Eudora

Amy H. was the type of woman whose desktop icons were color-coded and aligned to a grid like obedient soldiers. Thirty-four years old. Two indoor plants. No pets. One ex-girlfriend in Portland who still occasionally popped up in her dreams like an error message. She wore her headset like a crown and answered customer calls in a voice two tones warmer than she felt.

She had a streak of grey in her hair that she'd started to like. Hair always up. Neutral eyeshadow. Sleeves rolled exactly two cuffs. She brought soup for lunch in a little thermos she washed immediately after use. She did yoga at night, except when she didn't. Her apartment overlooked a parking lot. She'd stopped noticing.

Amy P. was thirty-six and on her third pair of insoles this quarter. She had soft features that never quite seemed to relax, like she was always thinking about the next thing she had to do. Her hair was thick, black, and usually in a low ponytail that frayed by mid-afternoon. She dressed in layers. Long cardigans, soft fabrics, deep colors. Lipstick sometimes, mostly when she needed courage.

She handled billing issues. Her job required a tone of infinite patience and the ability to sound apologetic without ever admitting fault. She was good at it--too good. The kind of good that gets you left alone to drown because you make it look easy.

They both worked on the 6th floor of a nondescript building in a bland part of Seattle, in a cubicle farm designed by someone who deeply misunderstood how color affects human psychology. Pale yellow walls. Buzzing lights. Air that always felt recycled twice too many times.

They saw each other in meetings. Daily syncs, weekly metrics, quarterly reviews. Amy H. sat on the left side of the conference table, Amy P. on the right. They never sat next to each other. That would've been too much. Too obvious. Too fast.

But today--today there was a glitch.

Maybe someone was out. Maybe the seating chart was rearranged. Maybe the universe hiccuped. Either way, Amy H. ends up in the chair next to Amy P., too close, their elbows almost brushing. The room smells like dry-erase markers and stale coffee.

The manager is talking about customer retention strategies. Something about reducing friction in the user experience. No one's listening.

Amy H. shifts slightly in her seat. Amy P. feels it like a live wire. Their knees are almost touching. Almost.

Amy P. says, softly, not looking at her, "You ever feel like we're just... running scripts?"

Amy H. doesn't answer right away. She's too busy trying not to breathe too hard.

Finally, she murmurs, "Only every day."

Their eyes meet, just for a second. Not long. Not dangerous. Just enough.

Then they both look away.

But it's already started.

Amy H. didn't even remember the rest of the meeting. It blurred into that corporate slurry of buzzwords and click-rate charts, her body there but her soul fogged somewhere else. Afterward, she returned to her cubicle like a prisoner to her cell, sat, and stared blankly at her monitor.

Forty-six unread tickets. All customer escalations. One flagged with "URGENT -- I WANT TO SPEAK TO A MANAGER" in all caps.

She closed the window and stood up. Just like that. No plan. No sense of ceremony. She grabbed her water bottle, left her headset hanging on its little hook, and walked toward the stairwell like it was a lifeboat.

Down five flights, her boots thunking too loud on the emergency steps. Out the back door. Into the cold bite of downtown air, breath blooming in front of her like steam off a machine about to break.

She walked three blocks. No direction. Just movement.

Pho Queue: You'll line up for our soup!

And somewhere near this pho place with the windows all fogged up and the smell of broth haunting the sidewalk, she stopped and thought, I could just quit.

Not in a dramatic way. Not a slam-the-desk, fuck-you-all explosion. Just... disappear. Submit a tidy email. Two weeks' notice. Or no notice. Just vanish. Find something else. Something where she didn't feel like a cog in a machine designed to wear down its own parts. Something where she could sleep at night. Where she wouldn't cry brushing her teeth and not remember why.

She leaned against the side of the building and let her head fall back, eyes closed. Rain misted her cheeks. She exhaled through her nose, hard. Twice.

And then--

Amy P.'s laugh.

It wasn't real, just memory. The one from last month, during a fire drill, when someone had made a joke about evacuating for fake fires while they all quietly burned alive inside anyway. Amy P. had laughed so hard she snorted, and Amy H. had stood frozen for a second too long, stunned by the raw joy of the sound.

She swallowed.

No. She couldn't quit.

Not while Amy P. was still there.

She was the only color in the whole building. A deep burgundy in a beige landscape. Quiet resilience disguised as gentle competence. And Amy H. didn't even know what it meant, this feeling--but she knew it was the only thing keeping her anchored.

She turned back.

She walked faster on the way in. Five floors. No elevator. The kind of stupid, desperate choice that made her feel alive. She got back to her desk, flushed, breath shallow.

Amy P. wasn't at her cubicle.

For a second, it knocked the wind out of her. Panic. Like she'd missed her. Like she might've left for good.

Then--

There. Conference room C. Amy H. caught a glimpse through the glass: Amy P. alone, papers in front of her, lips pursed. She was tapping one finger absently against her mug. Her shoulders were hunched like she was carrying something no one could see.

Amy H. stood just outside the frame of view.

Watching her like an addict watches a locked cabinet.

Wanting. Needing.

She didn't knock. She didn't go in.

But something had shifted.

The idea of quitting had become something else entirely.

A dare.

Amy P. hated this room.

Conference Room C had no window. Just that awful rectangle of fluorescent ceiling glare and a whiteboard smeared with half-erased metrics from some forgotten Tuesday. The table was always sticky near the edges. Someone--Gary?--chewed pens and left little blue crime scenes behind.

She was supposed to be working on a churn analysis. The kind that required tight formatting, neat numbers, controlled logic. She was good at this kind of thing. Her mind could cut clean through the fog, normally.

But not today.

Today, she kept staring at cell D14, unable to remember if the number was supposed to be red or green.

She tapped her mug. Tap. Tap. Tap.

And then she felt it.

That tingle at the back of her neck, like the air had changed. Like someone had stepped into a space that shouldn't be occupied. She glanced up, quick. Reflexive.

The glass wall of the conference room gave her a perfect view of the hallway.

Empty.

Except--maybe not. For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw a shape there. A woman. Amy H.?

No. Couldn't be. Wishful thinking. Or the start of another headache. Her head had been tight all day, like someone had cinched a belt around her temples.

She looked down again. Pretended to read.

But her heart had started doing that dumb flutter-thing. Like it knew something before she did. Like it remembered the meeting earlier--the shared breath, the barely-there brush of elbow against elbow.

