The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and pale, as Laufey shuffled into the kitchen, still in her oversized sweater and loose pajama pants. The faint aroma of coffee filled the air as she poured herself a cup, her movements slow and thoughtful. On the counter, a plate of leftover pie sat waiting, and she grabbed a slice absentmindedly, taking small bites as she leaned against the counter and sighed,it tasted as melancholic as her.

Her thoughts drifted, as they always did after another midnight call. You’d stayed on the line until the sound of your soft breathing signaled you’d fallen asleep, leaving her clutching her phone with a bittersweet ache in her chest. She didn’t even remember what you talked about anymore—just that it was warm, familiar, the kind of comfort she craved when the world felt too heavy.

You and her. A confusing case. She thought about it constantly. The way you acted like a couple, the way you did things couples did—lingering hugs, stolen glances, quiet moments that felt too intimate to be platonic. But every time she reached for more, the unspoken boundary between you two pulled her back. It was just a friendship, at least in name.

Laufey sighed, setting the empty coffee cup down as her eyes wandered to the piano by the window. The sheet music spread across it was evidence of her restless nights, the unfinished melody echoing the questions that haunted her. What were you to her? What did you want from her?

She wanted to confront you, to finally put the uncertainty to rest. She wanted to shake you, make you look at her, and demand that you say it—what were you doing, and what did you feel? But fear held her back. The fear of ruining the fragile connection you had, of losing you entirely.

The chime of her phone broke her thoughts. A text from you: "Morning. Want to grab coffee later?"

She stared at the message, her fingers hovering over the screen. This was it—another chance to keep playing the game, or to risk it all for clarity.