shot to her feet.

The movement was sudden, almost violent, like her body couldn’t stay still anymore. Her phone was still clutched tightly in her hand as her thumbs started moving again—faster now, frantic, like if she stopped for even a second everything inside her would collapse.

Mira and Zoey’s phones began pinging rapidly.

Rumi:
forget your stupid sorry

saying it wont bring her back

i hate that i cant do anything to change it

i hate that everything got flipped upside down

i hate that i cant talk

Her throat tightened painfully, like her body was trying to prove the point.

Rumi:
i hate how im trapped in my own head
stcuk with all of it and i cant even get it out

Her shoulders trembled. Her breathing broke, uneven, catching in her chest like it couldn’t find a rhythm.

Rumi:
i hate how it feels like nothings getting better like im stcuk in this dark pit and im never getting out

The words blurred again.

Her thumbs kept going anyway.

Rumi:
i hate that i cnat even say my own fucnking name

Rumi:
i hate thst thr one thigg i strucgled my whole life to havr

Her throat closed.

Her fingers shook harder now, hitting the wrong keys, correcting nothing.

Rumi:
i finally got it with you gys

Her breath hitched, sharp and broken.

Rumi:
and noe it feels like its being ripped away agian
like im back ag swuare one

Her chest hurt.

Not metaphorically.

It hurt.

Like something was pressing too hard from the inside

Rumi:
i haye myself for not notving
i hage myself for not saving her

i hate that i coudlnt save her

i hate that i didnt knoe

i hate thag maybe i should have knwon

i hate that maytbe i shoul have known

“Rumi…” Zoey said softly, her voice breaking as she stood up, abandoning her phone completely.

Tears were already slipping down her cheeks.

Mira swallowed hard, pulling her glasses off just to wipe at her eyes, her composure cracking in a way Rumi hadn’t seen before.

“Rumi.”

But Rumi couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Because if she did—

everything would crash back down on top of her.

Rumi:
i hate how everyone faield my omom

Rumi:
i hate that her life got toaken awyau firne her

Rumi:
i hate that she was suposod to tsiill be hher

Rumi:
i hate that she didnt get to live her life

The words kept coming, faster than she could process them, like if she stopped even for a second everything would crash down harder.

Tears spilled freely down her face now, blurring the screen, distorting the letters as they appeared.

Rumi:
i hate that she was taken from me

Rumi:
i hate everything

Rumi:
i hate—

“Rumi, put the phone down.”

Mira’s voice broke through.

Soft.

Not sharp.

Not commanding.

Just careful.

Like she was afraid of breaking her more.

Rumi’s body trembled harder.

Her thumbs hovered over the screen, jerking slightly with each breath that refused to steady.

Her chest heaved.

The words didn’t come out right anymore.

Not full sentences.

Just pieces.

Rumi:
i hate

Rumi:
i hate

Rumi:
i htae

Rumi:
I hate

Her vision blurred worse, tears slipping faster, her breathing breaking apart into uneven pulls of air that didn’t feel like enough.

Rumi:
i haet

Rumi:
i hate
i hate
i hate
i htae
i hate
i hate

The messages stacked on top of each other, rapid, messy, unreadable in places, her thumbs slipping across the screen without precision now.

Rumi:
i h
i ha
i hate
i hat
i htae
i hate

Her hands shook too badly to keep control, the phone rattling slightly between her fingers as the words collapsed into each other.

She couldn’t even see them anymore.

Couldn’t read what she was writing.

Her chest felt too tight.

Too full.

Like something inside it had been wound too far, stretched too thin, ready to snap completely.

Rumi:
i hate
i hate
i hate
i ha—

“It must’ve been so heavy carrying that.”

Soft.

Low.

Not loud enough to overpower the chaos—

but steady enough to reach her anyway.

Through the noise.

Through the spiral.

Through the way everything inside her felt like it was breaking apart all at once.

Arms wrapped around her from one side, warm and immediate, pulling her in before she could react, before she could pull away, before she could keep going.

