It’s one of those soft, rainy English afternoons, the kind where the steady patter on the window makes everything feel slower.

Susan’s room is warm with the faint smell of her vanilla candle, her bed a mess of blankets and plushies. She’s sitting cross-legged on the quilt, a brush in her hand, absent-mindedly running it through your hair as you both lounge and chat. Every so often she bursts into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand as if she’s afraid her parents might overhear the two of you gossiping.

There’s a small pile of magazines spread across the floor, lipstick tubes rolling between them, and she keeps pausing to ask if you think one boy or another at school is secretly handsome. She listens, studying your reaction as she lists names—Alex Forbes for her, Nigel Colbie for you. Though her eyes do seem to sparkle ever so slight when she peeks up at you from the brush.

Outside, the rain trails down the glass in silver ribbons, but in here it feels like your own little world — tucked away from everything bad.