They didn’t just make space for Jamie.
They made sure she belonged here.
I set the suitcase Orion packed at the foot of the bed and unzip it slowly, giving my hands something to do. The sound of fabric and zippers fills the room for a moment, then—
The shower turns on.
Water rushes through the pipes with a low, steady roar, echoing down the narrow hallway. It’s louder than it has any right to be, like the rig itself is amplifying it, carrying it straight through the walls and into my bloodstream.
She’s right there.
I freeze, fingers still curled around the strap of my duffel.
Get it together.
I force myself to unpack anyway. I don’t even look at what Orion packed for me. The folded shirts go into the small dresser. Socks into the bottom drawer. My spare hoodie that went missing a couple of weeks ago gets shoved deeper than necessary, like I can hide the past under cotton and denim if I try hard enough.
The water continues.
Steam must be filling the bathroom by now. Beading on the mirror. Clinging to her skin. I don’t want to think about it, but my brain doesn’t ask permission.
I remember the way she always tilted her head back under the spray. The way she hummed sometimes, barely audible, like she forgot anyone else existed. I remember the slick warmth of her skin under my hands, the way she leaned into me without thinking, trusting that I was there.
My jaw tightens.
This isn’t that.
I straighten, flex my fingers once, then twice, and abandon the room entirely before I do something stupid like sit down and listen too closely.
The kitchen is only a few steps away, but it feels like crossing a boundary. Her space opens up around me, wrapping me in warm, orderly chaos. There’s a bowl of cut fruit on the counter, plastic wrap peeled back halfway like she meant to come back for it and forgot.
I open the fridge to put it away and smile at the neatly stacked containers, labeled in her handwriting. At least her love of meal prep hasn’t changed since I last saw her. She loves her color-coded lids, where each day of the week gets a different color. There’s a small carton of oat milk on the door, a bottle ofhot sauce I know she loves shoved behind it. My chest tightens at how normal and familiar it all feels.
I grab an apple just to have something in my hands, rinse it under the sink, and lean back against the counter while I take a bite. The crunch is loud in the quiet rig, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of the water roaring through my ears. I chew slowly, deliberately, grounding myself in the simple act of eating.
I can handle this.
I’ve handled worse.
I don’t look toward the hallway. I keep my eyes fixed on the fruit bowl, on the grain of the wood beneath my palms, on anything that isn’t my imagination filling in details I have no right to picture anymore.
After what feels like an eternity, the shower turns off, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. It’s worse than the noise. My pulse hammers in my ears as the rig settles around us, every sound suddenly sharp and intimate.
Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through it, slow and controlled, the way I was taught. The way I practiced when pain flared, or panic threatened to take me under.
When I hear the bathroom door open, I don’t turn.
I stay exactly where I am—leaning against her counter, breathing carefully, reminding myself over and over that a thin wall and a locked door are the only things standing between memory and reality.
Surviving Celeste isn’t going to be about willpower.
It’s going to be about endurance.
14
Celeste
It’s been four days.