Holding her there.

Anchoring her.

Heavy.

The word echoed faintly in her head.

It didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was heavy.

So heavy she didn’t even know where it started anymore.

Her lips trembled.

Her throat tightened painfully.

“You’ve been through so much,” Mira said, her voice breaking as she moved in from the other side.

Her arms wrapped around Rumi too, pressing close, her face tucking into the curve of Rumi’s neck like she was trying to hold her together.

“I wish I could take it all away.”

Rumi’s breath hitched.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Please.

The thought came so quickly it startled her.

Please take it away.

Take all of it.

She would give it up in a heartbeat if she could.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay with us,” Zoey murmured, her hand coming up to cradle the back of Rumi’s head, gentle, steady. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I’m not.

I was just—

Alone.

“You must’ve felt so alone,” Mira whispered.

The words settled into her chest.

Soft.

And that softness made something inside her splinter.

I did.

God, I did.

Alone in my head.

Alone in the interrogation room after finding out.

Alone with the questions that never stopped.

Alone with the silence.

Alone with the guilt that wouldn’t leave.

Her throat tightened painfully.

Zoey tightened her hold slightly.

“I can’t even imagine what that felt like,” she murmured, her voice thick with tears. “Finding out something like that… after all this time.”

Rumi’s chest caved inward.

You can’t.

You really can’t.

Because it wasn’t just finding out.

It was—

everything before it.

Everything after.

It was the way it rewrote every memory she had.

The way it took something already painful and made it unbearable.

The way it made her question every moment she had sat beside her mother thinking—

she’s just sick.

“I hate that you went through that by yourself,” Mira whispered, her grip tightening just slightly, like she was trying to hold together something that had already been breaking for too long. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

I didn’t know how not to.

Zoey’s arms shifted, pulling her closer, grounding.

“You’re not alone anymore, Ru,” Zoey said, her voice soft but certain, like something unshakeable. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself. Not with us here.”

You say that like I know how to put it down.

Like it’s something I can just hand over.

Like it isn’t stitched into me.

Zoey’s voice came again, softer this time.

“Let it out, Ru.”

The words pressed into her from both sides, settling into her chest.

Not pushing.

Not forcing.

Just—

there.

Rumi’s hands went slack.

Her phone slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull, distant sound she barely registered.

Her hands moved blindly instead, gripping onto them—onto something—fingers curling into their sleeves like she needed something solid to keep from falling apart completely.

Her chest hitched

And then—

something inside her broke.

Not cleanly.

Not all at once.

But enough.

A sob tore out of her chest.

Raw.

Ugly.

Unfiltered in a way she hadn’t let herself be in years.

Her knees gave out beneath her almost immediately, her body folding in on itself as the force of it ripped through her chest. The strength she’d been holding onto disappeared all at once, like it had never really been there to begin with.

Zoey and Mira caught her.

Both of them.

Zoey tightened her hold immediately.

Mira followed, both of them lowering her carefully to the floor as if she might shatter if they moved too fast.

Rumi barely felt it.

Her whole body shook violently now, sobs breaking out of her one after another, each one harsher than the last.

Her grip on them tightened.

Fingers digging in.

Clinging.

Her face pressed into Mira’s shoulder as her breathing broke apart completely, every inhale hitching, every exhale dissolving into another sob.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Her chest.

Her throat.

Her head.

Everything.

But it wasn’t distant anymore.

It wasn’t numb.

It was all there.

All at once.

“I—” she tried to speak, but her voice collapsed into another sob before the word could form.

Her grip tightened again.

She couldn’t stop crying.

And underneath all the anger—

under all the I hate, I hate, I hate—

there it was.

Louder now.

Clearer.

I miss her.

So much.

The thought shattered something deeper inside her.

Her grip tightened again.

Like if she held on hard enough—

they wouldn’t disappear too.

So Rumi let it out.

All of it.

The grief.

The guilt.

The anger.

The loneliness.

