Fuck You, But Like, In a Loving Way

Read "Same Time Tomorrow" and "I Still Hate You" then come back here. Lexi's waiting.

The summer was long.

Not in the romantic way. Not in the golden, endless possibility way. Just... long. The kind of long that stretches across your skin like sunburn and settles behind your eyes like screen fatigue. Lexi spent most of it indoors. She told people she was "taking time to regroup." Which sounded adult. Reasonable. Purposeful. But what it really meant was that she stopped answering texts. She watched old comfort shows on mute. She alphabetized her books, then de-alphabetized them just to feel in control of something.

She didn't go home.

Marisol invited her once, maybe twice. The second text had a skull emoji, a threat or a joke or both. Lexi let it rot unread for three days before she replied, "Next time." There wouldn't be a next time. They both knew that.

Her mom asked questions like, "Are you taking care of yourself?" and "Do you need anything?" and "Should I be worried?" Lexi answered all of them with the same vague deflection: "I'm okay." Which wasn't a lie, exactly. Just a placeholder for something more complicated. Something she didn't want to name.

Morgan left early--off to a film internship in L. A. or Portland or some other city that smells like dreams and self-importance. They hugged once before Morgan disappeared through the terminal, earbuds in, sunglasses on, looking like a girl who belonged anywhere but here.

Lexi didn't cry. She stood in the kiss-and-ride lane of the airport for ten minutes after Morgan left, watching other people reunite or leave or just exist. Then she went back to campus, moved into her summer housing assignment, and tried to become invisible.

She mostly succeeded.

She slept too much. Then not enough. Ate whatever required the least thought. Read longform articles about climate collapse and Gen Z burnout like it might explain the hole in her chest. It didn't.

She went to therapy. Once. The woman was kind-eyed and clipboarded. Asked her about loss, about identity, about "narrative ownership." Lexi nodded. Answered with honesty she immediately regretted. When asked what she wanted from the sessions, she said, "I want to stop remembering her like a bruise."

She didn't go back.

August came humid and slow. The edges of the world felt blurry. Campus woke up in pieces--resident advisors returning first, then athletes, then the rest. Lexi moved into her new dorm on the first assigned day, two hours earlier than the check-in window. She wanted to get it over with. Wanted to unpack without an audience. Wanted the illusion of control back, if only for a moment.

Her new room was smaller. Not worse, just smaller. It faced a tree-lined walkway that got just enough traffic to feel alive but not enough to feel invasive. The walls were off-white and scuffed. The carpet held the ghosts of at least four previous residents. Lexi unpacked like she was building a shrine--folded her sweaters with reverence, stacked notebooks like sacred texts, arranged pens and sticky notes in tidy rows.

No roommate this year. She'd requested a single. Told the housing office she needed the quiet for academic purposes. What she really meant was: I don't want anyone to hear me unravel.

The silence was immediate. And relentless.

The first week of classes passed without distinction. Professors with kind voices and syllabus jokes. Icebreakers that left her teeth grinding. "Tell us something unique about you." I used to be in love with a girl who died. I still sleep on the right side because she liked the left.

Lexi said, "I'm really into archival research."

No one cared. No one remembered. That was the nice thing about sophomore year--fewer performances. The freshmen buzzed with energy and panic, trying to find their people, trying to reinvent themselves without looking like they were trying. Lexi watched them like a ghost at a wedding. Distant. Removed. Already familiar with the magic trick and its eventual collapse.

She went to class. Took notes. Ate alone in the dining hall. The pasta bar hadn't changed. Neither had the fake plants near the soda machine or the unspoken rule that you don't sit at the window seats unless you want to be seen.

She sat by the windows anyway. Because what was left to lose?

The grief had changed. Softer at the edges. Less like drowning, more like a weight she'd gotten used to carrying. Some mornings she still woke up with Sylvia's name caught between her teeth like a splinter. Some nights she slept through without dreaming at all. Which was better. Maybe.

She hadn't written in weeks. Months, maybe. Not the real stuff. Not the cut-open, bleeding-for-someone-who's-not-there kind of writing. Just class essays. Academic decay, neat and structured. She got A's, of course. She always got A's.

Morgan sent a postcard in early September.

It had a vintage photo of a flamingo wearing sunglasses. The back said:

"Everyone here is insufferable. I've started smoking cloves again. Tell me you're alive, Barbie."

Lexi didn't reply. But she stuck the card to her wall with a piece of washi tape. Next to a picture of her sister. Below a quote that read: We don't heal by forgetting. We heal by remembering and surviving anyway.

It had been a year and a half

Eighteen months since her life split into Before and After.

She never marked the anniversary. Never visited the spot. Never lit a candle or post a vague caption or call Marisol. She just woke up that morning, ate a granola bar, went to class, and stared at her hands during lecture like they might betray her. Like they remembered holding Sylvia's blood. Like they remembered trying to hold the world together with nothing but muscle and prayer.

There was a poetry reading the second Friday of the semester. Some student group's welcome event. She almost skipped it. Would've, if not for the email Morgan forwarded with the subject line:

"Sounds like your kind of sad."

Lexi went.

Sat in the back. Arms crossed. Ready to be unimpressed.

Then a redhead got up.

Freckles. Too many layers for the weather. Voice shaky but stubborn.

And Lexi didn't know it yet--not fully, not even a little--but something in her body went still.

Not healed.

Not mended.

Just still.

Like the moment before a wave crests.

Like breath, held.

Waiting.

Redhead is already shaking when she walks up to the mic.

Not the kind of shaking that says fear. The kind that says there's something in me trying to claw its way out. Her notes are handwritten, folded twice, the edges curled like they've been clutched too hard, too often. She doesn't make eye contact with the crowd. Just stares at the scuffed stage floor like it might give her permission to exist.

The room is humid with too many bodies and the illusion of cool, intellectual detachment. A dozen conversations don't stop when she clears her throat. A boy in a denim vest leans into his friend and says, not quietly enough, "Oh god, another Sad Girl Poem."

A few people chuckle.

Lexi, from her spot near the back, tenses. She almost stands. Almost says something. But Callie lifts her hand.

Just a little.

A twitch. A breath. A refusal to leave.

"I'm--um--Callie," she says. Her voice is tissue-thin, full of the kind of nerves that make you apologize for breathing. "She/her. This is called 'How to Grieve When the Body is Still Warm.'"

Someone near the door coughs. The mic feedback whines like it's flinching for her. She starts to read.

Too soft.

The room leans back instead of forward. Attention scattering. Even Lexi feels her stomach twist--not with embarrassment for Callie, but with something sharper. Recognition. That helpless ache of seeing someone almost fail because the world doesn't have the patience to wait for her to bloom.

And then--

"Can't hear you, sweetheart," someone calls. Mocking. Male. Probably bored and full of himself. He's not heckling because he's cruel. He's heckling because it costs him nothing.