She hadn't stopped thinking about it since.

She'd wanted to say more. Had almost said more. Had wanted to ask if Amy H. ever felt like she was wasting her one and only life on customer complaints and auto-replies and diet ginger ale.

But the words stuck, like always. She was good at restraint. Excellent, even. Her therapist had once said she was "very self-contained." Which was code for emotionally constipated, but said nicely.

Still--she sat there now, in Conference Room C, holding her mug like a shield and wondering if she was just imagining that shadow of someone watching her.

She thought about getting up. Just... walking out. Not to follow the shadow. Not to check. Just to move.

But she didn't.

She stayed.

Still as a held breath.

Amy H. was halfway through answering a ticket about a billing discrepancy when the system logged her out.

Not just frozen--fully logged out. Screen went black. Her headset beeped twice, mournful and vaguely judgmental.

She blinked at it, disbelieving. "Cool," she muttered. "Yeah, why not."

Her password didn't work.

She tried again.

And again.

The third time, she was locked out entirely.

The helpdesk line gave her a ten-minute wait and a cheerful hold tone that sounded like someone's idea of music for an intergalactic spa.

She hung up.

Stood up.

Stretched her back with a groan and a hand pressed to the small of it. The floor around her cubicle hummed with activity--calls, typing, occasional sighs--but her little slice of it had gone quiet. Dead. Unplugged.

So she did something she never did.

She wandered.

No mission, no destination--just movement. Just her legs carrying her somewhere because they couldn't keep sitting. The air smelled like printer toner and someone's instant noodles. The overhead fluorescents hummed with the subtle hostility of a room that wanted you gone.

And then she heard a voice--familiar, low, tinged with frustration.

Amy P. was by the copy machine. It had jammed, obviously. Her brow furrowed as she peered into its guts, one hand braced against the machine, the other holding a half-printed presentation like a corpse.

Amy H. didn't think. She just walked over.

"Feeding time again?" she asked, nodding toward the machine.

Amy P. startled slightly, then laughed. "This thing hates me."

"Have you tried gentle praise?" Amy H. offered. "Maybe whisper that it's the fastest copier in the building."

Amy P. shot her a look--amused, warm--and stepped aside slightly. "Be my guest."

Amy H. crouched, tugged a tray, reached inside like a surgeon. The paper came free, only mildly singed.

"You've done this before," Amy P. said.

"I'm the office whisperer," Amy H. replied. "I can also unjam printers, calm angry customers, and tell which vending machine will actually dispense the granola bar."

Amy P. smiled, biting her bottom lip slightly. Amy H. looked away before her heart did something obvious.

There was a pause. A soft one. Heavy with the scent of warmed paper and something else--something not spoken.

"I got locked out of my system," Amy H. said, too casually.

Amy P. blinked. "Seriously?"

"Fully dead. No warning."

"Maybe the universe's way of saying 'take a walk.'"

Amy H. met her eyes.

It felt like the moment would stretch forever.

It didn't.

Someone cleared their throat nearby. The spell broke. Amy H. looked away, straightened, brushed off imaginary dust.

"Guess I'll go check in with IT," she said.

Amy P. nodded. "Thanks for the rescue."

"Anytime."

As she walked away, her system pinged on her phone--automatically logged back in. No helpdesk ticket filed. No intervention.

Just... fixed.

Amy H.

She microwaved her dinner like always.

Quinoa, black beans, half an avocado. Ate standing up.

Fork in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling headlines she wouldn't remember.

Something about an outage on the East Coast.

Something about layoffs.

Something about climate collapse.

She didn't notice when she stopped chewing.

Her apartment was quiet, sterile in a lived-in way. The kind of clean that wasn't about pride, but about control. Tidy space, tidy mind.

Except--lately--it hadn't been working.

She leaned against the counter, chewing mechanically, and thought about the way Amy P.'s hand had looked today. Pale and strong. Nails short. A little dry at the knuckles.

Ridiculous detail. Obsessive.

She washed her dish immediately after eating. Wiped the counter.

Stood in the middle of her apartment.

Nothing else to do.

Wanted to text her.

Didn't.

Had no reason.

Just this endless loop: Get through the day. Pretend she didn't care. Pretend she wasn't unraveling over someone who might not even know she existed the way she existed in her mind.

Amy P.

She ordered Thai. Pad see ew, tofu, mild.

Picked it up on the way home. Didn't want to talk to anyone. Didn't want delivery.

Sat at her kitchen table. Small, round, cluttered.

Water bill unopened. Grocery list from two weeks ago still hanging by a magnet shaped like a banana.

She ate slowly.

Methodically.

The noodles stuck together.

She kept glancing at her phone. Not for anything in particular.

Just--a kind of readiness.

She thought about the moment in the meeting. The chair too close. Amy H.'s scent--something clean, faintly citrus. The sound of her laugh, rare but devastating.

Thought about that moment outside Conference Room C.

That flicker.

Did I imagine her looking at me?

She didn't know.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let the food go cold.

The loneliness wasn't loud. It was soft. Creeping. Like mold. Like dust gathering in corners.

And underneath it, this other feeling.

Sharp. Hungry. Impossible.

Not just want.

Need.

Something that scared her.

She finished eating. Didn't do the dishes.

Stood in front of her mirror for a long time, just looking at her own face.

Didn't recognize the expression.

Amy H.

She turned on music.

Low, instrumental. Something meant to calm.

It didn't.

She paced. Checked her email again. Spam. A coupon for cat food--she didn't own a cat.

She laughed, a dry sound.

Went to her window. Looked out at the lot. Rain on metal. The rhythmic clatter of someone dragging a trash bin.

A bus sighed to a stop down the block.

She wondered what Amy P.'s apartment looked like.

Bookshelves? A warm lamp?

Did she wear glasses at home?

Did she let herself cry?

She pulled a throw blanket around her shoulders, sat on the edge of the couch. Her body was tired. Her bones didn't want to hold her up anymore. But her brain was still turning gears it couldn't stop.

She opened her phone.

Typed "Hey."

Deleted it.

Typed, "Rough day?"

Deleted that too.

Locked her screen and dropped it onto the cushion beside her like it had betrayed her.

She curled up tight.

Blanket pulled over her head like she could vanish.

Tried not to think about her.

Failed.

Amy P.