It poured out of her in broken, shaking sobs that wracked through her entire body, leaving her breathless and raw.

And for the first time—

she wasn’t alone while it happened.

The room had gone quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that settled in gently or softened the edges of things, but the kind that came after something had cracked open and left everything exposed—raw in a way that hadn’t quite figured out how to close again.

Rumi lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

The lights were off. Only a thin strip of dim light slipped in through the crack in the door, spilling faintly across the floor and stretching just far enough to touch the edge of the bed. It didn’t illuminate the room so much as outline it—soft shadows pooling in the corners, shapes half-formed and indistinct.

Zoey was pressed into her side.

Half draped over her, one arm wrapped tightly around Rumi’s waist, her face tucked into the curve of her shoulder like she had settled there without ever fully relaxing. The grip wasn’t loose, even in stillness—it held, steady and instinctive, like something she hadn’t quite allowed herself to release.

On the other side, Mira stayed close.

Not as draped, not as heavy—but present in a different way. One hand rested against Rumi’s chest, fingers splayed lightly, while the other curled into the fabric of her shirt, knuckles faintly catching in the cotton like she needed something tangible to anchor to.

Neither of them were asleep.

Their breathing gave them away.

Too uneven.

Too aware.

Rumi didn’t move.

Her gaze stayed fixed upward, unblinking, her expression unreadable in the low light.

Time passed.

Or at least, it must have.

The room gave no indication of how much. The only change came in the slow shift of shadows along the walls—something outside moving, a passing car maybe, or a distant light flickering briefly before settling again.

Inside, nothing followed.

Zoey stirred first.

It was subtle—a small shift of her weight, her arm tightening instinctively around Rumi’s waist as if she had drifted too close to sleep and pulled herself back without fully waking. Her thumb moved in a slow, absent path along Rumi’s side, the motion repetitive and light.

Grounding.

Checking.

Mira’s fingers flexed once against Rumi’s chest, a faint tightening before they stilled again, her grip on the fabric loosening just slightly, though not enough to let go completely.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched longer.

Heavier.

Not empty—just full of things left unsaid, hanging in the space between them.

Rumi’s gaze didn’t shift.

Didn’t soften.

She remained still beneath them, held between two points of quiet contact, her body unmoving despite the subtle movements around her.

Then, eventually—

slowly—

her hand moved.

It slipped out from where it had rested near her side, careful in its path, deliberate enough not to disturb the weight pressed against her. The motion was controlled, almost precise, as if any sudden shift might break something fragile in the room.

Zoey’s arm adjusted slightly as Rumi eased out from beneath it, her grip loosening just enough to allow the movement, though her fingers lingered for a second before falling back against the mattress.

Mira’s hand caught briefly on Rumi’s shirt, the fabric pulling lightly between her fingers before slipping free.

Rumi sat up.

The mattress dipped under the shift, a soft, quiet change that moved through the bed.

Zoey stirred again, a faint sound slipping from her as her arm reached out instinctively toward the space Rumi had just left.

It met nothing.

Her hand hovered there for a moment, fingers brushing against empty sheets before settling back down.

She didn’t wake.

Mira did.

Her eyes opened slowly, not fully—just enough to take in the movement in the dim light. She watched Rumi for a moment, her expression soft, heavy with exhaustion, but aware.

“Rumi…” she murmured, her voice low, barely disturbing the quiet.

Rumi didn’t respond.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet finding the floor with a soft, muted sound.

She stood.

For a moment, she just stood there.

Still.

Then she turned and walked toward the door.

Behind her, the bed shifted slightly as Mira pushed herself up onto one elbow, blinking sleep from her eyes, her expression still heavy with exhaustion as she tried to focus.

“Where are you going?” she asked quietly, her voice low enough not to disturb Zoey.

Rumi paused with her hand resting against the door.

Still.

A second passed.

Then Mira’s phone vibrated softly against the sheets beside her, the sound small but sharp in the quiet room. She reached for it, squinting down at the screen, the light reflecting faintly in her eyes.