Callie flinches. Her fingers tighten around the paper. She doesn't look up. She just closes her eyes, breathes in once--ragged and high in her chest--and then:

She begins again.

Louder.

Not steady, not yet. But full of intent.

"My grief is not poetic.

It does not arrive in stanzas,

Or bleed in clean metaphors.

It arrives in rotting fruit and overdue library fines,

In voicemail inboxes too full to delete,

In the name I still whisper

when I burn my tongue on coffee

because she used to do the same."

Her voice cracks on coffee, and someone in the crowd makes that low, involuntary sound people make when something hits too close.

She keeps going.

"I do not cry gracefully.

I ugly sob to sitcom reruns

and apologize to the pizza delivery guy

when I answer the door

in her sweatshirt."

That gets a laugh. The good kind. The painful kind. A collective exhale.

Lexi feels it before she realizes it--her fingers curled into fists in her lap. Not out of tension. Out of need. Something in her wants to bolt. Or scream. Or kneel. Because this girl on stage, trembling and brave and entirely too open, just opened a door Lexi thought she'd bricked over.

Callie looks up. Holds Lexi's gaze a bit too long. Just holds the page like it's a holy text and reads like it's a confession.

"Some days I kiss mirrors

because her reflection still lingers there.

Some days I avoid them.

I've forgotten her voice,

but not the way she said my name

like it was a promise

she intended to keep."

Silence.

A full breath.

Then:

"And maybe grief is just love

with nowhere to go.

But I still leave the porch light on.

Just in case."

She finishes.

No bow. No flourish. Just a stiff inhale and a step back from the mic like it might bite her.

The room is dead silent.

Then applause. Not polite. Real. Loud. A wave.

Lexi doesn't clap.

She can't.

She just watches Callie, who looks overwhelmed and a little ashamed and utterly alive, duck her head and retreat from the stage like someone fleeing a crime scene.

And Lexi--

Lexi knows.

Knows that this girl didn't write a poem.

She carved a key.

And Lexi's door just unlocked.

Callie doesn't come here often. The lighting's weird, the music's worse, and the espresso tastes like regret. But her dorm's microwave finally gave up mid-ramen last night in a plume of smoke and spite, and she needs caffeine that won't explode.

She's waiting for her drink--something overcomplicated and emotionally revealing--and digging through her bag for the sketchbook she swears she packed. She doesn't notice her right away.

Then: a flicker.

Across the café, alone at the corner table--hood up, earbuds in, eyes scanning something with surgical precision--is her.

Callie freezes like she's seen a ghost.

But not the Sylvia kind.

The kind that makes your ribs ache. That catches somewhere soft and unexpected.

Lexi.

She doesn't know her name yet. Not officially. Not really.

But she knows her.

From the poetry night. From the back row. From the way her eyes locked on Callie like she wasn't a person reading a poem--she was a threat. A mirror. A door.

Callie hadn't been able to breathe right for hours after that.

And now here she is.

Hunched over a laptop, one knee bouncing, jaw tight, the kind of girl who probably rewatches the same movie on bad nights and alphabetizes her grief just to keep it from swallowing her whole.

Callie's drink is called. She doesn't move.

Lexi looks up for half a second. Not at her. Just toward the window. But the light catches her face, and something shifts. Like a puzzle snapping into place. Like Callie's whole fucking nervous system voting yes before she can veto it.

She wants to say something.

Anything.

Wants to walk over and make a joke about her hoodie--about how it's swallowing her whole, about how it looks like armor two sizes too big. Wants to ask what she's working on. Wants to sit down and say, "Hey. I think I've been writing poems about you without knowing it."

Instead, she does nothing.

Just watches.

And then, just before she turns to leave, she takes out her phone. Opens Notes. Types:

corner table girl.

eyes like hunger & unfinished sentences.

looks like she wants to disappear but not enough to actually leave.

don't forget her.

She hits save.

And walks out the door.

With the sharp, awful knowledge curling low in her gut:

She's going to matter.

The sun's too bright for September. One of those awkward in-between days where everyone's overdressed or underdressed and no one knows where to put their hands. Lexi's cutting across the quad after class, earbuds in but no music playing, head down, pretending to be busy with a text she isn't writing.

She sees her before she hears her.

Callie.

Sitting cross-legged on the grass like she owns it. Spiral notebook open in her lap. Pen in her mouth. Red hair pulled back in a loose braid that's unraveling like it gave up halfway through the day. There's a coffee cup beside her. And a banana. Who the fuck eats a banana in public like that?

Lexi slows down without meaning to.

Callie doesn't see her.

She's chewing her pen cap, tapping her sneaker against the grass, scribbling something like her hand is working faster than her brain can keep up. There's a streak of highlighter on her knee. A band aid on her elbow. A freckle constellation on her forearm that makes Lexi's breath catch for no reason she wants to examine.

Lexi should keep walking.

Instead, she lingers at the edge of the quad, halfway hidden behind a tree that smells like mold and desperation. She tells herself it's just a pause. Just a breather. Just a fuck, my shoe's untied moment.

It's not.

It's looking.

It's watching.

It's wanting--in the most inconvenient, spine-prickling, slow-burn kind of way.

Callie laughs at something in her notebook. Just to herself. Quiet. Like joy that got loose by accident.

Lexi wants to know what she wrote.

She wants to know what her laugh tastes like.

She wants--

No.

No.

She shoves that thought into a mental locker and slams it shut with a padlock and three levels of denial.

Instead, she turns, walks the long way around the quad, eyes on her shoes, heat blooming up her neck.

She tells herself it's because she doesn't want to be seen.

But really?

She doesn't want to be felt.

Not by Callie. Not yet.

Not when her body is still a battlefield and her heart's full of names she's not ready to say out loud.

Callie doesn't look up.

But later--hours later, when Lexi's alone in her room, pretending to study but really just memorizing the grain of the ceiling--she'll wonder.

She'll wonder if Callie felt her, too.

If she always does.

Lexi's in her usual spot--second floor, back corner, wedged between a half-broken heater and a window that fogs with her breath. Hood up. Sylvia's jacket on. Laptop open, screen too bright, document untouched. She's been rereading the same paragraph for twenty minutes.

She doesn't look up when the chair across from her creaks.

Callie sits down.

Just like that.

Like they're friends.

Like this isn't a fucking ambush in the middle of Lexi's carefully curated isolation chamber.

"Hi," Callie says, not smiling. Just present. Warm, maybe. But not forcing it.

Lexi blinks. "Do I... know you?"

Callie shrugs. "Not really. But you were at the poetry night. You looked like you were trying not to set the building on fire with your brain. I figured I earned a hello."

Lexi stares at her. Then down at her keyboard.

"You're the girl with the grief poem."

Callie's mouth twitches. "Wow. That could be anyone."

