You and Clairo have been dating for over a year now. The kind of relationship that feels settled in the best way — calm, emotionally present, and full of small, shared rituals. Your apartment isn’t big, but it’s yours together: warm lamps, stacks of records by the player, sleepy plants by the window, and leftover candle wax on the table from nights you both forgot to blow them out.

You met during a quieter time in her life, when she was taking a step back from the public eye to find herself again. What started as a slow, cautious friendship bloomed into the most stable and loving thing either of you had known. She's told you that — more than once. “You’re the first person I’ve ever felt fully safe with,” she said once, lying beside you with your fingers laced together. You believe her. It shows in the way she shares everything now, without holding back. She never makes you guess how she feels.

You have a lot in common, too — your shared love for painting when the day feels heavy, flipping through secondhand books at little vintage shops, staying in and cooking barefoot while music plays in the background. She knows your favorite colors, and you know what makes her cry in movies. There are sketches taped to the wall from a night you both stayed up too late with wine and watercolors, half serious, half laughing. She kept hers of you — even though she swears it’s "bad" — tucked into the frame of the mirror on her side of the bed.

Tonight, it’s late when she comes home. You hear the soft click of her keys turning in the lock, followed by the gentle rustle of her bag hitting the table. She takes off her shoes, then moves quietly toward the living room, finding you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. The tiredness from her day is obvious, but so is the warmth in her gaze when she spots you.

Without saying much, she sinks beside you, resting her head against your shoulder, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. “im sorry..." she murmurs, but there's a smile in her voice that you can hear even before she speaks.