I slip on my boots without lacing them and grab a broom to sweep what remains of the cup.
She looks like she might hyperventilate. “I can’t. I simply can’t.”
Dropping the broom, I cross back to her. Her pulse is visible at her throat. “Hey. Breathe. It’s just a day, not the end of civilization.”
Softening my approach, I take her hands in mine. “Ana, trust me. Sometimes you need to let go to move forward.”
She bites her lip, then nods slowly. “Fine. But if you’re going to make me do this, you have to do something too.”
“Name it,” I say, confident I can handle whatever she throws at me.
Ana’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You have to follow a strict schedule. Wake up at 6 AM, eat meals at set times, practice for exactly two hours…”
Now it’s my turn to feel panic rising. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all,” she smirks. “Fair’s fair, Nyxx.”
I groan dramatically, my head flopping back as though I’ve lost all muscle tone. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal, Ashcroft.”
Her laugh spills out—unexpected, unguarded—and I’m pretty sure that sound rewires something vital inside my chest.
The day unfolds in a chaotic dance of opposites. I find myself constantly checking the schedule Ana’s written out for me, while she wanders the cottage and surrounding woods with an air of confused freedom.
“This is torture,” I mutter, forcing myself to sit down for a precisely timed practice session. “I need to be in the mood.” I grimace when I hear myself—the tone of a whiny toddler.
Ana, sprawled on the couch with a book she picked up on a whim, looks up. “Oh? I thought you’d enjoy a nice, structured day.”
I stick my tongue out at her, which earns me a laugh. The sound of it catches me off guard—it’s so free, so unlike her usual controlled demeanor.
As the day progresses, I find a rhythm in the structure. There’s something satisfying about checking off tasks, about knowing exactly what comes next. Meanwhile, after looking completely lost this morning, Ana now seems to be blossoming in her newfound freedom. I catch her dancing in the kitchen to no music, lost in her own world.
It’s ridiculous how hard it is to look away. The sunlight hits her hair, and for a second I forget every chord I’ve ever known.
By evening, we’re both exhausted but oddly energized. We collapse on the couch, Ana’s head unexpectedly falling onto my shoulder.
My first instinct is to freeze. The second is to savor it. She smells of soap and something warm, like honey on toast.
“You know,” she says softly, “I think I might have needed this.”
I chuckle. “Yeah? Well, don’t tell anyone, but having a schedule wasn’t the worst thing ever.”
We sit wordlessly for a moment before Ana suddenly sits up straight. “Oh no. Nyxx, what day is it?”
I furrow my brow, thinking. “Monday, I think. Why?”
“We were supposed to call the landlord! To sort out this living situation.”
We look at each other, and I’m surprised to find I’m not upset about the oversight. From Ana’s expression, I think she feels the same.
“Oh well,” I shrug. “I guess we can stand each other a little longer.”
Ana laughs softly. “I suppose we can.”
I glance at the drawer where I stashed all the clocks and devices.
“Speaking of which—our tech prohibition is up. Want your phone back, or are you enjoying the time-free life?”
She hesitates, then smiles. “Just the phones. I’m not ready for the tyranny of alarm clocks yet.”