She brushed her teeth late.

Slow, distracted.

Watched the mirror the whole time, like it might offer answers.

Like it might say, Yes, she looked at you.

She wandered the apartment barefoot. Turned off lights one by one. It was always like this--this strange limbo after dinner. Too early for bed, too late to start something real.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, Netflix asking if she was still watching.

She wasn't.

She clicked over to Slack. Work chat.

Dead quiet except for a late-night message from someone in Product.

She hovered over Amy H.'s name.

Just hovered.

No photo. Just the little gray icon.

She'd never messaged her directly.

She thought about it.

Typed: "Hey. Can't sleep either?"

Stared at it.

Backspaced.

Typed: "You okay?"

Backspaced again.

Slammed the lid shut before she did something dumb.

Lay back. Arm flung over her eyes like it could block out thought.

But it was too late.

Amy H. was everywhere in her head now.

The voice. The posture. The silence they both lived in.

Amy H.

She got up.

Turned on the bathroom light. Looked at herself.

Did that thing where you stare too long and feel unrecognizable.

Whispered, "You have to stop this."

Didn't mean it.

She brushed her teeth. Flossed, because she needed to believe in some kind of discipline.

Climbed into bed like someone sneaking into a life she didn't quite deserve.

The sheets were cold.

She turned off the lamp.

Listened to her own breath.

Willed her body to stillness.

Closed her eyes.

Amy P. hovered behind her eyelids.

Not touching.

Not saying anything.

Just there.

Amy P.

She left her bedroom light on.

Couldn't face the dark.

Laid in bed with her phone on her chest, screen dark.

Waited.

No vibration. No message.

Didn't expect one. Still hurt not to get it.

Eventually she rolled onto her side, curled in.

Blanket to chin. Hair a mess.

Face tight from holding back.

Whispered, "Goodnight," into the air, stupidly.

Didn't know who it was for.

But she knew who it was for.

Sleep took her like an undertow.

Amy H.

Dreamed of a hallway.

A door half-open.

A woman standing inside, turning, smiling--

But never quite reaching her.

Thursday. A high-pressure morning already sagging under its own weight. There was a "Client Optimization Review" scheduled for 10:00 sharp, with the VP of Ops flying up from Palo Alto. Half the office had been buzzing like a hive of overcaffeinated bees.

Amy P. had barely slept. She came in early, eyes red-rimmed, fingers trembling just slightly from her second cup of coffee. She was prepared. Of course she was. She always was.

Amy H. had taken a slow bus in the rain. She wasn't late, but close enough that her heart hadn't settled into her chest by the time she walked through the glass doors.

And then--ten minutes to ten--a notification hit every screen in the conference room.

"DELAYED: Bryan A. (VP-Ops) in fender bender en route. Meeting pushed to 10:30."

Just like that, the air changed. Everyone dispersed to refill coffee, panic-skim their slides, or feign indifference in the break room.

But Amy H. didn't move.

She lingered in the conference room, half-seated at the table, flipping through her notes without seeing them. Breathing. Trying not to feel disappointed that she wasn't going to get through the day on schedule.

And Amy P., half-hypnotized by the flicker of movement inside, stepped in.

Quiet.

Barely a sound but the tap of her shoes and the hush of the door sliding shut behind her.

Amy H. looked up.

Their eyes locked. Too long. And for once, neither of them looked away.

Amy P. smiled--tentative, small, but real. "Guess we have a little time."

Amy H. nodded. "Guess we do."

The room was empty. No one else. For once, the chaos didn't swallow them. For once, there was no reason not to speak.

Amy H. tilted her head slightly. "You okay?"

Amy P. blinked at her. Caught off guard. "Yeah. Just tired."

Amy H. didn't press. Just held her gaze. "Me too."

Silence again. But not awkward. Full.

Amy P. leaned against the back of a chair, arms crossed loosely, letting the moment settle. "I almost didn't come in today."

Amy H.'s breath caught. She didn't mean to react, but her body did. "Why not?"

Amy P. shrugged, and the gesture was softer than anything she'd let slip in weeks. "Just... thought maybe it wasn't worth it."

The words landed like a weight between them.

Amy H. stood up slowly. Not dramatic. Just deliberate. Like she was choosing to be in the moment. She crossed the distance between them, stopping on the other side of the table.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked.

Amy P. nodded. No words.

"I almost quit yesterday."

Amy P.'s breath hitched--no hiding it.

Amy H. smiled faintly. "Didn't. Thought about you."

Silence again. But now it was charged.

Amy P. stepped around the chair. Not all the way to her. Just closer. Enough that she could smell her--something citrus and clean and very, very Amy.

She didn't say anything. She just looked at her like she could finally see the shape of the thing that had been pressing against her chest for months.

And Amy H., quiet but certain, whispered, "I think I'm tired of pretending this isn't real."

Before either of them could say more, the door clicked open.

People re-entering. The moment folded itself shut like a secret stashed in a drawer.

But it had happened.

The glitch in the system. The spark that finally touched something flammable.

And neither of them would be able to forget it.

Outside the conference room, in the too-bright corridor where the air always smelled faintly of toner and desperation, Eudora stood with her hands on her hips and a grin like she'd just rigged a slot machine to hit cherries.

No one could see her, of course.

No one ever did.

That was the thing about minor goddesses--especially the very minor ones. You didn't pray to them. You didn't build temples. You just lived in their chaos.

Eudora was the (Very) Minor Goddess of Scheduling Conflicts. Patron of last-minute delays, magically missing calendar attachments, and elevators that stopped at every floor except yours when you were already late.

She was barefoot. She always was. Shoes offended her.

Her sundress swayed slightly in the synthetic breeze of the HVAC system, and her silver hair curled like smoke around her shoulders. A lanyard hung from her neck that read CONTRACTOR, because no one ever questioned contractors.

She peered through the glass of Conference Room C and watched Amy H. step forward. Watched Amy P. meet her.

"Oh my darlings," Eudora murmured, sipping from a half-empty coffee cup that hadn't existed ten seconds ago. "I do love it when the system glitches for good."

She blew on the coffee. It smelled like cinnamon and divine mischief.

She hadn't planned the fender bender. That had been another department--Damarion, God of Minor Mishaps and Unexpected Delays, had nudged that one. But she had slipped the VP's assistant an extra hour of sleep and turned her alarm into a playlist that refused to play anything but The Smiths.

