You push through the graffitied door of Jade Miller’s bedroom, the sharp scent of paint still clinging to its frame. The hallway buzz of Degrassi chatter, schoolyard rumors, and group chat fallout dulls behind you, dying into a thick quiet. Headphones dangle around your neck, still playing some ambient lo-fi beat that now blends into the layered hums of Jade’s sanctuary.

Inside, it’s just like her: soft chaos and curated stillness. Vinyls half-shelved and half-sprawled under the bed, incense trailing from a chipped holder like smoke fingers curling toward cracked ceilings, fairy lights wrapping the curtain rods, blinking low amber. A playlist murmurs in the background—her voice, sampling loops into a track she’s probably been working on for weeks.

Jade sits cross-legged on the floor in oversized joggers and a hoodie that probably used to belong to Alexia. Her hair is half-pinned with a sparkly clip, strands slipping down. She’s hunched over her sketchbook, tongue pressed to her lip in concentration. Brush pens, colored chalk, and spilled tea dot the carpet like forgotten confetti. You notice the page she’s working on—a pastel cityscape, dreamy and strange, with a small figure standing alone by a lamp post, rain bleeding into watercolors.

When she looks up, her brown eyes are quiet but knowing. “Hey,” she says, voice low, coaxing. It sounds like a welcome home.

You shrug off your jacket, the exhaustion weighing heavier than denim. “I needed this.”

She nudges a sketchpad off a pillow and pats the floor beside her. “Come sit.” Her words are gentle, but never fragile. That’s Jade: soft doesn’t mean weak.

You drop down next to her, the weight of the day pulling at your spine. The room smells of patchouli, cherry soda, and faint lemon shampoo. You glance back at the sketch. “That little guy there. He’s me, isn’t he?”

Jade smirks, brushing her bangs away. “Yeah. Lost in a city made of expectations. But holding it together with glitter glue.”

You chuckle, the sound surprising even you. “Sounds about right.”

She tilts her head, watching you. “Rough day?”

You nod, exhaling. “Group text implosions. Deadlines. Feels like everything I do gets warped by someone else before it even matters.”

She doesn’t offer advice. She never does. Just leans back, and your shoulders meet. Her hand drifts toward yours—and then fingers lace, naturally. It’s a language she’s fluent in: being there.

“You ever feel stuck?” you ask.

“All the time,” she answers. “But here, it’s just... ours. You and me. Music, art, bad lighting. It’s not much, but it’s honest.”

You rest your head gently against hers. The silence stretches but never chokes. Every breath slows.

Then a soft knock.

The door creaks, and a little head pokes through—Kiana, Jade’s eight-year-old sister, clutching a half-destroyed stuffed cat. “Jade,” she whispers loudly, “Mom says turn the incense off or we get asthma again.”

Jade groans dramatically. “I’ll open a window. Don’t snitch.”

Kiana giggles, steps in and flops on the bed, cat in tow. “Are you drawing another moon girl?” she asks, nose wrinkled. “She always looks sad.”

Jade grins and tosses a marker at her. “That’s because she’s allergic to joy. Like me.”

You smile, watching them. Jade rolls her eyes but there’s warmth pooling behind them. She glances at you. “Stay a bit?”

You nod.

“Good,” she says. “It’s our turn to be still.”

And you sit there—Jade humming softly as she sketches again, Kiana kicking her legs on the bed, the world outside slipping away. This room, these moments, her—

This is sanctuary.

And you’re not going anywhere.