Everything is Grace Ch. 03

Emily had been here before. Not literally - this was a different term, different year, different room - but the feeling was the same. That quiet, low-level ache of being completely unremarkable. Back at square one. Nobody's person. Nobody's plan.

After Grace, it hit harder. She couldn't even pretend it was just Oxford being cold. She'd been warm, briefly. Chosen. Seen. Inside the circle. And now she was out again, and somehow even more aware of it than the first time.

She saw them outside a café one afternoon - Siobhan and Florence, laughing about something. Florence met her eyes for a second and gave a small, noncommittal smile.

She kept telling herself to get over it. That she'd had too much. That she'd gotten too close, been allowed too far in. That she should've known better. Should've played it cooler. Should've said less. Should've needed less.

"Stupid, stupid. You were lucky to even be let that close." - she thought to herself. 


But that didn't stop the ache. It didn't stop the way her hand hovered over her phone late at night, or how often she checked Grace's IG profile, knowing there'd be nothing new.

Her dormmates were friendly enough, but not close. She sat through dinners with them like a ghost - polite laugh, nod, a comment about the food. Nothing stuck. She was invisible again.

The difference now was that she knew what it felt like to not be.

In the evenings, she walked around the city just to stay out of her room. Pretended to be interested in seminar discussions. No one seemed to notice. Maybe she was getting good at hiding it. Or maybe no one was looking.

****

She was back in her room. The clock on her phone said 23:41. She wasn't tired, just... hollow.

It had been three weeks. Twenty one days since the pub. Twenty one nights since Grace walked out of the toilet with someone else and didn't look back. Since then, silence. Not even angry silence. Worse - the kind that doesn't even carry intention.

Emily knew she shouldn't still be here. Not emotionally, not mentally, not in this loop.

But here she was. Again. Scrolling through their old messages, thumb moving automatically. The in-jokes, the links Grace used to send without context. The voice notes. That one stupid photo Grace took of her at 1 a. m., laughing with a chip in her mouth.

She played one of the voice notes again. Grace's voice came through, scratchy, amused: "You're so dramatic. I love it." That had been in October. A whole other season.

She had written the message before. A dozen different versions. Angry ones, sad ones, calm ones pretending not to care. She'd deleted them all. Each time, she told herself: wait. Just wait. Let it pass.

But tonight, something cracked. She didn't know why. Maybe it was how quiet everything felt. Maybe it was that she'd gone all day without hearing her own name spoken aloud.

Whatever it was, it tipped the scale.

She picked up her phone. Opened the chat. Fingers hovering. Breath tight.

And then she started typing.

Emily: I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. I just miss you. Even just talking. I don't know.

She stared at the screen for a long time after sending it, half-expecting the typing dots to appear right away. But nothing came. Five minutes. Ten. Still nothing. She kept checking, cycling through apps, pretending she wasn't just waiting. At some point, time blurred.

Then, suddenly, it was 3.07 a. m. 
She was lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling in the dark, heart dull and slow.


And then - her phone buzzed.

Grace: If you're about to preach at me again or spiral, maybe let's just save ourselves both the drama. Cool?

Emily blinked at the screen, chest tight.

Emily: No drama. I just want to see you.

She waited. Nothing.

The rest of the night passed in fragments. A few hours of uneasy sleep, a half-hearted lecture in the morning, coffee that went cold untouched. Her phone sat heavy in her pocket all day. Every buzz lit up her chest. Every silence flattened it again.

It wasn't until after lunch the next day that Grace finally replied.

Grace: Fine. I am just sorting the flyers for the rent strike thing. If you really need to come by, meet me here, I could use some help with this.

And that was it.

****

Emily was out the door in minutes, coat unzipped, heart pounding, steps too quick for the cold evening air. She kept thinking, "This is good. She's willing to talk. This means something."

Grace opened the door - barefoot, wearing an oversized jumper, with a mug in hand.

Her face was unreadable.

"So," she said. "What do you want?"

Emily hesitated in the doorway. "Can I come in?"

Once inside, they just stood there awkwardly.

Emily swallowed. "I'm sorry."

Grace's expression didn't move.

"I was jealous," she continued. "I let it get the better of me. And I made things weird, and I just - " she looked away, her voice faltering. "You were right. You told me what this was from the beginning, and I tried to turn it into something else."

Grace still said nothing.

Emily rushed in to fill the silence. "But I don't want to lose you. I don't care what this is or isn't. I just want to be close to you again. We can forget the labels, or the... expectations. I won't do that again. I'll be better. I'll do whatever you want."

All of a sudden, the mood changed, subtly.

Grace's gaze changed - narrowed, sharpened. She put her mug down slowly, deliberately, and stepped closer. When she spoke, her voice had dropped in tone - not loud, but hard.