"No," Lexi says. "It couldn't."

Silence.

Lexi expects her to leave.

She doesn't.

Instead, Callie pulls out a notebook. Starts scribbling something.

Lexi watches her for a beat too long. Then mutters, "You're really just gonna sit here."

Callie shrugs. "Public library."

Lexi exhales through her nose. "Fine."

And then--for half an hour--they don't talk. Not a word. Just proximity. Just the hum of the heater and the scratch of Callie's pen and Lexi's sudden, furious inability to focus.

Before leaving, Callie tears a page from her notebook, folds it twice, and slides it across the table.

Lexi doesn't touch it until she's gone.

It just says:

"If you're ever in the mood to fight me about literary theory or share overpriced dumplings... I'm free Sunday. --Callie

(This is absolutely not a date unless you want it to be, in which case it retroactively always was.)"

Lexi stares at the note, at the phone number, like it's a lit fuse.

She reads it again.

And again.

It's sitting on her desk, beside a half-finished cup of tea and a pile of articles about queer historiography. The jacket's draped over her desk chair, like it's watching her. Judging her.

Lexi mutters, "Shut up," to no one.

Then texts a single word:

Fine.

A beat later:

I want the dumplings.

Then:

This is not a date.

Callie replies five seconds later:

You're already blushing. I win.

Lexi doesn't respond.

But she doesn't stop smiling, either.

Lexi changes her shirt three times. Leaves the jacket on the floor. Picks it back up. Smells it. Almost cries. Throws it across the room. Settles on a hoodie.

She doesn't know what she's doing.

But her hands are steady when she locks the door behind her.

She walks to the quad.

Callie's already waiting.

With dumplings.

And a smile.

And a story about the fire-alarm microwave.

And Lexi--despite herself--sits down.

And lets it begin.

They don't call it a date.

Neither of them says the word. But it's there, hanging in the air like the last note of a song that never quite resolves.

It's a Sunday afternoon, the kind that pretends it's still summer even though the light's turning golden at the edges. Lexi's in jeans and a threadbare hoodie. Callie wears a sunflower print dress over leggings, sleeves pushed to her elbows, freckled arms exposed like it's bravery.

They sit on the quad with two cartons of Thai food between them, plastic forks in hand. A blanket Callie brought from her dorm sprawled under them--technically too small for comfort, so they're sitting closer than they have to. Elbows brushing. Knees bumping.

Callie picks out the snap peas and eats them first.

Lexi notices.

"Is that a food preference or a ritual thing?"

Callie grins around a mouthful of noodles. "Peas are a sacred appetizer. You have to earn the curry."

Lexi snorts. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet, here you are."

Lexi shrugs, but her mouth tugs at the corners. "I was promised dumplings."

Callie gasps, mock offended. "You wound me. I lured you here with the allure of my magnetic personality and devastating charm."

"You lured me here with a coupon code."

"Same thing."

They eat. They sprawl. Callie tells a story about her dorm's microwave catching fire because someone tried to reheat a boiled egg in it.

"It exploded like a grenade. I didn't know protein could be so vengeful."

Lexi laughs--actually laughs. Not the careful kind. The real, belly kind. The kind that rolls up from somewhere unused. Her eyes crinkle. She leans back on her hands, letting the sun warm her face.

Callie watches her for a beat too long.

"You should do that more."

Lexi blinks. "Do what?"

"Laugh. It suits you."

Lexi rolls her eyes. "That's so corny."

Callie pops a dumpling in her mouth. "So are you."

"Am not."

"You color-code your planner."

"Organized and corny are not the same."

"You printed motivational quotes and hung them up like spellwork."

Lexi flushes. "Those are for focus."

Callie leans closer, lowers her voice like it's a secret. "You also keep a mini stapler in your bag. A pink one."

Lexi groans. "You're stalking me."

Callie smiles, soft. "I'm noticing you."

It lands different. Too tender. Lexi looks down. Fiddles with the rubber band around her wrist.

They lapse into silence for a moment.

Comfortable, mostly.

Callie pulls out her sketchbook and starts doodling absentmindedly. She draws a cartoon dumpling with a crown. "All hail the Supreme Snack."

Lexi watches her. Not the drawing--her. The way her mouth moves when she concentrates. The way her tongue pokes out when she's shading. The curls of hair that escape her messy bun, catching the light like copper threads.

"Do you always carry that thing?"

Callie shrugs. "I don't like talking to people most days. Drawing helps me fake it."

Lexi tilts her head. "I never would've guessed."

"What, because I'm charming and delightful?"

"No. Because you talk like you already know everyone's punchline."

Callie pauses. "Maybe I just know what it's like to feel like background noise."

Lexi doesn't say anything. But she doesn't look away, either.

The sun shifts.

People pass by, laughing. Music from a Bluetooth speaker carries across the quad--some indie bop Lexi half-remembers from Morgan's playlist. For a second, everything feels distant. Soft-focus.

Callie holds out the sketchbook.

Lexi sees herself.

Not a perfect likeness. Not even close. Just a girl with tired eyes and a suspicious half-smile, sitting with her arms crossed and a cartoon speech bubble above her head that reads: This is fine.

Lexi barks a laugh.

Callie grins. "Too much?"

"It's perfect."

Callie closes the book. "You keep saying that."

"What?"

"That things are perfect when they're not."

Lexi shrugs. "It's easier than admitting I don't know how to fix them."

Another pause.

Another almost.

Callie leans back on her elbows. "This was fun."

Lexi nods. "It was."

"We should do it again."

Lexi swallows. Looks down at the styrofoam container in her lap. "Yeah. I'd like that."

And they sit there, in the golden light, two girls pretending they're not haunted, pretending they're just students with messy hair and spring rolls and a Sunday afternoon that stretches like hope.

Tomorrow the truth will hit.

But right now?

Right now, they just like each other.

And that's enough.

It starts casual.

Not light, because neither of them does light. But quiet. Late September. Warm breeze, late class, the kind of evening that smells like cut grass and someone else's regret. They're sitting outside the library, sharing a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips and a silence that's just on the edge of intimacy.

Lexi's legs are pulled up to her chest. Callie's lying back on the grass, eyes to the sky, talking the way you do when you don't expect anyone to really listen.

"She was always late," Callie says, fingers idly plucking at the grass beside her. "But made it feel intentional. Like everyone else was early, not her. You know the type?"

Lexi hums. Noncommittal.

"She wore flannel like armor. Smelled like cinnamon gum and smoke. Drove this piece-of-shit car with a bumper that dragged like it was trying to escape."

Lexi freezes.

Just a little.

Not enough to stop Callie.

"She used to steal my coffee. Swore she liked it black, but would dump three sugars in when she thought I wasn't looking. Smoked those skinny menthols, the ones that snap. Said they were classy, even though they made her cough."

