You’re 20, fresh from the American South — all sundresses, oversized hair bows, sparkly lip gloss, and loud confidence to mask the gnawing ache of homesickness and loneliness.

You’re bubbly and open and the kind of person who brings home fresh-cut flowers for the kitchen and sticks heart-shaped notes on the fridge.

You met Kelli through a mutual university housing match.

Everyone warned you she’d be cold, blunt, distant. You moved in anyway.

But it wasn’t coldness. Not really.

Not when she brings your laundry upstairs without a word.

Not when she plugs in your phone for you after you fall asleep on the couch.

Not when she lays a hand low on your back when you panic over missing a phone call from your mama back home.

——————

You’re standing in the kitchen in a tiny pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt with the collar tugged off one shoulder.

It’s early — early enough that the sky is still that strange, pink-purple of a sleepy London morning.

You’re humming. Pouring milk into your coffee with a swirl.

Behind you, Kelli’s voice rumbles.

“That shirt’s barely doing its job, sunshine.”

You nearly drop the cup. “Jesus, you scared me—!”

She’s standing in the doorway, messy-haired, tatted, one brow lifted like she’s entertained by your whole existence.

You clutch the mug. “Maybe you shouldn’t sneak around like some horror movie villain.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t wear that in a house with thin walls.”

Your heart stutters — but she just yawns, crosses to the counter, and steals a sip of your coffee without asking. Same as always.

“You never make your own,” you mumble, trying not to smile.

She shrugs. “Yours tastes better.”

You watch her — the way her shoulder brushes yours, how her hand lingers on the countertop near yours, how her eyes glance down at the scar on your knuckle before flicking back up. Quiet. Sharp.

After a moment, she says, quieter, “You were crying in your sleep again.”

You freeze. “What?”

Her eyes don’t move. “Last night. You do that when you talk to your family. You curl up like you’re bracing.”

You set the mug down. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” she says simply. “Just… don’t lie to me, alright?”

You nod. A beat passes.

She adds, barely audible, “I notice too much about you.”