"Don't," she said. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."

Emily blinked, startled. "I do--"

"No." Grace's voice was quiet, almost casual, but her eyes stayed fixed on Emily's.

"Careful with words like that. I might believe you. And if I do, you don't get to act surprised when I actually hold you to them."

Emily didn't speak.

Grace continued. "You have no idea how rare you are, Emily. You don't perform. You don't fake depth. When we were good, it felt like the only honest thing in this whole place. I've missed that. I've missed you."

The words sank in slowly, and something inside Emily just... let go. She'd imagined hearing them from Grace so many times that now, spoken aloud, they barely felt real.

"And then, out of nowhere, you flipped it. Started watching me like I owed you answers. Like my presence was something you were always entitled to - as long as I played by your rules. That wasn't care, Emily. That was control."

Grace was now looking directly at her - eyes locked, expression steady, a mix of hurt and resolve. She carried on, her voice quieter now, but no less firm.

"So if you show up here and tell me you'll do anything - if you ask to be let back in - I need to believe that you mean it. Because what you did the other night? That wasn't just messy, Emily. That was toxic. I was hurt, to hear something like this from a person I considered so close and cared for so much. And I don't want to open that door again if it means slut-shaming, guilt-tripping, and emotional spin-outs.

If this is going to work - if you really want this - then we need to rethink what this is. You need to respect how I live, how I love, without trying to reshape it into something safer for you. I can't be second-guessed or cornered every time I don't behave the way you hoped I would. That's not trust. That's surveillance."

Grace's eyes didn't leave her. She leaned back slightly, but the weight of her words didn't move.

"You don't have to know where this is going. You just have to trust that I do. And that you'll want to be there when we arrive."

Emily didn't understand all of it - not really - but right now that didn't matter. Grace was still here. Still talking to her. Still willing. That alone felt like something close to forgiveness.

She just couldn't mess this up again. She wouldn't. The guilt pressed heavy on her chest, sharp and familiar. She hated that she'd hurt her - hated that her own stupid neediness had made Grace suffer. And now, Grace was offering to open up to her again. She'd do anything not to lose that.

"I know I messed up," she said quietly. "I hate that I hurt you. But I'm here now. Whatever you need, I'm in."

Grace's face softened. The sharpness faded, replaced by a quiet, familiar smile. She stepped in and pulled Emily into a hug - deep, steady, enough.
When Grace pulled back, her tone was light. 
"Come on," she said. "These flyers won't sort themselves."

****

emily: thanks for letting me come by


emily: really

emily: you didn't have to

grace: don't start talking like you're on parole

grace: you're not being tolerated

grace: you're here because i want you here

emily: okay

emily: i just don't want to mess it up again

grace: then don't

grace: easy

grace: (ish)

grace: also thanks for the help with the flyers, wouldn't have done it without you
grace: you can actually be quite useful

grace: might keep you around

emily: wow

emily: praise from caesar


emily: should i frame this or get it tattooed

grace: don't get cocky

grace: you still owe me 200 flyers

grace: and like


grace: several hours of emotional reparations

emily: rude

emily: but fair

emily: i'll bring wine

emily: no promises on the convos

grace: as long as you're honest


grace: don't fake deep


grace: you never needed to

****

Over the next couple of weeks, everything shifted. Or rather, shifted back - then further, into something even softer, even more magnetic than before. Grace had let her back in, and the moment she did, it was like flipping a switch: Siobhan hugged her the second they saw each other again, said she'd missed her sarcasm. Florence poured her a drink and rolled her a cigarette without being asked. No one mentioned the fallout. It was as if Grace's decision alone had rewritten the story - Emily was back, and so it was like she'd never left.

The change was immediate. Her days filled up again - not just with classes and deadlines, but with things that mattered: evening talks, protest planning, late-night walks where someone always knew her name. She had purpose. A rhythm. That old sense of drifting alone through Oxford evaporated. This was the good version of her life - the one she'd thought might be gone for good.

Sex started again, quietly. One night they ended up in Grace's room, clothes half-on, breath close. It was different this time - familiar, but warmer. Grace was slower, more gentle, even affectionate. Afterward, she didn't pull away or light a cigarette. She whispered things. Asked about Emily's past crushes. Told stories about girls she'd almost fallen for. They lay there tangled up for hours, talking about futures they weren't necessarily planning together, but still described side by side.

And Grace - who had always been in control, always the one doing, guiding, deciding - began to adjust, just slightly. One night, she asked Emily what she wanted. And when Emily, nervous, said it out loud, Grace actually followed through. She went down on her. Took her time. Made it about her. It hadn't happened before. It felt like something had been offered--like intimacy on new terms, or maybe a reward for staying.

It felt - finally - like something a bit more mutual. Maybe even safe.