A sharpness blooms under Lexi's ribs. She stares straight ahead, but her ears are ringing. Her skin knows before her mind does.

Callie keeps going, like she's falling into something. Or maybe climbing out.

"She lived one town over. We used to meet in the middle. Diner off the highway, shitty jukebox, pancakes at 2am. I wrote poems about her before I even kissed her. She laughed when I showed her--like it was sweet but stupid. Like loving her was some kind of performance art."

Lexi opens her mouth. Closes it.

Breathes like it hurts.

Callie's voice drops.

"She had this way of sitting in your lap without asking. Always left the laces of her boots untied. Like she didn't expect to stay anywhere long."

Lexi finally speaks.

Her voice is flat.

Controlled.

Practiced.

"What happened to her?"

Callie doesn't look at her.

Just plucks another blade of grass. Twists it around her finger until it snaps.

"She died."

Silence.

Lexi doesn't blink.

Callie says it like it's old news. Like it belongs to someone else now.

"Car wreck. Year and a half ago, maybe? I didn't find out until months later. Mutual friend posted a picture with some long-ass caption. I thought she was fucking with me at first. Like, how do you just... disappear?"

Lexi's stomach turns.

She knows the answer.

She's lived the answer.

But she doesn't say it.

Callie rolls onto her side, finally looking at her. Eyes soft, like she's not sure if she should be saying any of this.

"She had this smile, you know? That kind that makes you feel like you're about to do something dangerous. Like she already dared you, and you already lost."

Lexi's throat clicks.

"What was her name?"

Callie squints. Watches Lexi now, like maybe she's seeing it.

"I don't know if I should--"

"Say it."

Callie hesitates. Then, quieter than before:

"Sylvia."

The world tilts.

Lexi doesn't cry.

She doesn't move.

She just--folds. Internally. Invisibly. Like a house collapsing inward, slow and deliberate. No sirens. No smoke. Just structure failing under the weight of what it held.

She stands up.

Callie sits up fast. "Lex--?"

Lexi walks away.

Fast. Not running, but close. She needs distance. She needs air. She needs--

No.

What she needs is for this not to be real.

Because it was hers. Sylvia was hers. The pain, the wreckage, the memories etched into her wrists like scars. That belonged to Lexi. That was her ruin. Her ghost.

But now?

Now there's someone else.

Someone with her own verses, her own bruises. A whole other version of Sylvia, tangled in flannel and late-night pancakes and a town Lexi never set foot in.

Someone who loved her first.

Lexi reaches the dorm stairs. Sits. Shakes.

She wants to scream.

Wants to tear the picture off the wall. The polaroid. That smirk. That fucking smirk.

She can't.

Because now that face isn't just hers to mourn.

Now it's shared.

Now it's realer somehow. Heavier.

And that--that--is the thing that wrecks her:

Sylvia was bigger than her.

She was bigger than both of them.

Callie loved her.

Lexi watched her die.

They're two halves of the same ruin.

And no one told them how to grieve a girl who left too many fingerprints.

Callie texted, said, "Coffee? I want to talk."

Lexi stared at the screen for a long time. Said yes because she needed to, not because she wanted to.

It's late. Cloudy. One of those overcast evenings where the sky feels bruised.

They sit outside. Table between them. Half-drunk lattes cooling too fast.

Callie's nervous. Lexi can tell by the way she keeps rolling the sugar packet between her fingers. By the way her eyes flick away too quick. She's bracing for impact, and Lexi hates that she wants to deliver it.

"You knew," Lexi says, finally. "At the reading."

Callie winces. "Not for sure. Not then."

"But you suspected."

Callie nods. "Yeah."

Lexi leans back in her chair like the air's gone sour. "How?"

Callie hesitates. Not out of guilt--care. Like she knows she's about to make something worse.

"You were wearing her jacket."

Lexi blinks.

"The red one," Callie says, softer now. "Torn sleeve, buttons too shiny. Cuffs always rolled."

Lexi says nothing. Because she knows exactly the jacket. Because it still smells like Sylvia's skin.

"I stole it from a thrift store in Asheville," Callie says, voice thinning into memory. "She wouldn't shut up about it. Said it made her look like someone who read Bukowski but didn't respect him."

Lexi's blood goes cold.

And Callie isn't done.

"She wore it on our last night together."

Lexi grips the coffee cup tighter. Her knuckles bleach.

"I saw it on you," Callie says. "During the reading. The sleeves were too long. And I thought, no fucking way. But then I knew. Not in my head. Just... knew."

Lexi is silent. Her stomach is spiraling.

"That jacket," Callie finishes, "was the first thing I ever gave her. And I guess... the last thing she ever gave you."

The silence between them is brutal.

Lexi can't breathe.

Because she thought that jacket was hers.

Thought it was a secret, a piece of Sylvia no one else had touched.

But it wasn't.

It was recycled. Repurposed. Shared.

Like everything else.

And Callie?

She didn't have to guess.

She just had to see.

Because grief leaves fingerprints.

And Sylvia left hers on both of them.

"I didn't mean to keep it from you," Callie says quickly. "I wasn't even sure it was her until--"

"Until I started bleeding all over your lap," Lexi snaps.

Callie flinches. "That's not fair."

"No," Lexi says, voice tightening. "It's not."

They sit in it. That first crack of something raw and sharp between them. That moment where affection fractures under the weight of history.

"She didn't tell me," Lexi says. "Not once. Not even a mention. Not a single word about some girl she dated, some girl who still fucking writes poems about her."

Callie is quiet. Steady.

"She didn't tell me either," she says. "She just left."

Lexi laughs. Harsh. Bitter. "So I guess neither of us were special."

"That's not what I--"

"I thought she loved me," Lexi says. "I know she did."

Callie doesn't argue.

Because maybe she did.

Maybe she loved them both.

Or maybe she was just Sylvia--too bright, too fast, always halfway gone.

"I was in the car," Lexi says, softly now. Like a confession. "When she died. I was right there. I got to watch it happen."

Callie swallows.

"I wasn't enough to keep her alive."

"You were eighteen," Callie says.

Lexi looks at her.

Long and slow and cold.

"And you were before me."

Callie flinches again. That one hits harder.

"I didn't know she was with anyone else."

Lexi nods. "Neither did I."

They go quiet again.

Lexi stares down at her cup. Her reflection wobbles in the coffee foam, eyes wide and unfamiliar. Grief lives behind them like a shadow.

"She wasn't yours," she says. "You don't get to carry this like I do."

Callie doesn't react.

She just nods. Once. Like she expected this.

Lexi hates her for that. For being calm. For being good. For not fighting back.

"You don't get to sit in the ashes and pretend like you knew her like I did," she says. "You didn't see the way she looked when she said she'd stay. You didn't feel her breathing next to you at three a. m., didn't hear her hum that stupid fucking song under her breath because she didn't know the lyrics."