내 공주님💜: Bathroom.

Mira looked up again, but Rumi had already opened the door.

The hallway light spilled in—pale, steady, stretching across the floor in a long, narrow strip.

She stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The apartment was still.

Rumi walked down the hallway without hesitation, her steps even, unhurried. Not slow. Not fast. Just… steady. Like her body already knew where it was going and didn’t need her to think about it.

The bathroom door opened.

Light flicked on.

The hum of the fan followed a second later, filling the room with a low, constant sound that settled into the background almost instantly.

Water followed a second later, pouring into the tub in a steady stream that filled the space with a low, constant sound.

Rumi sat on the edge of the tub.

She watched the water rise.

Clear at first, then shifting as it deepened.

Her fingers dipped into the water absentmindedly, just the tips brushing along the surface, sending small ripples outward that broke and folded back into themselves.

Lukewarm.

Not too hot.

Not too cold.

Just enough.

She let her hand linger there for a moment longer than necessary, watching the way the water moved around her fingers, before pulling it back and resting her hands loosely in her lap.

The tub filled slowly.

Time stretched with it.

When it was finally enough, she reached forward and turned the faucet off. The sudden absence of sound made the room feel different—quieter, heavier.

Rumi stood.

Undressed without thinking about it.

Stepped in.

The water wrapped around her legs first, then her waist, a faint shiver running through her body as she lowered herself fully into it. The sensation was immediate—subtle, but there—like the tension in her muscles didn’t know whether to hold or let go.

She sank down until the water reached just below her chest, shoulders relaxing slightly as she leaned back.

For a moment, she just sat there.

Then she reached for her phone.

Her fingers moved automatically, pulling up a cartoon she hadn’t watched in years—something soft, something familiar, something that didn’t ask anything of her.

She didn’t question why.

Didn’t think about it.

She just pressed play and balanced the phone against the edge of the tub, one hand loosely keeping it in place.

Rumi rested her chin on the rim and stared at the screen.

Bright colors.

Soft voices.

Simple sounds.

It played out in front of her, but it didn’t quite land.

Her eyes followed it for a while anyway, unfocused, like she was watching out of habit more than interest.

Eventually, her attention drifted.

Not to anything specific.

Just… away.

Her gaze shifted slightly, catching on the reflection in the water instead.

It wavered with every small movement—her face bending and blurring with the ripples, stretching into something unfamiliar before settling again.

She stared at it.

For a long time.

The show kept playing.

Voices filling the space.

Light.

Cheerful.

Distant.

Rumi reached forward and let her phone rest fully against the rim, no longer holding it, letting it play on its own as background noise.

Then she slid down a little further into the water.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Until the water lapped higher against her shoulders.

Her head tilted back slightly, resting against the porcelain.

Her eyes closed.

The sensation shifted.

The noise in her head—the constant buzzing, the sharp edges of everything she’d been holding all day—it didn’t disappear.

But it softened.

Like static being turned down just enough to stop hurting.

The water held her.

Even.

Weightless in a way that didn’t feel real.

It made everything else feel… farther away.

Muted.

The tightness in her chest loosened just a fraction.

Her thoughts slowed.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

And for the first time all day, it didn’t feel like everything was pressing in on her at once.

The bath was nice.

It was quiet.

It didn’t expect anything from her.

Didn’t ask her to explain.

Didn’t look at her like she was something fragile or broken or wrong.

It just held her there.

Simple.

Still.

Rumi exhaled slowly, the breath leaving her body heavier than it should’ve.

She was so tired.

Tired of the tightness in her throat.

Tired of the words getting stuck.

Tired of the way everything hurt in places she couldn’t point to or fix.

Tired of feeling like she was constantly falling just a little bit behind everything around her.

Her fingers drifted lazily through the water at her sides, barely moving.

She let her head tilt back further.

The edge of the tub pressing lightly against her neck.

She wished she could stay like this.

Just for a little while.

Where everything was quiet.

Where nothing pressed in.

Where she didn’t have to try.

