~D
One
Twilight.
Magic awakens at twilight.
That’s what Alex says, anyway, and I’ve learned not to argue when she gets that look—half mystic, half scientist, all certainty.
But I get it now. Not the magic part—though maybe. Twilight is the only hour of my day where I’m not thinking about the stacks or NDAs or cases. Not the lie about my dad or the bar exam or the creeping feeling that I’ve signed my life away for a job I’m not sure I want anymore.
This is the only time I let myself stop moving.
Maybe that’s the magic Alex is always talking about.
The ritual.Our ritual.
Every night, we step onto the terrace of our loft with a bottle of wine, a blanket, and straws we’ve constructed from ones stolen from her dad’s restaurant.
Alex started it. The straw thing. Said it was more fun to commit petty crimes together. I said it was weird. Now I can’t drink wine without one.
Plus, is it really a petty crime if we’re stealing from her parents?
I step onto the terrace as the last light sinks below the horizon. The stars are just coming out above the city.
Then Alex slurps her wine.
So much for the magic of twilight.
“You know,” she says, lifting the straw from her rosé, “eventually it’ll be too cold to step out here.”
“We have blankets.” I tug my own around me tighter, then my hat down over my ears. “And wine. Wine will keep us warm.”
Alex settles beside me on the lounger. The wind whips through the space, scattering our forgotten herbs around the terrace and breaking them off.
“I should bring them inside,” Alex says, not moving. “They’re dying.”
“They’re already dead, babe.”
“Still.” She touches a brittle stem. “Feels wrong to leave them.”
She’s still trying to save them. Even now.
That’s Alex.
I don’t know why that thought makes my chest hurt.
She snuggles in close. Letting the quiet settle over us.
I memorize this for the future—when we’re both married, when kids or chaos replace this quiet.
How she breathes beside me. The way her head fits on my shoulder, her obnoxiously long hair getting in my face every time the wind picks up.
The way she slurps through her straw.
Alex twitches, unable to bear the silence anymore. She turns to face me, sweater falling over one shoulder, a smile stretching across her face. “Alright, you have had at least ten minutes to decompress, and I am itching to talk about my day.”
It’s pointless to fight her. She will just bounce and twitch until I cave. And honestly, I never make her wait too long.