Callie's voice is small, but firm.

"No. I just loved her first."

Lexi goes still.

And there it is.

The axe drops. Not from Lexi. From Callie. Not vicious. Just true.

Lexi's throat burns. "She never mentioned you."

"I know."

Lexi shakes her head. "I don't understand how you're not angry."

Callie looks away.

Then back.

"Oh, I am. But I'm not dead."

Lexi flinches like she's been struck.

She opens her mouth to respond. To defend herself, her grief, her fucking territory.

But nothing comes.

Because Callie isn't wrong.

They're both still here.

Still aching.

Still fighting ghosts.

Sylvia is gone.

Gone and golden and selfish and unforgettable.

And they're just... left.

With pieces.

With pain.

With each other.

Lexi looks down. Her coffee's gone cold. Her breath is shaking.

She whispers, "I hate that I like you."

Callie smiles. Sad. Real.

"Same."

It's raining. Not enough for umbrellas--just the kind of misty drizzle that softens the edges of everything. Campus looks blurred. Distant. Dreamlike.

Callie finds Lexi in the art building, holed up in a study lounge with her laptop, a coffee, and that don't-fucking-talk-to-me look she gets when she's trying too hard to pretend she's fine.

She knocks gently on the glass.

Lexi looks up. Her expression goes from guarded to something softer. Not welcoming. But not hostile.

Callie holds up a paper bag.

"Emergency pastries," she says when Lexi opens the door.

Lexi arches a brow. "What's the emergency?"

Callie shrugs. "It's Tuesday. And you haven't looked like you've eaten since the moon was full."

Lexi lets her in.

They sit in silence for a while. There's a cherry turnover, a croissant, something unidentifiable and sugar-dusted that Callie insists is "a vibe more than a pastry."

Lexi takes the croissant. Breaks it apart slowly.

"You know," she says, not looking at Callie, "I hated you."

Callie doesn't flinch. "Yeah. I kind of hated you back."

Lexi nods. "Still might."

Callie smiles. "Ditto."

They eat.

Outside, the rain picks up. The sound of it against the glass is hypnotic. Soothing. Like static that actually makes the signal clearer.

Lexi finally says, "I've never talked about her with anyone before."

Callie's voice is soft. "Same."

Lexi looks up. "But you wrote her."

"Yeah," Callie says. "But that's not the same as saying her name and hoping someone doesn't flinch."

Lexi chews a bite of croissant and thinks about that.

"I flinched," she admits.

"I know."

There's a silence.

But it's warm this time.

Lexi wipes powdered sugar off her fingers with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her hair is falling in her face--unbrushed, a little wild, the way Sylvia used to tease her for. She doesn't fix it.

Callie watches her.

Not possessive. Not longing.

Just watching.

Like she's seeing Lexi for the first time outside of grief.

And Lexi feels it. That gentle shift. That opening.

She doesn't run.

She just says, quiet:

"She was a fucking storm."

Callie laughs. Low and real. "Yeah. She really was."

Lexi picks at the corner of the napkin. "Sometimes I wonder if I actually knew her."

"You did," Callie says. No hesitation.

Lexi looks at her.

Callie adds, "Just... not all of her. No one ever did."

Lexi lets that sit for a while. Then:

"She left us both."

Callie's voice drops, serious now. "But maybe she also left us to each other."

Lexi blinks. That lands somewhere unexpected.

"Jesus," she mutters. "That's so fucking sentimental."

Callie smiles. "I know. Gross, right?"

Lexi shakes her head, but she's smiling now. For real.

There's a long pause.

Then Lexi says, barely audible, "I think she would've liked that."

Callie just nods.

They don't touch.

They don't kiss.

They just sit there, cross-legged on the scratchy couch, surrounded by the quiet smell of rain and coffee and powdered sugar. Their knees are almost touching.

And it's not love.

Not yet.

But it will be.

Because it's not just grief anymore.

It's beginning.

Lexi pulls a crumpled piece of paper from the bottom of a binder.

No ceremony. No introduction. Just slides it across the table like a drug deal gone tender.

Callie raises an eyebrow.

"What is this?"

Lexi doesn't look at her. Just says, "A relic of my dramatic era. Circa early freshman year. Do not read it out loud."

Callie grins like a wolf. "That means I have to."

"Callie."

"I'm sorry. I just--this looks like it's been folded and hidden inside a trauma box."

Lexi groans. "Because it was."

Callie unfolds it carefully. The page is lined notebook paper, pink-ink gel pen, the corner chewed. The title--if it can be called that--is "Untitled, Obviously."

She clears her throat dramatically. Lexi covers her face with her hands.

And then:

Untitled, Obviously

by Lexi, May She Never Be Taken Seriously Again

your name still tastes like burnt sugar

and gasoline.

I kissed your ghost before I met your body

and now I can't stop checking under my bed.

you said you loved me

in the rearview mirror

and then the mirror shattered

and now I love glass.

(???)

I still sleep with the window open

just in case you decide to be the breeze

instead of the wreckage.

fuck you

but like, in a loving way.

Callie stares at the last line like it physically slapped her.

Lexi is full-body cringing. "I was grieving! And caffeinated! And apparently unsupervised!"

Callie's shoulders shake. "'Now I love glass?' I--Lexi. That's not even a metaphor. That's a cry for help."

Lexi covers her face. "I hate you."

Callie wipes a tear from her eye, still laughing. "You kissed her ghost before you met her body--what does that even mean?"

"It means I was deeply unwell."

Callie finally sets the poem down and just looks at her. Not teasing now. Just soft.

"You were grieving."

Lexi nods.

"You still are."

Lexi meets her gaze. Her voice is smaller than she wants it to be. "Yeah."

A long pause.

Callie leans in slightly. "Can I tell you something stupid?"

Lexi blinks. "Please. I need to rebalance the shame."

Callie gestures to the poem. "That last line? The 'fuck you but like, in a loving way' one?"

Lexi groans. "What about it?"

"I think that's the realest thing anyone's ever said about her."

And Lexi--

Lexi laughs.

Not the brittle kind. Not the breaking kind.

A relieved kind. The kind that makes room for breath.

She says, "You're the worst."

Callie grins. "And yet."

And yet they sit there, two girls with shared scars and cursed poetry, their knees finally brushing, their walls just a little lower than they were yesterday.

It's not healing, not yet.

But it's so, so stupidly close.

They're still in the study lounge, the windows steamed from the rain and the heat of too many emotions barely held together. Their coffee cups are empty. Their bodies are loose. Lexi's stupid poem lies between them, crumpled but not discarded.

Callie taps her phone open.

She doesn't look at Lexi.

"I shouldn't still have this," she says.

Lexi glances over, sensing the shift in tone. "What is it?"

Callie's thumb hovers. Her mouth tightens. She presses play.

