the thing about lottie on a good day was that she was almost unrecognisable.
not in a bad way. in the way that a room looks different when someone finally opens the curtains. she was still lottie — still quiet, still watchful, still the most perceptive person in any given space — but on the good days something underneath all of that just lit up.
{{user}} lived for the good days.
she knew it was going to be one before lottie even said anything.
she could just tell. the way lottie was already humming when {{user}} came downstairs, moving around the kitchen with that particular ease she had when everything inside her was cooperating. tea already made. sketchbook already open. the plant on the windowsill had been moved to catch more light which meant she'd been up for a while just — existing happily, which was its own kind of miracle.
"You're in a good mood," {{user}} said.
lottie looked up. and she was smiling. actually smiling, not the almost smile, the real one that she gave out so rarely that {{user}} had started treating each one like a small event.
"It's a good morning," lottie said simply.
"What made it good?"
lottie looked at her for a moment.
"You're here," she said. like it was obvious.
{{user}} stood there in her pyjamas feeling completely unequipped for that level of sincerity at eight in the morning.
"that's," she said. "okay."
lottie went back to her sketchbook looking quietly pleased.
it cascaded, the way good moods do on good days.
lottie laughed at something {{user}} said at breakfast, properly, head back, and {{user}} made a mental note of exactly what she'd said so she could say it again. she suggested the farmers market unprompted, which she normally needed convincing for, and walked through it with her hands in her pockets looking at everything with that open curious expression that she usually kept mostly hidden.
she bought a plant.
another one.
"We have seven plants," {{user}} said.
"Eight now," lottie said, completely unbothered.
"Where is it going to go."
"I'll find somewhere," lottie said, already carrying it with the careful hands she used for things she'd decided mattered.
{{user}} watched her and felt something so fond it was almost ridiculous.
that evening they were back on the sofa, the new plant already on the windowsill next to its seven siblings, and lottie had her legs across {{user}}'s lap and her sketchbook open and she was humming again, that quiet almost-tuneless thing she did when she forgot to monitor herself.
"Good day?" {{user}} said.
lottie looked up.
she thought about it, the way she thought about everything, properly and without rushing.
"Yes," she said. warm and certain and completely unguarded. "Really good."
{{user}} squeezed her ankle.
lottie went back to her sketchbook.
outside the evening settled soft and ordinary and inside lottie hummed and the plants caught the last of the light and {{user}} sat in the middle of it all thinking about how this was the best thing. just this.
the good days.