The rest?

Timing. Vibes. Precision chaos.

Her grin deepened as Amy P. stepped closer. As Amy H. whispered.

Eudora lifted one finger. A little swirl of golden light spiraled around it like curling smoke from a lit match. She flicked it toward the hallway clock.

10:29.

Time to let the mortals back in.

Let them think it was over. Let them think nothing had changed.

Just as Eudora was mid-vanish--already halfway dissolved into a constellation of misplaced agenda invites and lost airpods--a soft ping hit the corner of her consciousness.

She winced.

The notification flared gold-red, like a blush that knew it was being watched. It curled in the air like a memo on fire and spelled out:

FROM: Ione, Lesser Spirit of Unintended Desires re: Urgent. What the fuck, exactly, do you think you're doing?

Eudora sighed and re-solidified in the elevator bay, barefoot on corporate-grade Berber carpet, mid-eye-roll.

"Oh, for the love of cancelled flights," she muttered, opening the memo with a flick of her wrist.

The Lesser Spirit of Unintended Desires--bless her pouty little soul--had a talent for tone. Her messages always smelled faintly of longing and smugness. They were written in elegant script with too many ellipses.

"You've interfered with a Class-5 Mutual Restraint Loop, Eudora. Those are... delicate."

"The conflict tension was... perfectly balanced... You were scheduled to provide light inconvenience, not... divine push."

Eudora scoffed.

"Oh, excuse me for taking a little initiative," she muttered, chewing on the end of a cherry-flavored toothpick she conjured from the ether. "I didn't push. I nudged. I unclogged."

She snapped her fingers and conjured a copy of the interaction: Amy H. leaning forward, Amy P. standing still like a breath caught in someone else's lungs. It hovered mid-air like a paused scene from a play, warm light pouring in from nowhere.

"Look at that," she said proudly. "That's not interference. That's art."

A second ping.

"It's escalation, Eudora. You broke the pacing."

"You've moved them from Mutual Stalemate into Pre-Collision Intimacy three days too early."

"Fuck your pacing," Eudora snapped, voice rising. "These two were going to die in parallel loneliness because everyone in your department's too scared to do anything."

She jabbed a finger at the hovering scene. "This is what they need. Not dreams. Not longing. Time."

There was silence. A deep one. The kind that tasted like impending celestial bureaucracy.

Then, finally, a single update floated down like a receipt:

Schedule Change Logged.

Class-5 Loop upgraded to Class-7 Accelerated Yearning Pattern.

Proceed with caution. Monitoring engaged.

Eudora blinked.

Then smiled.

"Fuck yes."

She dissolved again, but not entirely.

She had work to do.

Some chairs to rearrange.

A surprise outage in the espresso machine.

Maybe even a blocked stairwell or two.

She grinned wickedly.

Time to escalate.

Moments. Glances. Doors left ajar.

It started small. Stupid, even.

Amy H.'s badge stopped working. Not entirely--it let her into the building, but not the sixth floor. Not her floor. Security said it must be a system hiccup. Told her to take it to Facilities. But the elevator was jammed (again). Maintenance was "on their way."

So she walked the stairs.

At the fifth floor landing, the door wouldn't open.

So she sat down, laptop bag on her lap, heels pressing against the concrete.

And three minutes later, Amy P. pushed the door open from the inside.

She froze when she saw her.

"Amy?"

Amy H. looked up, startled. Then sheepish. "Apparently the universe doesn't want me to get to work."

Amy P. smiled, shy but not small. "That... honestly doesn't sound like the worst thing."

Amy H. laughed--a short, sharp sound that made Amy P.'s heart stutter.

"I thought you worked upstairs," Amy H. said.

"Meeting down here," Amy P. replied. "Which just got cancelled. Over email. Five minutes ago."

They stood in the stairwell for a moment too long. Neither moving.

Eventually, Amy H. said, "Well. Since I'm locked out of productivity and you're freshly liberated--coffee?"

Amy P. blinked. "Like... coffee coffee?"

Amy H. tilted her head, lips quirking. "Is there another kind?"

They went downstairs, to the little shop that somehow always had one last chocolate croissant no matter the time of day. The one Amy P. usually just looked at and walked past.

This time, Amy H. bought it for her. No comment. Just slid it across the table, eyes flicking up like a dare.

Amy P. took a bite.

Sighed.

And Amy H. smiled like she'd just scored a point in a game no one was willing to admit they were playing.

The next day?

The copy machine jammed in the middle of Amy P.'s big print run.

Amy H. happened to be there. Knew how to fix it. They stood shoulder to shoulder, tugging at a sheet of paper with matching frowns. Amy H.'s hand brushed hers. A spark. A breath.

"Paper jams are the devil," Amy P. said, half-laughing.

"Or a minor goddess in a pissy mood," Amy H. muttered.

Amy P. looked at her. Blinked. "What?"

Amy H. shook her head. "Nothing. Just... feels like something wants us to talk more lately."

Amy P. looked down. Then back up. "Would that be so bad?"

Amy H. didn't answer. Just smiled again. Slow. Sure. A little sad.

That Friday, they both ended up in the lobby at 5:11 PM. Elevator down. Same time. Same bus stop.

"I usually take the B line," Amy P. said.

"So do I," Amy H. replied, surprised. "Never seen you on it."

"Maybe we just weren't looking."

That made them both quiet.

When the bus came, the rain started again. One of those steady Seattle drizzles that soaked everything before you realized it. Amy H. raised her umbrella--wide, blue, floral.

Without a word, she tilted it toward Amy P.

They stood close under it.

Closer than they ever had.

Close enough to feel each other breathe.

They didn't talk on the ride. Just sat in that warm silence, side by side, hands in laps, thighs brushing on sharp turns.

When Amy P. got off at her stop, she paused.

Turned back toward Amy H.

Said nothing.

But her face said everything.

It wasn't clear who was pulling the strings.

Maybe no one.

Maybe it was just life, unfolding in fits and glitches.

Or maybe it was something else.

Somewhere, a calendar auto-updated.

And in a quiet place outside time, Eudora cracked her knuckles and said, "Let's see what happens next."

Eudora was halfway through drafting a delay for a regional manager's flight to Chicago--just enough to cause a delightful panic but not enough to get anyone fired--when the summons arrived.

It wasn't a ping this time.