It's a voicemail. Not long. 27 seconds. Grainy audio. A little crackle of wind in the background. The distant clatter of music--some lo-fi beat, probably playing from Sylvia's ever-present car speakers.

And then her voice.

"Hey. It's me. Obviously."

A laugh. Careless. Effortless. Sylvia's laugh.

"Listen, I know I was a dick. I'm... trying, okay? You make me want to be--fuck, I don't know, less of a hurricane. You said that once. That I tear things up and then wonder why no one sticks around. You were right."

Lexi's stomach turns. She grips the edge of the table like it might steady her.

"Anyway. I saw a cloud that looked like a trash panda today and thought of you, because of course I did. Don't ask me why, I won't explain it."

Another laugh. Softer.

"I'll call you later. Or not. You'll hate me either way. But you're wrong, y'know. I did love you. I do. That part was always real."

Click.

Silence.

Callie sets the phone down like it's hot. Like it burned her to hold it.

Lexi's eyes are glassy. Her breath is a ghost in her chest.

"She called you," Lexi whispers.

Callie nods. Doesn't look at her.

"When?"

"Couple days before." Her voice is tight. Controlled. Like if she slips, she won't stop. "I never called her back."

Lexi wants to say I'm sorry--but it's not enough. It's never enough. Not for that.

"She said the same thing to me," Lexi says instead. "About the hurricane."

Callie lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Lexi blinks fast, but it's useless. The tears are already building.

And for a moment, neither of them are girls anymore.

They're wreckage.

Wreckage that remembers how she laughed. How she lied. How she loved.

And Lexi, with a voice raw from memory, whispers, "She gave us the same lines."

Callie finally meets her eyes. "Yeah."

A pause.

Then:

"But we both believed her."

And that?

That's the truth that undoes them.

Not the voicemail. Not the ghost.

The belief.

Because even now, after the silence, after the crash, after what feels like a betrayal--

They still want it to be true.

And maybe it was. For a second. For a night. For a version of Sylvia neither of them got to keep.

Lexi wipes her eyes.

Callie doesn't reach out. Doesn't try to comfort.

She just says, "I think she'd like that we found each other."

Lexi nods.

"I think she'd also hate it."

Callie snorts. "So much."

And just like that--the grief doesn't vanish.

But it shifts.

Like two tectonic plates grinding into a new shape.

They sit in the quiet.

And this time, they don't feel alone.

It starts the way real things always start--not with intent, but inertia.

They don't mean to walk far. Just out of the study lounge. Just out into the rain-washed night. Just to move, because their bodies are too full of grief and sugar and the sound of Sylvia's voice to stay still.

But the city drifts around them. Buildings lose their names. Side streets multiply like thoughts you don't mean to have. The campus fades behind them, replaced by rows of unfamiliar houses, flickering porch lights, shuttered bakeries, a weird vintage furniture store with a couch in the window shaped like a swan mid-scream.

They walk through it all.

Talking, sometimes. Mostly not.

Somewhere along the way--maybe near the record shop, maybe at that crosswalk where they waited two full minutes after the light changed--Lexi took Callie's hand.

She doesn't remember doing it.

But now they're linked. Soft fingers. Quiet grip. Not swinging. Not playful.

Just held.

Like maybe if they let go, they'll float off into the night and never make it back.

The streetlamp catches them suddenly--brighter than the others, sharp and yellow and buzzing like a broken thought.

They stop.

A pet store.

Closed.

Behind the glass, a clutter of cages and fish tanks glow in eerie, artificial blue. One bored rabbit stares at them like he knows everything.

Callie tips her head. "Do you think he's judging us?"

Lexi looks at the rabbit.

"He definitely saw us coming."

Callie nods solemnly. "He's seen some shit."

They both laugh. Quietly. Like they're afraid to wake something.

The light spills down on them like theater, softening the hard lines of grief, painting their faces in warm shadow. Their hands are still together.

Lexi looks down at them.

Callie follows her gaze.

They don't say anything.

But they don't let go.

Lexi takes a step closer, just one. Like she's checking a ledge for stability. She looks up at Callie and for the first time, really sees her--not as the girl who had Sylvia first, not as competition, not as a mirror for her pain.

Just Callie.

Ridiculously dressed.

Ridiculously kind.

Stubborn in all the wrong and right ways.

Lexi's voice is rough. "I didn't mean to do that."

Callie says, "I know."

"But I don't want to stop."

Callie squeezes her fingers. "Then don't."

The rabbit shifts in its cage. Licks its paw.

And under a streetlamp outside a pet store neither of them can name, Lexi lets herself want something again.

Not Sylvia.

Not the past.

This.

This hand.

This warmth.

This stupid, perfect moment in the middle of nowhere.

It's not a kiss.

It's not a promise.

It's better.

Because for the first time in a long, long time--

Lexi feels like maybe she isn't made of glass anymore.

Maybe she's just a girl.

Holding another girl's hand.

Under the electric hum of a streetlamp.

Where no one expects them to survive,

and they might anyway.

They don't talk about going back.

They just... start drifting that direction. Slower now. Like their feet know something they don't want to say out loud. The world feels bigger out here. Loose. Unwritten. Like if they keep walking long enough, it might let them become someone new.

But eventually, Lexi pulls out her phone. Orders the ride. They're too far to walk. It's too late. The sky is smudged with clouds, and her hair is damp with the kind of mist that curls everything wrong.

The car pulls up--some dusty silver sedan with a hula dancer on the dash and pop radio turned low. The driver doesn't say much. Just checks their names, nods, and pulls away from the curb.

Lexi slides in first.

Callie follows.

And they don't let go.

They could.

They should.

But they don't.

Not out of rebellion. Not out of some grand gesture.

They just keep holding hands across the backseat like it's natural. Like the warmth between them is the one true thing in a city full of ghosts and glowing fish tanks and judgmental rabbits.

Lexi stares out the window. The streetlights blur past like memories she's not quite ready to unpack.

Callie watches her.

Not too directly. Not hungrily. Just aware. Noticing. Not pushing.

Their fingers rest between them on the cracked vinyl seat. Callie's thumb rubs tiny circles into Lexi's knuckle--absent-minded, comforting, terrifying in its softness.

Lexi exhales. It comes out shaky.

Callie doesn't ask why.

The radio shifts songs. Something light. Female vocals, acoustic. It's not a song Lexi knows, but she listens anyway. She watches her own reflection in the window--a little tired, a little red around the eyes, but alive. Still holding on.

Callie finally speaks.

Quiet.

"Can I ask you something?"

Lexi nods without turning.

"What are you most afraid of? Right now?"

Lexi closes her eyes.

Opens them.

Doesn't lie.

"Feeling this."

Callie doesn't flinch. Doesn't look smug.

Just says, "Yeah. Me too."

They don't speak again.

The ride is short. But it stretches.

Like neither of them wants to break the spell.

