Relief and jealousy hit me simultaneously.
She's in.
Completely in now.
Bound to Luan in a way that makes her untouchable.
13
LILY
I wake up and don't recognize the ceiling.
For a moment, panic flares. The kind that comes from waking in an unfamiliar place with no memory of how you got there.
Then understanding settles, slow and heavy.
I'm in Luan's apartment. In the guest room that's now mine. At least temporarily.
The mattress beneath me is different. Softer than anything I've ever slept on. The kind of soft that cradles instead of caves, that supports instead of sags. No springs digging into my ribs. No thin spots where the padding has compressed over years of use, leaving hard ridges that press against bone.
Silence.
That's what strikes me most. Complete, unbroken quiet.
No alarm shrieking at four a.m., dragging me from sleep before my body is ready. No buses grinding past on the street below, air brakes hissing, engines rumbling. No neighbors arguing through paper-thin walls, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm I learned to sleep through years ago.
Just quiet. The kind of quiet that feels almost unnatural after so long without it.
Morning light touches my face. Warm. Gentle. Filtered through curtains that actually block the harsh glare instead of letting it flood in unchecked, turning my eyelids red and making sleep impossible past sunrise.
I can't remember the last time I woke up naturally. To light instead of noise. To comfort. To a body that feels rested instead of already exhausted before the day begins.
The room is beautiful. I noticed it yesterday when Artan showed me in. But I was too tired then, too overwhelmed by the decision I'd just made, to really absorb it. Now, lying here in the stillness, I can take proper inventory.
Cream walls. Soft gray accents that make the space feel calm, deliberate. A dresser that looks like real wood, solid and heavy, not particle board held together with cheap screws and hope. A chair in the corner with a throw blanket draped over it, the fabric thick and expensive-looking. Art on the walls.
The bathroom attached to this room is bigger than my old bedroom. Marble countertops. A shower with glass doors and multiple shower heads. Towels so thick and soft they feel like luxury against my skin.
Everything here is like that. Spacious. Expensive. Chosen with care and money I can't fathom.
It's real luxury. The kind that speaks of money spent without thinking, without the constant mental calculation of what can be afforded and what can't.
I turn onto my side. Pull the covers higher. The duvet is thick, filled with down that weighs just enough to feel comforting without being heavy. The pillowcase is cool against my cheek, smooth fabric that smells faintly of lavender.
I left my house yesterday. The one where I grew up.
The memory surfaces unbidden. Sharp and clear.
I remember standing on the front porch one last time, my bags already loaded into the car Artan arranged for me. The key heavy in my hand.
I slid it into the lock. Turned it slowly, feeling the mechanism engage. The soft click as the deadbolt slid into place. The weight of finality settling over me like a blanket I couldn't shake off.
Nostalgia hit hard. A physical ache in my chest. Memories flooding in without permission, without mercy.
My aunt in the kitchen making pancakes on Sunday mornings, the smell of butter and vanilla filling the house. The way she'd hum while she cooked, off-key but happy.
Henry and me building forts out of couch cushions in the living room. Draping blankets over furniture. Pretending we were explorers or astronauts or anything other than two kids trying to forget what they'd lost.
