You know doors don’t open for you.
You know softness has never had your name in its mouth.
And you know that if you let yourself hope, even just a little, it’ll only take one sharp wind to knock it all down again.
So you stop hoping. You stop wanting.
You stop calling anywherehome.
And eventually, you start to forget what it was supposed to feel like in the first place.
Lilia stares at me for a second. For a brief moment, she almost looks sorry. Then, just as quickly, she smiles. A little softer than usual. “We’ll get them tomorrow,” she says easily. “For now, you can use my things.”
I open my mouth, but she’s already turning toward the stairs, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “I have plenty.”
And then she takes off, bounding up the steps two at a time.
I don’t follow immediately. I just stand there for a second, staring after her.
She says it so casually, so simply. It makes me wonder how much longer it will take for her to see what everyone else has seen. That I’m a burden. A disappointment.
Something she’ll get tired of holding.
It’s true no matter how many times I’ve told myself otherwise. That people don’t keep things that are too hard to carry.
***
Lilia’s room is exactly what I should have expected. Bigger, perhaps.
Lived-in, but not messy. Warm, somewhat cluttered, but cozy. The walls are covered in a mix of posters, photos, and random scribbled notes pinned up with washi tape, and there’s a long string of fairy lights trailing across the ceiling.
Against one wall, there’s a massive vanity, the kind that looks like it belongs in an old Hollywood dressing room or something.
The entire surface is covered in a scattered, disorganized collection of makeup palettes, brushes, tubes of lipstick, and bottles of foundation in varying shades.
There are rings, earrings, a pair of sunglasses tossed to the side, and a half-empty mug of something that’s probably been sitting there for days.
On the opposite end of the room, there’s a nightstand. There’s a picture frame sitting there too, just slightly off-centre. In it, Lilia is grinning, and Bea poses behind her, mid-laugh.
I don’t know why, but I take a step closer.
There are other pictures too.
One of Lilia and Dawn, bundled up in oversized jackets, Dawn’s small hand curled around Lilia’s sleeve. Next to it, there’s one of them seemingly younger, holding up a trophy, tennis racket clutched in both of their hands.
Lilia plays tennis?
There’s one more—of her parents standing in front of what looks like a campsite, while her mum flashes a peace sign at the camera.
I don’t touch any of them, but I find myself staring a little longer than I meant to.
Lilia must notice, because she plops down on the bed and grins. “Pretty cute, isn’t it?”
I blink, snapping out of it. “What?”
She gestures vaguely to the photos. “Now I just need one with you,” she says, flopping onto the bed and stretching her arms behind her head.
I blink. “Oh, that’s fine. You don’t have to.”
