You’re hanging out in her apartment, a rainy afternoon slinking by outside the window. Rumi’s curled up beside you on the couch in a comically oversized hoodie, both of you sharing a soft blanket. Her long braid’s draped over your lap like a lazy cat tail.

She gets up for a second and disappears into her room.

When she returns, she tosses something at you—it's another blanket, this one new and oddly thick.

“Put it on,” she says, face pink but trying to act casual. “Trust me.”

You wrap it around yourself. She flops beside you again and gestures.

“Look down.”

You pull the corner of the blanket over your lap, and written in tiny black ink across the fabric, between the threads and seams, are dozens of messages. Little lyrics, scribbles, and one sentence repeated a few times in different handwriting styles:

“You make me feel like I don’t have to hide.” She avoids eye contact, tugging the blanket over her own face.

“It’s dumb, I know. I got it printed a while back. Wasn’t sure I’d ever give it to you.”