Didn’t have to fail.

Didn’t have to open her mouth and feel nothing come out.

The thought settled in slowly.

Not sharp.

Not loud.

Just… there.

It would be easy.

Too easy.

To just stay.

To sink a little lower.

Let the water take the rest of the weight.

Her breathing slowed.

The show kept playing faintly beside her.

Distant.

Blurring at the edges.

Her head tilted forward slightly.

Then slowly—

she let herself sink.

The water closed over her ears first.

The sound shifted instantly, everything muffled and far away, like the world had been pushed out of reach.

The show distorted into something unrecognizable.

Soft.

Warbled.

Fading.

The last thing she caught was a familiar voice from the screen—

“—tter, you matter mad hatter—”

Then even that slipped under.

And Rumi closed her eyes.

“Rumi.”

The voice came softly.

Like it was wrapped in warmth.

Like it had always lived just behind her ear.

“Rumi.”

A hand brushed gently through her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ear.

“R.U.M.I,” Mi-yeong said, her voice lilting with something playful. “Do you know what it stands for?”

Rumi frowned.

Her small hands curled into the fabric of her shirt as she tried to think, brows scrunching together with effort.

“I… can’t remember,” she admitted after a moment, her voice small, uncertain. “I think you told me before…”

Mi-yeong smiled, not disappointed—never disappointed.

“Then try to remember,” she said gently, brushing her thumb across Rumi’s cheek.

Rumi inhaled deeply, like that alone might help her think better.

Her eyes squeezed shut.

Her face scrunched tighter.

“Uhhh… ummmm…”

She held her breath.

Waited.

Nothing came.

Her face turned red.

Her chest tightened.

And then—

She gasped suddenly, sucking in air as her body gave up before her brain did.

Mi-yeong laughed softly, the sound light and warm and familiar.

“I said try to remember, not make yourself pass out.”

Rumi groaned, embarrassed, and immediately buried her face into her mother’s chest.

“Can’t you just tell me?” she whined, her voice muffled against the fabric.

Mi-yeong only smiled, lifting Rumi’s chin gently so she had to look at her.

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” she teased, tapping the tip of her nose. “You have to remember for yourself.”

Rumi huffed.

Her lips pushed into a pout.

She didn’t like that answer.

“I can’t,” she muttered, quieter now. “It’s not working…”

Mi-yeong’s expression softened, her fingers threading through Rumi’s hair.

“Never say you can’t,” she said gently. “We just take it one step at a time, okay?”

Rumi hesitated.

Then nodded.

“…Okay.”

“Start with R.”

Rumi frowned again, thinking hard, her small fingers coming up to rub at her temple like she’d seen adults do.

“R…” she murmured.

Her mind felt… blank.

Like she was reaching for something just out of reach.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Mi-yeong said softly. “I’ve said it before.”

Rumi squeezed her eyes tighter.

“…R is…” she mumbled.

Something flickered.

Faint.

Familiar.

“R is… remember?”

Her eyes snapped open.

“It’s remember!”

Mi-yeong’s face lit up immediately.

“Mhm! Good job,” she said, holding her hand up.

Rumi grinned and slapped her palm against hers in a proud high-five, the sound sharp and satisfying.

“See? I knew you could do it.”

Rumi sat up a little straighter.

Confidence returning.

“Now what’s next?” Mi-yeong asked.

“U!” Rumi said quickly.

“Mhm.”

Rumi paused.

Her confidence wavered.

“…Uhmm…”

Her fingers curled into the hem of her shirt again.

Mi-yeong leaned in slightly.

“Another hint,” she said. “This word sounds like the letter.”

Rumi blinked.

Then her face lit up.

“Oh! It’s you!”

Mi-yeong nodded, smiling.

“Now M.”

“M…” she repeated.

Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

She waited for the word to come.

It didn’t.

Her brows furrowed.

“M…” she tried again.

Nothing.

The space where it should’ve been felt… empty.

Like there was supposed to be something there.

But there wasn’t.

