You’re unbearable.
Fifteen minutes.
The response felt inevitable.
I pushed myself off the couch and went to the bedroom. My cardigan still carried the faint scent of paper and nerves, a reminder of the library’s quiet unease. I slipped it off and dressed deliberately, high-waisted black trousers, sharp and fitted, a small reclamation of control; an emerald satin blouse with a line of delicate buttons glinting down the front. The cuffs closed neatly around my wrists, the fabric whispering with every movement. My hair, still loose from the morning, I gathered into a soft twist, a compromise between care and defiance. Gold hoops. A dark plum lip.
When I finally looked in the mirror, I lingered longer than I meant to. Some nights, the woman staring back seemed like a well-written character I hadn’t fully grown into.
The bar sat on a narrow side street, half-hidden behind a florist’s shop. Inside, warmth replaced the cold, the low hum of laughter, amber light spilling across polished wood,conversations dissolving into the rhythm of clinking glass. It felt like stepping into a held breath.
Gwen saw me first and waved with the enthusiasm of someone already several sips in. She looked stunning, as always, dark brown curls falling around her shoulders, her lips painted a decadent red that made her smile dangerous. The chocolate wrap dress she wore seemed tailored to adore her.
Aster stood beside her, poised and effortlessly elegant, a glass of something clear balanced between her fingers. Her light brown hair fell straight and smooth, parted perfectly down the middle. In her cream ribbed turtleneck and tailored black trousers, she looked as though she had stepped out of a black-and-white film that hadn’t quite learned how to fade.
They were opposites. Gwen, all warmth and chaos; Aster, composed precision. Fire and still water.
“Look at you,” Gwen said, pulling me into a quick hug. “The emerald queen rises.”
Aster’s gaze swept over my outfit, unimpressed but fond. “You wore satin. That’s emotional instability disguised as confidence.”
“I’m always emotionally unstable,” I said, sliding into the booth. “This outfit’s just honest about it.”
Aster pushed a lavender gin toward me, the glass fogging faintly in the light. “Drink. Then talk.”
I didn’t answer immediately. I traced the condensation on the glass, watching it gather at the rim before falling away. “She spilled coffee on him,” Aster said pleasantly to Gwen, clearly abandoning the idea of patience.
I shot her a look. “You told her?”
“In her defense,” Gwen said, raising her hands in mock surrender, “I demanded gossip.”
“You always demand gossip.”
“I’m consistent,” she said, sipping.
Aster smirked. “You should’ve seen her face when she realized who he was.”
“I bet it was romantic,” Gwen teased.
“It was catastrophic,” I said, deadpan. “And then he stared at me as though I’d misused a metaphor in his favorite essay.”
“His loss,” Gwen replied with dramatic finality. “You’re a semi-colon at worst.”
A small laugh slipped from me, quiet and reluctant.
Aster tilted her head, her tone softening. “How was it? Seeing him again? In class?”
I hesitated, my fingers tracing the condensation along my glass, the cool moisture grounding me in a world that still felt slightly off-balance. “It felt as though I was standing too close to lightning,” I said finally, my voice quiet but steady. “You know it’s going to strike. You know it’ll hurt. And still, you can’t make yourself move.”
Silence unfolded between us, gentler this time, understanding, familiar, the kind that didn’t demand words to be filled. I rested the stem of the glass against my lips, not drinking, only thinking. Then, almost against my own will, I murmured, “I saw him again. After class.”
Aster’s head lifted instantly. Gwen blinked once, her expression caught between curiosity and disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“In the library,” I said, keeping my gaze on the table. “I went there to clear my head, to breathe, but he found me.”
“Found you?” Aster echoed, the edge of her tone uncertain, caught between worry and intrigue.
“I don’t think he planned it,” I continued. “Or maybe he did. I’m not sure. He just appeared, quiet, as if the silence itself had taken shape and stepped toward me.”
