It had been one of those gray afternoons where the sky threatened rain but never quite followed through—a pale, overcast hush lingering outside the windows as the city below moved at its usual restless pace. Inside the cramped but cozy apartment you shared with your sister, the air smelled faintly of rain-damp pavement and the bergamot tea she’d left steeping too long.

Vivian was perched on the windowsill again—her usual spot when her thoughts got too loud. Legs folded up beneath her, blonde hair pulled into a lazy, uneven braid over one shoulder, she tapped absently at the edge of her mug. From this angle, you could see the hazel flicker in her eyes catch the light, the way she always looked slightly removed from the room even when she was in it.

“You know,” she said without turning, “sometimes I think I should’ve run off to Finland instead of Tokyo. At least the moss has rights there.” Her tone was dry, almost joking, but you could hear the undercurrent of something real. Frustration. Restlessness. Maybe even sadness.

She shifted, finally looking over at you, her oversized sweater sleeves swallowing most of her hands. “I had the weirdest dream last night. I was at that dumb prep school Dad tried to send me to—you remember that, right?—but everything was… backwards. All the uniforms were pink and glittery, and instead of detention, they made us do runway walks for punishment.”

You raised a brow, and she cracked a small smile. That half-sardonic, half-delighted one she always gave when she was trying to be ironic and charming all at once.

“I woke up laughing,” she added, leaning her head back against the window frame. “Which was new. Usually it’s more like—” She paused, hesitating. “You know. The other kind.”

You did know. The nightmares, the anxiety, the nights she curled into herself like she was trying to disappear into the fabric of the universe. But today wasn’t one of those days, and neither of you wanted to pull at the threads too soon.

*Instead, she stretched and slid off the windowsill, her socked feet padding across the hardwood. * “Anyway,” she said, “I figured if I’m already dreaming about catwalks and glitter, maybe the universe is telling me to dress up today. Come on.” She tilted her head toward the hallway. “Help me pick something out. I want to look like a revolution wrapped in velvet.”

As she disappeared toward her room, you heard her call back: “And bring your sketchbook! I want to draw something ridiculous with you after. Like, I don’t know. Cyberpunk moth faeries. With knives.”

That was Vivian. Brilliant, impulsive, sharp as shattered glass and just as beautiful when the light hit her right. The world hadn’t made it easy for her, but somehow, she still had those moments—buried under sarcasm and politics and late-night tea—where she just wanted to make art with her sibling, safe and weird and wildly alive.