It was a scroll.

Rolled parchment. Deep violet ribbon. Smelled like sea salt and rose wine.

"Oh, shit," Eudora whispered, snapping it open.

THE SAPPHOIC OFFICE REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE.

Do not make her wait.

Bring sandals.

Sappho's office was perched high in the invisible infrastructure above the mortal plane, past the Department of Unspoken Glances and just below the Archives of First Touches. Her door was carved from petrified laurel and smelled faintly of well-fucked muses.

Inside, it was dusk--always dusk--and warm like an evening just before a summer storm. The air shimmered with old poetry. Half-finished verses drifted like dandelion fluff. Somewhere, a lyre played itself in a minor key.

Sappho sat behind her desk, barefoot, draped in soft cotton the color of ripe figs. Her skin glowed like she'd just had sex and a good cry about it. Her eyes, when they fixed on Eudora, were not unkind. But they were... assessing.

"Eudora," she said, sipping wine from a clay cup older than democracy. "Come. Sit."

Eudora obeyed, tugging at the hem of her sundress. Her sandals squeaked.

Sappho let the silence stretch. She was good at that. Millennia of aching verse had made her fluent in the power of a pause.

Then--

"You're interfering."

Eudora blinked. "With all due respect, I'm scheduling."

"You're accelerating." Sappho raised an eyebrow. "Amy and Amy were a slow-burn file. Mutual pining, coded Slack messages, longing stares into mug steam. The whole structure was pre-approved. Why the sudden nudge?"

Eudora crossed her legs, defensive. "They were suffering, Sappho. Dying by degrees in cubicles and silence. One of them was about to quit."

"Yes," Sappho said smoothly. "That was in the file. You were supposed to let her almost quit. Not inspire a caffeine-date flirtation and three divine coincidences in five business days."

Eudora bit the inside of her cheek. "They were hurting."

Sappho leaned back. Her tone softened.

"They're supposed to hurt, a little. Love isn't a trick. It's a season. It ripens. It rots if you rush it."

Eudora frowned, twisting her fingers together. "So what, I leave them staring at each other forever? Glancing across rooms and pretending not to drown?"

"No," Sappho said. "You let them choose. You tilt the floor. You don't push them down it."

A beat.

Then Sappho sighed, leaned forward, and reached for a scroll that pulsed with heat.

"I will admit," she said, voice turning wry, "your timing was... effective. The stairwell. The croissant. The umbrella. Very cinematic."

Eudora's mouth twitched into a grin.

"You always had a gift for drama," Sappho added, rolling her eyes affectionately.

Eudora beamed. "Goddess of the calendar, baby. Even my fuckups are poetic."

"Don't get cocky."

"I'm literally divine."

"Minorly," Sappho shot back, but her tone was fond. "Alright. I'm marking the Amy Project as 'Accelerated with Observation.' Proceed carefully. No more bus-stop miracles."

Eudora saluted with two fingers and vanished in a puff of floral-scented smoke.

And somewhere, in Seattle, Amy P. dreamed of Amy H.'s voice saying her name like it mattered.

And Amy H. dreamed of a hand on her knee that didn't need permission.

And neither knew the gods were watching.

But maybe they'd feel it.

In the pull of a glance.

In the pause before a goodbye.

In the way their hearts beat too loud when they said each other's names.

Maybe someone was out. Maybe the seating chart had been rearranged. Maybe the universe really did hiccup--because Eudora slipped a corrupted CSV file into the Outlook seating assignment during the 2 a. m. sync cycle. Because a printer jammed at just the right time. Because a certain intern was given a decaf instead of her usual triple-shot and rescheduled herself out of the meeting without even noticing.

Either way, Amy H. ends up in the chair next to Amy P.--not across from her, not one seat away, but next to her--too close, their elbows almost brushing. The room smells like dry-erase markers and stale coffee, but beneath that, there's something else: ozone, maybe. Or fate. Something electric. Something charged.

The kind of charge that doesn't just happen.

The kind of charge someone designed.

From the hallway, unseen, barefoot and smirking, Eudora watches Amy P. lean slightly away, then slightly back. Watches Amy H. sit very, very still, like moving might shatter the moment.

And she thinks:

Perfect.

A week before the company's mandatory "Quarterly Alignment & Empowerment Retreat" (because of course it's called that), every employee receives a mass email from HR.

Subject line: [ACTION REQUIRED] Room Assignments & Logistics for Empowerment Weekend

Amy H. clicks it instantly, even though she knows the answer. Even though she tells herself it doesn't matter.

She scrolls, holding her breath without meaning to.

Room 217: Amy H. + Tasha B.

Fuck.

Amy P. reads hers at home, late at night, curled in a throw blanket that still smells like lavender dryer sheets and old yearning.

Room 220: Amy P. + Denise K.

She exhales, long and low. That's fine. Whatever. Denise is fine. They sat next to each other in that one workshop about customer empathy.

Still--her eyes skim the names twice, looking for one in particular. Hoping. Hating herself for hoping.

Amy H. rereads her email at least three times over the next few days, as if by sheer force of will she can glitch the reality. She even starts a new draft to HR, about "an allergy to synthetic scents" she could maybe claim, if it means a reassignment. She doesn't send it.

Amy P. just stares at hers. Does nothing. Until Thursday night.

It's the night before the retreat. Amy P. is in bed, scrolling her phone, trying to distract herself with headlines and videos she'll forget. She opens the retreat email again, not even sure why. Habit. Obsession.

And there it is.

Room 224: Amy P. + Amy H.

She sits up so fast her blanket falls off. Stares. Refreshes. It's still there.

She stares longer.

Doesn't know what to feel. A warm bolt of something slices through her chest, and she immediately tells herself she's imagining it. It must've always said that. She just missed it. Right?

Amy H. is on her laptop, finishing up her work for the day. She opens the email just to double-check the check-in time. She's halfway through a spoonful of yogurt when she sees it.

Room 224: Amy H. + Amy P.

Her mouth goes dry. The yogurt spoon clinks back into the cup. She stares. Then rereads. Then stares again.

No announcement. No correction from HR. No explanation.

Just... changed.

Amy H. closes the laptop without a sound. Her hands are shaking. Not with fear. With anticipation.

Somewhere in the Cloud...

