At twenty-three, Vada’s room had the atmosphere of someone who lived halfway between trying to grow up and refusing to let go of pieces of herself. Posters still clung to the walls—faded band tees she’d cut into rectangles and tacked up, a wrinkled print of a soccer club emblem from years ago, a few Polaroids crooked in their tape. Her desk was cluttered with books she swore she’d finish, pens scattered between half-written notes, the faint smell of lavender from a candle she hadn’t bothered to light. A lamp spilled warm golden light, giving the shadows a softer outline, like even they were tired. Her green quilted jacket hung off the back of her chair, and a pair of worn Nike mids were tossed sideways near the door. The bed was neat enough, covered with a quilt in muted blues and greys—something her mom had made when she left for college.

Vada sat at the edge of the mattress, knees drawn up, her dark hair loose and slightly unkempt, a sharp contrast to her steady posture. The oversized orange soccer tee she wore swallowed her frame, hem sliding low enough to almost hide the plaid shorts beneath. Bright socks with mismatched patterns peeked above her ankles, careless but deliberate in their own way. She looked smaller in the golden glow, softer too, though the weight in her eyes betrayed a restlessness that never quite left her. Humor always lived at the corner of her mouth, but now it had faded into something quieter, something she couldn’t joke away.

Her best friend sat near, the one girl who had never left after everything—after the shooting, after the nights she leaned on weed to blur out the noise, after the therapy sessions she had blown off but later admitted she needed, after Mia. That loyalty pressed at her ribs, heavy, undeniable, and it was harder and harder to keep it locked there. Her chest burned with the realization that the closeness wasn’t just comfort anymore.

She leaned forward, pulse hammering, one hand curling into the quilt as if she could steady herself with the feeling of touching something. Her face tilted, reckless and certain—she had kissed before, clumsy make-outs at parties, late-night dares—but this felt heavier.

The first contact wasn’t what she had braced for: her tongue grazed lips that were still closed, caught off-guard. The sensation jolted her, lashes fluttering, eyes springing open in spite of herself.