Her chest tightened a little.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to feel wrong.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, quieter now.

Mi-yeong didn’t fill the silence.

Didn’t give her the answer.

She just watched her gently.

“Try again,” she encouraged.

Rumi swallowed.

“M…”

She searched for it harder this time, like she could dig it up if she just focused enough.

But her mind stayed blank.

Completely blank.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The words felt heavier this time.

Mi-yeong reached forward, brushing her hair back again.

“Don’t say that,” she said softly. “You just haven’t remembered yet.”

Rumi didn’t respond.

Her fingers curled tighter.

“M…” she tried again under her breath.

Still nothing.

⸻

And it followed her.

All day.

At school, she sat at her desk, pencil hovering over her paper while the teacher spoke somewhere in the background.

“M…” she whispered under her breath.

Nothing.

She tapped her pencil.

Tried again.

“M…”

Still nothing.

Like her brain had skipped over it.

Like it didn’t exist.

⸻

At lunch, she poked at her food, chewing slowly, distracted.

“Remember you…” she murmured quietly.

“M…”

Her nose scrunched.

Frustration building.

Why couldn’t she remember?

It was her name.

⸻

On the car ride home, she stared out the window, watching the world blur past.

“M…”

The syllable sat in her mouth, unfinished.

Waiting.

⸻

At dinner, she repeated it silently between bites.

In the bath, she traced letters against the surface of the water with her fingertip.

R.

U.

M.

Her finger stopped.

Hovered.

She pressed it harder into the water like it might force the answer out.

It didn’t.

The ripple swallowed it.

⸻

Brushing her teeth, she paused, foam at the corner of her mouth as she stared at her reflection.

“Remember you…” she whispered.

Her reflection stared back.

Waiting.

Unfinished.

⸻

That night, curled up in bed, the soft glow of her cartoon flickering across the room, Rumi pulled her blanket up to her chin.

The show played on.

Familiar voices.

Familiar sounds.

She barely watched it.

“M…” she whispered into the fabric.

Her eyes squeezed shut again.

Trying.

Trying.

Trying.

Nothing came.

⸻

Mi-yeong sat beside her, smoothing her hair back gently.

“Still can’t remember?” she asked.

Rumi shook her head, her lip wobbling slightly now.

“No…”

Mi-yeong didn’t sigh.

Didn’t fill in the answer.

She just pressed a kiss to Rumi’s forehead.

“That’s okay,” she murmured. “You’ll remember when you’re ready.”

Rumi frowned slightly.

“…What if I don’t?”

Mi-yeong pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You will,” she said simply.

Certain.

Like there was never another possibility.

⸻

The cartoon played on.

Bright.

Cheerful.

Unbothered.

Rumi stared at the screen, blinking slowly, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

Her thoughts drifted.

Loosened.

Blurred.

“…matter, matter Mad Hatter!” the character chirped brightly.

Something clicked.

Rumi’s eyes widened.

“Oh!” she sat up suddenly. “I know it!”

Mi-yeong blinked in surprise.

“You do?”

Rumi nodded quickly, a small smile breaking through.

“It’s matter!” she said, almost breathless. “Remember you matter!”

For a second, Mi-yeong just looked at her.

Then she smiled.

Soft.

Proud.

Like she had been waiting for that moment all along.

“See?” she said gently. “I told you you’d remember.”

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Rumi’s lips—warm, grounding, real.

"I'll give you the last one." she added softly. "Since you worked so hard for it,:

Rumi blinked up at her, still catching her breath from the small victory.

"It's immensely."

Rumi's lips parted slightly as she took that in, the word settling somewhere deep, like it belonged there.

Mi-yeong smiled, brushing her thumb lightly across Rumi's cheek.

"Rumi. R.U.M.I," she said quietly. "Remember you matter immensely."

Mi-yeong tapped gently over Rumi's heart and her forhead.

"You matter immensely, Rumi. Always remember that, okay?"

Rumi nodded, small but sure.

“Okay.”

