The mattress swallows us and these sheets are that high-thread-count hotel cotton that makes you want to burrow in and never leave. The fairy lights glow along the railing in a warm, gentle halo. Through the windows, branches sway, dark silhouettes against the dimming sky.
There’s a faint rush of the ocean in the distance, a hiss under the wind through the needles. No car horns, no neighbors, no roommate’s music bleeding through the wall. Just… tree sounds. I lie on my back, staring up at the square of sky in the skylight. A single star is just starting to show up, stubborn in the fading light.
“I feel like we’re in a snow globe,” I say quietly. “Minus the snow.”
“Minus the tiny children shaking us for fun,” Miguel adds.
“That’s debatable,” I say. “You’re extremely shakable.”
He snorts.
We’re not touching at first. Our shoulders are a few inches apart, hands resting between us on the comforter. It feels… spacious. Like there’s room for both of us and all our thoughts without crowding.
After a while, he turns his head to look at me. “What’s happening in there?” he asks softly, nodding toward my forehead.
I consider lying. Then I remember the deal, the net, and the safety plan crinkling in the pocket of my hoodie draped over the bedpost.
“Mixtape,” I say. “Side A is ‘holy shit, this is beautiful.’ Side B is ‘What if you fuck it up? What if you slip again? What if you waste it?’”
He hums. “Honest,” he says. “Volume on Side B?”
“Five,” I say. “Maybe six when I future-trip.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s the volume on ‘I don’t want to slip’?”
The question sits there for a second.
I think about the night in the bedroom. The pills. The blur. The way his face flashed through my head like a warning light. The treehouse plan showed up in that mess like a glitch.
“Higher,” I say slowly. “Seven? Eight?”
He nods, letting the answer hang between us. “That’s important,” he says. “We should name that more.”
“I’m scared,” I admit. “Of… all of it. Being this happy. Getting this view. It feels like I’m tempting fate. Like the universe is going to see me enjoying myself and go, ‘Oh, absolutely not.’”
Miguel snorts quietly. “The universe doesn’t give a shit about us,” he says. “Which is depressing but also… kind of freeing. This trip isn’t a reward or a test. It’s just… a thing we’re doing. On purpose.”
I roll my head to look at him and his face is half in shadow, half lit by fairy lights. He looks tired in the way humans get tired, not in the way that makes my heart stop. There are faint lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there when we first met. I feel weirdly proud of them.
“Are you scared?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Absolutely terrified.”
“Of what?” I press.
Letting out a slow blow of breath. “Of you slipping again,” he says. “Of me missing it. Of us being up here and something going sideways and suddenly I’m recreating the worst night of my life, but with more pine cones and fucking raccoons as EMTs.” His throat works. “Of going back and having everything feel… normal for, like, a week, and then your brain sucker-punching you again.”
Guilt spikes, sharp and stupid. “I’m sorry,” I blurt, even though I know I’m not supposed to apologize for existing.
Miguel groans softly. “We just talked about this,” he says. “You don’t have to say sorry for my feelings. They’re mine. You can say, ‘That sucks,’ and ‘I hate that for you,’ and ‘Thank you for telling me,’ but you don’t have to carry it.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “And I appreciate it.”
Silence again, but this time it’s less heavy. My brain starts to drift toward school because apparently that’s what it likes to torture me with lately. “Have you thought more about… the team?” I ask, voice small. “About me going back? Or not?”
He makes a face. “I’ve thought about you going back in a way that won’t kill you,” he says. “But it’s your call. Always.”