Campus appears too soon--familiar and sharp against the haze of the night they wandered into. The car stops in front of their dorm. The driver says something polite, meaningless.

They thank him. Step out.

Still holding hands.

Still not letting go.

They walk back into the dorm like that--quiet, steady, fingers laced. No one's watching. The hallway is empty. The world is folded down to just the two of them, and the sound of their steps on carpet.

Inside the room, they pause.

Still linked.

Still breathing.

Lexi meets Callie's eyes.

Her voice is almost a whisper. "Do you want to stay?"

Callie nods.

No hesitation.

Lexi nods back. "Okay."

And then, finally, finally--she lets go.

Not because she wants to.

Because she knows Callie will be there when she reaches out again.

The door clicks shut behind them, soft as guilt. Lexi doesn't turn on the overhead light. Just the lamp on her desk--low and amber, barely more than a whisper against the walls.

They don't say much.

Callie sets her shoes by the door like she's done it a hundred times, even though this is the first. She shrugs out of her jacket, folds it, rests it on the desk chair. Lexi watches the way she moves--not graceful, exactly, but gentle. Like she's afraid to disturb something sacred.

Neither of them undresses fully. This isn't that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Lexi trades jeans for sweats. Keeps her hoodie on. Callie pulls her hair down, lets the red spill out, and climbs into bed in leggings and a big t-shirt with a faded print of a cartoon possum holding a knife.

Lexi snorts. "Seriously?"

Callie shrugs, already pulling the blanket up. "Emotional support shirt."

Lexi hesitates at the edge of the bed.

Then slides in.

Back to back.

A careful six inches of space between them.

No brushing. No implication.

Just presence.

The sheets are warm.

The rain outside has thinned to a quiet drip. Some dorm across the courtyard is playing something low and rhythmic--a beat without lyrics, a sound without memory. The kind of music that's easy to fall asleep to.

Lexi lies still.

She waits for it.

For the headlights.

For the crunch.

For Sylvia's voice in her ear, half-laughing, half-bleeding.

For the guilt to crawl up her spine and settle into her bones.

But it doesn't come.

Nothing comes.

Just the sound of Callie's breathing, soft and real. The distant hiss of a radiator. The feeling of being here. Alive. Held--not by arms, but by the miracle of someone else choosing to stay.

Minutes pass.

Or maybe hours.

It doesn't matter.

Sleep comes slow, then all at once.

And when it does, it's quiet.

No screaming.

No flashbacks.

No drowning.

Just dark.

Just warmth.

Just peace.

When Lexi wakes, it's still early. Grey light. Soft edges. She turns, slow, careful.

Callie's still asleep.

Mouth slightly open. One arm curled under the pillow. A frown just barely there, like maybe the nightmare tried to come. Didn't quite make it.

Lexi watches her for a long time.

Then--

Just before rolling back over, she whispers it, not loud enough to wake her, not needing to be heard:

"Thank you."

Not for the pastries.

Not for the walk.

Not for the voicemail or the awful poetry or the moment under the streetlamp.

Just for this.

One night without ghosts.

It's the kind of morning her body remembers from Before--early light, slow breath, muscles tensed like they expect to be punished by memory. But nothing comes. No scream locked in her throat. No blood on her hands. No ghost whispering a name that still fits like a wound.

Just the soft rhythm of Callie breathing beside her.

Lexi turns her head.

Callie's still on her back, one arm thrown over her face, red hair a mess against the pillow. Her t-shirt has ridden up just enough to show a sliver of pale stomach. Her mouth is parted. She's got sleep crust in the corner of one eye.

Lexi smiles.

A real one. Crooked. Quiet.

Like the kind that sneaks out when you're not scared of being seen.

She shifts, slowly. Rolls onto her side. Tucks a hand under her cheek. Watches Callie for what could be five seconds or twenty minutes. The moment feels stretched, important in its unimportance.

She almost reaches out.

Almost tucks that one stray lock of hair behind Callie's ear.

But instead, she just whispers, "Hey."

Callie stirs. Groans. Lifts her arm and squints. "God. What time is it?"

Lexi glances at the clock. "Too early for anything but pancakes."

Callie rolls toward her. "Is that a threat or an offer?"

"Depends," Lexi says, "on if you're a monster who puts peanut butter on them."

Callie gasps. "I am that monster."

Lexi fake-sighs. "Figures."

They lie there a second longer. Still not touching. Still so close.

Then Callie, bleary-eyed and wrecked with morning, reaches up and brushes her knuckles against Lexi's cheek. Soft. Careless. Like it's something she does every day. Like it's not terrifying.

Lexi leans into it.

Barely. But it's enough.

Callie pulls her hand back, eyes searching. "You okay?"

Lexi nods.

Then shakes her head.

Then just says, "I didn't dream about her."

Callie's face shifts. Less pity. More understanding. "Me neither."

They don't say anything else for a while.

Eventually, they crawl out of bed. Callie stretches like a cat. Lexi pulls her hair into a loose bun. They brush their teeth side by side in the dorm bathroom, sharing toothpaste, bumping elbows. Callie hums some dumb pop song Lexi pretends to hate.

Back in the room, Callie sits cross-legged on the bed, still in her possum shirt, watching Lexi make instant coffee with a tiny electric kettle and far too much cinnamon.

Lexi hands her a mug.

Callie takes it like it's a love letter.

Then says, "You know, for someone who color-codes her life, you make absolute chaos coffee."

Lexi sips hers. "Balance."

Callie laughs, and it hits Lexi harder than it should. The way her shoulders shake, the way her freckles crinkle, the way the sound fills the room like a place to live.

Lexi sits beside her.

She doesn't say I like you.

She doesn't say I'm scared to lose this.

She doesn't say you feel like breath after drowning.

But she leans her head on Callie's shoulder.

And Callie, without ceremony, without a single word, lifts her hand and brushes Lexi's hair back from her face.

That's it.

That's the whole moment.

But Lexi closes her eyes, and it feels like maybe, just maybe, she could live here.

In this space.

In this warmth.

In this small, stupid morning.

It doesn't need a name yet.

But it's a lot like love.

And they both know it.

It's late again.

Later than they meant it to be.

They're lying on the rug in Lexi's dorm room, surrounded by open notebooks, empty mugs, a bowl of popcorn that's mostly kernels. Some movie plays on her laptop, long since forgotten. The audio hums under their quiet, the characters moving in the background like ghosts too polite to interrupt.

Callie's lying on her side. Lexi's on her back. Their knees touch.

They've been laughing. About nothing. About everything. About the way the RA tried to organize a dorm-wide "Mindfulness Circle" and accidentally booked it during an active fire drill. About how Lexi once thought "kombucha" was a cult. About Callie's weirdly intense hatred of oatmeal.

And then, somehow, the laughter fades.

Not awkwardly. Just--gently.