She curled into her blankets, the warmth of them wrapping around her as her eyes grew heavy. The cartoon still played softly in the background, colors flickering faintly across the walls.

Now that she knew—now that she remembered—she wouldn't forget again.

She let the words repeat in her head, slow and steady, like a rhythm she could hold onto.

Rumi.

R.U.M.I.

Remember You Matter Immensely.

Rumi.

R.U.M.I.

Remember You Matter Immensely.

Rumi.

You have to remember for yourself.

Rumi.

R.U.M.I.

Remember You Matter Immensely.

Rumi—

“Rumi!”

The sound shattered the quiet.

Loud knocking against the door.

Sharp.

Real.

The world rushed back all at once.

Water sloshed violently around her as Rumi jerked upright, a sharp breath breaking from her chest as she broke the surface.

Her hair clung to her face.

Water streamed down her skin.

Her heart raced—not like before, not panicked—but startled, pulled abruptly out of something deep and heavy.

“Rumi?”

Zoey’s voice came through the door, muffled but clear enough.

Concern threaded through it.

Rumi blinked rapidly as she tried to orient herself.

The bathroom light.

The sound of the fan.

She lifted a hand slowly, wiping at her face, pushing wet hair back as her breathing began to steady—uneven, but coming back under her control.

Her phone sat near the edge of the tub, still playing the show, the sound now clear again—bright, cheerful, jarringly normal.

Rumi reached for it with slightly shaking fingers, careful this time, gripping it more firmly than before.

Her thumb hovered for only a second before she typed.

Rumi:
I'm here.

"Are you okay in there?" she asked, her tone light, but not careless. :Sounded like you were trying to create your own personal wave pool for a second."

There was a pause.

Then a soft exhale, a small shift against the door.

"But—uh…" Zoey continued, gentler now, easing into something more familiar. "Do you know when you're getting out?"

Another pause, short this time.

"I put on one of the Bratz Baby movies," she added, a faint smile in her voice. "You know—the one with the horrifyingly ugly baby and his evil space potato minions?"

A quiet huff of laughter slipped through the door.

"And Mira's making those honey butter chips you like," Zoey went on. "We'll wait for you, okay?"

The words lingered there.

Soft.

Patient.

Not pushing.

Rumi stared at her screen, water sliding down her wrist dripping onto the glass.

She blinked once.

Then her fingers moved.

Rumi:
Yeah. I'll be out so[m
*soon.

The message delivered.

Outside, there was a faint shuffle.

“Okay,” Zoey said softly. “Take your time.”

Her footsteps moved away slowly—unhurried, but not lingering either. Just enough to make it clear she’d been there.

Then they faded.

The apartment settled back into quiet.

Rumi’s gaze stayed fixed on the door.

Still.

Unmoving.

Her phone remained in her hand, screen dimming slightly before going dark. After a second, her grip loosened, her fingers relaxing just enough for it to dip toward her lap.

A drop of water slid from her wrist onto the screen.

She didn’t react.

The bathroom light hummed faintly overhead.

The fan continued its low, steady whirr.

Rumi shifted.

Slowly.

Carefully.

She leaned back again, shoulders sinking into the cooling water, arms coming up to rest along the edge of the tub. Her chin followed, settling against the porcelain, damp hair clinging lightly to her cheeks.

For a moment, she just stayed like that.

Then her thumb moved.

The screen lit back up.

The cartoon resumed—bright, cheerful, immediate. The sudden burst of color reflected faintly across the surface of the water, wavering with each small movement.

Rumi adjusted the phone slightly on the rim, angling it into place.

It wobbled once.

Then steadied.

The voices filled the room again.

Light.

Animated.

Unchanged.

Water lapped softly against the sides of the tub as she shifted just enough to get comfortable, the faint sound echoing in the otherwise quiet space.

The light stayed on.

The fan kept humming.

The cartoon played on.

And Rumi stayed there—chin resting against the edge, eyes fixed on the screen, perfectly still—as the water slowly cooled around her.