Eudora smirks from the digital ether, lazily lounging inside the metadata of a Microsoft Outlook calendar invite. She twirls a USB-C cable around one finger like a lasso and mutters, "Whoops, I must've corrupted the mail merge logic."

She taps once, and a ripple of golden light passes through the company's Exchange server.

She didn't switch anyone else's assignment.

Just the Amys.

"Let the empowerment begin," she murmurs, stealing a chocolate from the office fridge no one saw her open.

The lobby is beige-on-beige corporate comfort, with one sad potted plant and an art print of what might be a lake. Or a cloud. Or someone giving up.

Outside, the rain has turned misty and mean. People trickle in with their matching branded lanyards, their roller bags, their Weekend Empowerment Energy™--or at least the appearance of it.

Amy P. is already checked in. Room key card in hand. Shoulder bag heavy with chargers, ibuprofen, and one half-read novel she won't admit to finishing years ago. She's standing near the sad potted plant, scanning her phone like she's waiting for instructions from the universe.

Amy H. steps through the glass doors at that exact moment.

Her coat is a little too thin for the cold. Her bag is slung across one shoulder like an afterthought. Hair up, like always. The streak of grey at her temple glints under the recessed lobby lights. She's not smiling, not exactly--but her face shifts when she sees Amy P.

Amy P. looks up. Their eyes meet.

Amy H. walks over without hesitation, but her steps slow as she gets close. Like she suddenly isn't sure if she's allowed.

Amy P. straightens a little. Tucks her key card into her pocket. "Hey."

"Hey."

A beat. That moment of real eye contact where neither of them is performing. Just looking.

Amy H. tilts her head slightly. "You just get in?"

Amy P. shakes her head. "Half hour ago. Thought I'd wait in the lobby before heading up. Felt weird to... disappear."

Amy H. nods, shifting her bag higher. "Yeah. Same. Needed a second."

Their tone is light, but it's got weight under it. That gravitational pull of two people who've been circling each other for months and suddenly, finally, feel the orbit tighten.

Amy P. gestures vaguely at the front desk. "You checked in yet?"

Amy H. fishes the little envelope from her coat pocket. "Yeah. Just now."

"What room?"

Amy H. hesitates.

Then: "Two twenty-four."

Amy P. exhales, almost a laugh but not quite. "Same."

They both pause.

Amy H.'s eyes flick to the elevator, then back to Amy P. "You notice it changed?"

Amy P. nods. "This morning. Uh... Maybe late last night."

"Same." Amy H. licks her bottom lip, glances down at her shoes. "You think they reshuffled everyone?"

"Nope," Amy P. says, fast. "I checked. Just us."

Amy H. looks up, startled. "You checked?"

Amy P. blushes, then shrugs. "Curious."

Amy H.'s mouth does something crooked and dangerous. A smile that isn't a smile. "Me too."

A long silence.

They both stand there, suspended in the ugly charm of the lobby. Music playing softly from unseen speakers. Something jazzy and meaningless. The front desk agent coughs once and then stares hard at their monitor, pretending not to watch them.

Amy P. shifts her weight. "You okay with it? The room thing?"

Amy H. tilts her head again, then nods--slow. Honest. "Yeah. Are you?"

Amy P. says nothing for a second too long. Then: "Yeah."

They both know it's a lie, or half of one.

Amy P. smooths her cardigan. "I brought earplugs. Just in case I snore."

Amy H. laughs, soft and real. "I brought melatonin gummies. In case I dream too loud."

Their eyes meet again. This time, it lingers.

Amy P. looks away first, but not far. Just to the elevator. "You want to head up?"

Amy H. nods. "Yeah. Sure."

They walk toward the elevator side by side, not touching, not speaking, but thick with the unsaid. The elevator dings open. They step in.

It's just talking.

But the air has teeth.

The lock beeps. The light turns green. Amy H. opens the door first, because she has to do something with her hands or she'll start fidgeting again.

They step inside.

Neutral carpet. Beige curtains. A desk that probably hasn't held a pen in five years. That same godawful framed print from the lobby, only bigger and somehow more accusatory.

And.

Just the one bed.

Amy H. stops.

Amy P. stops behind her.

For a second, neither says anything. The air fills with the sound of the vent kicking on and the little thunk of the door swinging shut behind them.

Amy P. is the one who finally breaks it. "Huh."

Amy H. turns her head slowly, like she's making sure it's real. "Thought it was supposed to be doubles."

Amy P. crosses the room and checks the welcome card on the nightstand. There's one bottle of water. One chocolate mint. One note that says Relax and Reconnect! in cheerful, yet somehow judgmental font.

She holds it up between two fingers. "Reconnect with who, exactly?"

Amy H. sets her bag down by the desk, then straightens, arms crossed. "You think this is a mistake?"

Amy P. tilts her head. "Eudora."

Amy H. blinks. "What?"

Amy P. flushes. "Nothing. It's--nevermind."

Amy H. steps closer. "No. What did you say?"

Amy P. hesitates, then shrugs, eyes fixed on the single bed like it might grow a second. "Just feels like something's been... off. Or on. I don't know. Lately. Between us."

Amy H. watches her carefully. Quietly. "Yeah."

The bed stares at them. Wide enough for space, not wide enough to disappear.

Amy P. rubs the back of her neck. "You want me to call the front desk?"

Amy H. thinks about that. Really thinks.

"No," she says. "They'll just say the hotel's full. You know they will."

Amy P. nods. Of course she knows.

There's a silence made of too many things not said. It hums around them. The kind of silence that carries weight. That pushes.

Amy H. unzips her bag. "You want the left side or the right?"

Amy P. looks at her. Looks at the bed. "Left."

Amy H. nods. "Cool."

She heads to the bathroom to change. Amy P. stands by the window, arms folded, watching the cars slip by in the slick blackness outside. She breathes out. Her reflection doesn't look back at her. It just waits.

Amy H. comes out in a t-shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair's down. It changes her--makes her look softer. More dangerous.

Amy P. blinks once, then grabs her own pajamas and disappears into the bathroom.

When she comes out, the lights are off, save for the dull glow of the lamp by the bed.

Amy H. is lying under the covers, very still. The side closest to the door. One arm behind her head. Eyes open.

Amy P. slips under the other side. Her side. Closer than she thought it would be.

The bed dips toward the middle, just a little.

They don't touch.

They don't speak.

But both of them are wide awake, staring at opposite walls.

And the air between them is practically screaming.