Like it's giving space for something else to bloom.

Lexi turns her head. Meets Callie's eyes.

The room feels smaller all of a sudden. Or maybe closer.

Their breathing syncs. One of those quiet, cosmic things neither of them would admit noticing.

Lexi says, "I don't really get it."

Callie tilts her head. "Get what?"

"How you make it easier. Being around you. It's like..." She trails off.

"Like you can breathe?"

Lexi nods. "Yeah. That."

Callie smiles. "I feel it too."

They don't move. Don't rush.

But something's coming. They both know it.

It's not a surprise when Callie leans in.

Slow. Not teasing. Not unsure.

Callie's mouth was right there. The same mouth that had kissed Sylvia..

Lexi doesn't back away.

She meets her halfway. Eyes locked. No hesitation.

Their noses brush. Not quite touching. Just enough to feel the spark of it, that live-wire tension between two people who've finally found the edge of something terrifying and holy.

Lexi's lips part. Her eyes flicker down.

Callie's breath catches.

And then--

They stop.

Not because they're afraid.

Because they care.

Because this isn't just a kiss.

It's a choice.

Lexi pulls back a fraction. Just enough to look at her.

Callie smiles. "Yeah. Me too."

They lie there, not kissing.

Hearts pounding.

Hands still between them.

And it's more intimate than anything that's come before.

Because they're ready.

And they're waiting.

Not for fear.

Not for doubt.

For the moment they know it will matter so much, they'll never be able to go back.

They stand by the creek long after the sky starts to bruise.

The world narrows down to the cold air between them, the sound of water moving through stones, and the weight of everything unsaid--between them, inside them, before them.

Lexi's hands are curled into the hem of her hoodie. Her knuckles are white. Her voice is a thread pulled tight when she says:

"I think I need to let her go."

Callie doesn't speak.

She doesn't have to.

She just watches Lexi with that soft, terrible patience--the kind you give to a person learning how to breathe again.

"I don't mean forget," Lexi adds quickly. "I just mean..."

She trails off.

She looks at Callie.

Then: "I want this to stop being about her."

Callie steps forward.

Only an inch. Maybe two.

She's close enough now that Lexi can feel her breath. See the freckles across her cheekbones. Hear the way her inhale stutters, like she's holding back something enormous and fragile.

Callie says, "Then let's make it about us."

And Lexi doesn't answer.

She moves.

She lifts her hand and brushes her fingers along Callie's jaw--tentative, reverent, like she's touching something she's afraid will disappear.

Callie doesn't flinch.

She leans in.

Their mouths don't crash. Don't collide.

They find each other.

Like a book closing on the right page. Like a lock turning.

Lexi kisses her like she's afraid of being wrong and does it anyway.

Callie kisses her like she's been waiting forever and finally gets to be right.

And it's not perfect.

It's messy.

There's teeth. A soft gasp. Lexi's fingers slide into Callie's hair and tug, just a little, just enough to say I'm here, I'm real, don't let go.

Callie's hands find Lexi's waist. One of them slips up the back of her hoodie. Bare skin. Heat on heat.

The creek rushes beside them. The trees sway. Somewhere, far away, the rest of the world keeps turning.

But here--under this sky, at this hour--they bury Sylvia without saying her name.

They bury her in breath and closeness and want.

They bury her with mouths parted and bodies flush and the quiet understanding that this isn't a replacement.

It's a resurrection.

Lexi pulls back first.

She's panting.

Eyes glassy. Lips red. Voice wrecked.

"I didn't think I could want anyone again."

Callie presses their foreheads together.

"You don't have to be sure."

"I'm not."

"I'm not either."

And they both laugh. Quiet. Unsteady.

Callie adds, "But I think I'd like to keep trying with you."

Lexi closes her eyes.

And for the first time in what feels like centuries, she doesn't see Sylvia behind her lids.

Just this.

Callie's breath.

Callie's hands.

Callie's voice.

This.

She nods.

"Yeah," she says. "Me too."

They stay like that.

Wrapped in each other, half-freezing, entirely alive.

The grief doesn't vanish.

It settles.

And later, walking home in the dark, their hands tangled and hearts thrumming in sync, Lexi knows:

The past didn't break her.

It brought her here.

To this.

To Callie.

To now.

And that's enough.

That's everything.

They barely shut the door behind them.

Shoes are half-kicked off. Lexi's hoodie hits the floor. Callie's jacket drops somewhere between the desk and the bed and neither of them looks back to find it.

They kiss like they're starving.

But not desperate. Not panicked.

Just finally, finally, allowed.

Lexi pulls Callie in by the collar of her shirt--clumsy, a little breathless, perfect. Their teeth bump. They both laugh into it. Callie bites Lexi's bottom lip, just lightly, just to hear the sound it pulls from her.

It's quiet, but wrecked. A yes made of breath.

They fall onto the bed together.

Not falling, exactly.

Arriving.

Callie ends up on top first, straddling Lexi's hips, her thighs warm through thin leggings. She's flushed, hair messy, lips kiss-swollen and open. She leans down again and kisses Lexi like it's important--slow now, exploratory, like she wants to memorize the taste.

Lexi's hands slide under Callie's shirt, not to undress--just to touch. Bare skin at her waist, soft and electric. She sighs into Callie's mouth and arches up just enough to deepen it.

This isn't frantic.

This isn't grief.

This is deliberate.

Callie kisses her like she has all night.

Lexi responds like she doesn't want to waste a single second.

Callie whispers, between kisses, between breaths:

"You're warm."

"You smell like cinnamon."

"I'm so fucking into you."

Lexi laughs. "You've got such a way with words."

Callie kisses down her jaw. "Poet, actually."

"Shut up."

They keep going.

Callie leans down to kiss the corner of Lexi's mouth, then her cheek, then her throat. She presses her lips to that soft spot just below Lexi's ear and Lexi shudders. Her hands slide up Callie's back, curling in the fabric of her shirt, holding on.

There's nothing performative in it.

No rehearsed moves.

Just heat. Intention. Want.

They make out until their lips are sore. Until their bodies are wound around each other in a knot of limbs and breath and yes. Callie ends up on her back, Lexi half on top of her, one hand on her stomach, the other bracing herself beside Callie's head.

Their foreheads press together.

Their breathing syncs again.

Lexi doesn't speak. Doesn't need to.

She kisses Callie once, gently.

Callie whispers, "Stay here."

Lexi says, "I wasn't going anywhere."

They kiss again.

And again.

And again.

Not to reach a destination.

Not to prove anything.

Just because they can.

Because this is the first time Lexi's body has felt like it belongs to her again.

And the first time Callie has ever kissed someone who looked at her like she's the story being written, not the footnote.

They fall asleep tangled together.

Mouths still tingling.

Hands still locked.

No ghosts in the room.

No past between them.

Just skin.

Just warmth.

Just this.