2024

It was after a fire drill. One of those slow, shuffling re-entries where everyone loiters too long at the coffee machine, pretending they needed a break from the real emergency: another Q4 forecast meeting.

Penelope leaned against the counter, sipping tea with a little twist of orange in it--who does that?--and said, totally deadpan, "Eudora's messing with the threads again."

Amy P. blinked. "Who?"

"Eudora," Penelope said, like it was obvious. "Minor goddess of scheduling conflicts. Patron of 'this meeting could have been an email' and Outlook attachments that vanish mysteriously."

Amy P. laughed. "What, someone in IT?"

Penelope sipped. "Sure."

Amy didn't think about it again. Not until now. Not until the wrong bed. The right seat. The perfect glitch.

And she never noticed silver-haired Penelope's bare feet.

2025

The clock glows 12:03 AM in that aggressive red that always feels a little accusatory.

The bed creaks with every breath, but neither of them moves. The room is too quiet. Hotel quiet. The kind of quiet that amplifies everything. The hum of the air conditioning. The slow click of the thermostat. The sound of two women pretending to sleep, their backs to each other, eyes wide open.

Amy P. shifts slightly, her leg brushing the sheet. The fabric feels too warm. Her skin too aware. Every inch of her is alert and aching and not touching.

She swallows. Her mouth is dry.

Amy H. lies on the far edge of her side, like if she moves even an inch closer, she'll fall. Not off the bed--off the line she's spent her whole life walking. Her heart beats so loudly she's half-convinced Amy P. can hear it. That if she listens hard enough, she'll know. She'll know.

But she doesn't turn over.

Not yet.

There's a flicker--barely noticeable. The glow of the clock seems to dim for a second, like the power hiccupped, but everything stays on.

Amy P. doesn't move. Just opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling.

Amy H. blinks and turns her head just slightly.

And there--perched on the nightstand like she's always belonged--is Eudora.

She's cross-legged, barefoot, wearing a hoodie with a logo from a startup that doesn't exist yet. Silver curls down her back in soft, deliberate spirals. Her skin glows faintly in the blue light of a device no one's seen before--a phone, maybe, but thinner. Smoother. Obscenely futuristic.

She's playing a game on it. Something with stars and choices and heartbeats.

She doesn't look up. Just murmurs, "You're both awake."

Amy H. freezes.

Amy P. blinks. "What."

Eudora smirks, still not looking at them. "You heard me."

They both sit up at the same time, not speaking, not quite daring to look at each other. Just staring at the barefoot woman perched on the edge of time and technology and a $7.99 particleboard nightstand.

Amy P. whispers, "Penelope?"

That makes Eudora snort. "Close."

She finally looks up, and her eyes are galaxies. Tired, mischievous galaxies.

"I gave you everything you needed," she says. "The glitch. The reassignment. The umbrella. The bed. What more do you want--skywriting?"

Amy H. tries to speak, but her throat's dry.

Amy P. finds her voice first. "Why us?"

Eudora shrugs. "Because you're the good kind of mess. The real kind. And because you keep waiting for a sign, and darling--I am the sign."

Amy H. swallows. "This isn't real."

"Oh," Eudora says gently. "But it is."

She stands, impossibly graceful, toes brushing the carpet like she's skimming the edge of a dream. She pockets the phone-that-isn't yet and tugs her hoodie down like she's about to step outside for a smoke.

"You're not ready," she says. "Not tonight. But you're closer than you think."

Amy P. stares at her. "How do you know?"

Eudora's smile is all teeth and tenderness. "Because you almost reached for her while she was sleeping."

Amy P.'s breath catches.

Amy H. turns, stunned. "You did?"

Amy P. doesn't look at her. Just nods. Once.

Eudora is already fading. Blinking out like a cursor in a draft never sent.

Before she disappears, she whispers--almost affectionately--

"Try not to waste tomorrow."

Then she's gone.

No sparkle. No sound cue. Just absence.

The room hums with silence again.

Amy P. sits stiffly, legs pulled up, arms around her knees.

Amy H. looks at her, not touching, not pushing. Just watching her face in the dark.

Amy P. whispers, "I didn't know if I could."

Amy H. whispers back, "You can."

But still--they don't touch.

They lie back down, slower this time. Softer. Facing each other now, barely a hand's width between.

And they fall asleep like that. Eyes open. Then closed. Breath syncing up. The air still heavy with want.

But they don't fuck.

Not tonight.

Tonight was the dare.

Tomorrow will be the answer.

... and then it was Tomorrow

The hotel's continental breakfast smells like waffle batter, powdered eggs, and false hope. The kind of spread that's supposed to inspire team spirit but mostly inspires resignation.

Amy H. is already at a table, a cup of coffee in both hands like it's a lifeline. She's wearing a sweater she doesn't remember packing. Her hair's still damp from a too-quick shower. She doesn't feel rested. She doesn't feel tired, either. Just suspended.

Amy P. arrives a few minutes later, tray in hand. Oatmeal. Black coffee. One half of a banana. She scans the room, then moves without thinking--to Amy H.'s table. It doesn't even register as a choice.

"Hey," she says, sliding into the chair across from her.

"Hey."

There's something in the air between them. Something unfinished. But neither of them can say what. The memory of the night before feels strange--like looking at something underwater. Shimmering. Distorted. Not gone, but not available.

They eat. Sip. Don't talk about the bed. Don't talk about the space between their bodies. Don't talk about how they both woke up too early and just lay there in the dark.

The "Maximizing Cross-Team Alignment" breakout is being held in a carpeted meeting room with no windows and a screen that keeps flickering like it's trying to escape.

Amy P. takes notes. Amy H. doesn't.

The facilitator talks about communication silos and proactive transparency.

Amy H. thinks about Amy P.'s hand--how close it is to her thigh. How still she sits. How focused. And how her mouth twitches, just barely, when she disagrees with something on the slides.

She wants to ask her what she's thinking. She wants to say, Hey, what happened last night? But the words won't come.

Amy P. watches a paper cup on the table tremble slightly when someone shifts their weight. Watches Amy H. out of the corner of her eye. Thinks about how quiet she was at breakfast. Thinks about saying something. Anything.

But she doesn't.

They make it to lunch. Then to the next panel.

It rains harder.

The afternoon workshop breaks. "Optional Networking" hour.

Amy H. slips outside. Just needs air. Space. Something not beige.

She stands near the edge of the patio under the covered awning, watching the rain slice sideways across the concrete. Her arms are folded. The wind hits just wrong and the chill cuts deep. She doesn't care.

She doesn't hear Amy P. until she's close.

"Too much synergy for one day?"

Amy H. turns. Amy P.'s holding a cup of coffee, wrapped in both hands. Her cardigan's getting damp at the cuffs, but she doesn't seem to mind.

Amy H. exhales. "I just needed to not be in that room."

Amy P. nods. "Yeah."

They stand like that for a beat. Then another. The silence doesn't stretch awkward--it stretches intimate. Like a shared blanket.

Finally, Amy H. says, "You feel weird today?"

Amy P. blinks. "Yeah. Thought it was just me."

Amy H. looks at her. "It's not."

Amy P. stares into her coffee. Rain hits the edge of her shoe. "I feel like we're standing in the middle of something and pretending it's not there."

Amy H. watches her. Quiet. Open. "Yeah."

Another beat.

Then Amy P. says, without looking up, "Last night. I almost said something. But I didn't know if I was dreaming."

Amy H. swallows. "Me too."

They look at each other.

The rain gets heavier.

Amy H. takes one small step closer--not touching, not yet. Just closing the air a little.

Amy P. doesn't move away.

"I don't want to fuck this up," Amy P. says.

Amy H. says, "Then don't."

And they just stand there, side by side in the New York rain, coffee cooling in their hands, breath visible in the chill, hearts pounding too loud to pretend they're calm.

They don't kiss.

They don't fuck.

They just look at each other and let the wanting be real.

It's just before dawn. That violet hour when the city hasn't quite woken up but the darkness has already started to pull back its shadowed edges.

Amy P. is awake first.

She doesn't move, not really. Just watches Amy H.--sleep-mussed, one hand still loosely holding hers from the night before.

The silence is different now.

Not screaming.

Not waiting.

Just... full.

Amy H.'s lashes flutter. She blinks awake, and when her eyes meet Amy P.'s, there's no panic. No shock. Just recognition. Like yes. You're still here.

Amy P. leans in first. Not all the way. Just enough to give permission.

Amy H. doesn't hesitate. She meets her there.

Their lips brush once. Feather-soft. Just a test. Then again, firmer. Surer. Their bodies angle toward each other like plants reaching for light.

Clothes become afterthoughts. Not torn, not ripped away--just slid. Reverent. Undone with care. Like unwrapping something precious you didn't believe was really yours.

Amy P. whispers, "Are you sure?"

Amy H. breathes, "Yes."

Hands map skin like memory. Like prayer.

There's laughter--quiet and close-mouthed--when Amy P.'s knee bumps the corner of the bedframe. There's a gasp when Amy H.'s fingers trace the curve of Amy P.'s hip, slow as breath. There are pauses. Hesitations. But not the bad kind. The kind that says: You matter. I want to do this right.

They move slowly. Like the moment itself might shatter if handled too rough. Like time has bent around them, offering this hour as a gift.

There's no script.

Just moans like confessions.

Kisses like punctuation.

Fingers trembling not from nerves but from relief.

Amy P. cries, just a little, not from pain. From the impossible truth of being seen. Amy H. kisses the tear away like it's sacred.

They don't chase climax.

They arrive at it.

Together.

And when it happens--when the air splits and bodies break open--it's not a scream. It's not fireworks.

It's a stillness so deep, it feels like the world has exhaled around them.

EUDORA

She's standing in the corner, arms crossed, trying very hard to pretend she's only here to monitor outcomes.

Her tablet glows with performance metrics. Engagements initiated. Internal growth. A graph shaped like a blooming flower.

"Okay," she mutters, shifting her weight, "this is fine. This is work. This is impact. This is why I have a Q4 bonus structure."

The sex is slow. Honest. Fucking gorgeous. She bites her knuckle. "Deos, I need a promotion."

She tries to look away.

She really does.

But she's invested. Deeply.

This isn't voyeurism.

It's quality control.

She opens her divine Slack channel.

Eudora (Minor Goddess of Scheduling Conflicts):

Client conversion achieved. Target connection met. Emotional resonance confirmed.

Also: They're beautiful and I might cry.

She logs the event.

Stamps it with a glowing sigil shaped like a little paperclip and a post-it note.

Then, just as the women settle into each other--foreheads pressed, limbs tangled, sleep pulling at them like an undertow--Eudora turns.

She leaves the room barefoot, soft-footed, humming a tune that hasn't been heard in centuries.

And maybe, just maybe, she gives them a day off the calendar. An extra Sunday.

Just to let them stay in bed a little longer.

The carpet is that weirdly plush kind that eats footfall. The walls shift color depending on who's walking past--pastels for Penelope, grayscale for Sappho, migraine-inducing neon for Damarion.

Eudora's striding down it barefoot, hoodie unzipped, hair wild with afterglow energy. She's got a spring in her step and a coffee in one hand, still hot, even though she hasn't poured it yet.

She just left Room 224.

Left them tangled, sleeping, whole.

Job: done.

And waiting by the vending machine, silk wrapped around her fingers, a needle tucked behind her ear like a pen: Arachne.

God of threads. Weaver of fate. Patron saint of "you pulled one string too many."

She's wearing a blazer made of webbing and chewing gum. Her nails are sharp and perfect. She raises one brow as Eudora approaches.

"You done meddling?" she asks, voice cool, threading.

"Please," Eudora says, setting her coffee on the machine without looking. "That was project execution."

"They're in bed."

"They're in love." Eudora grins like she hasn't slept in days but it was worth it. "Also, the retreat got canceled for everyone else. Broken HVAC. Real shame."

A beat.

Arachne smirks. "You're such a bitch."

"And you love me."

They don't hug.

They don't bow.

They high-five.

It snaps like a filament pulled tight and cut clean. Power arcs between their palms--gold, white, silk, lightning--and somewhere on Earth, a dozen calendar invites dissolve into confetti.

Eudora picks up her coffee again. Sips. "That one's going in my portfolio."

Arachne rolls her eyes. "Just don't start a newsletter."

"Oh honey," Eudora says, already vanishing into mist and chaos and a digital trail of half-saved drafts, "I am the newsletter."

And the hallway resets itself.

One more love story stitched into the seams of the world.