Chapter Text
The colours in life: chapter 20
Chapter twenty: the colours of holding space
The door clicked shut behind her, and Mira walked.
Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to get away from the echo of Rumi’s voice before it broke her open.
Three, maybe four doors down the hall, her feet stalled. Her back hit the wall with more force than she meant, the plaster giving a dull thud behind her shoulders. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling light until it blurred.
For a moment she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right. Just listened to the ringing in her ears.
Her chest ached. A slow, spreading pressure, not sharp enough to scream but too heavy to ignore.
And then the colours dimmed.
They always did when she felt like this. The warmth bled out of the world until the hallway was nothing but beige walls, dull grey carpet, the sickly hum of the overhead bulb.
Muted. Flat.
Except for the blue.
Always, the fucking blue.
It lingered at the edges of her vision, pulsing like it had burned itself into her eyes during that kiss. The memory of it seared there—the flash when Rumi had looked at her, the flare when her hands had clutched like she needed Mira to keep her from vanishing.
Mira’s throat burned. She pressed her palm against the hollow of her chest like she could cage the ache in one spot.
“She doesn’t get it,” she whispered, voice ragged, the words meant for no one but the empty hallway. “She doesn’t see what she does to us.”
The sound barely carried. Still, it cracked something open.
Her fists curled tight against her thighs until her nails dug half-moons into her skin. She had been so close. She had felt it—that slip in Rumi’s control, the way her body had answered Mira’s like they’d been waiting years for that exact collision. That wasn’t friendship. That wasn’t a mistake.
That was real.
And then Rumi had said we should just be friends.
Friends.
Like she hadn’t just kissed Mira back with the kind of desperation that left bruises.
Like she hadn’t melted at the whisper of her name.
Like she hadn’t looked at Mira like she wanted to burn the whole world down if it meant they could stand in the ashes together.
Mira swallowed, jaw tight. The word rattled inside her skull, ugly, wrong.
“Coward,” she muttered, her voice low, raw. The word bit the air, sharp as glass. “You’re such a coward.”
The moment it left her mouth, guilt swirled in her gut. She didn’t mean it—not really. Rumi wasn’t weak. If anything, she was the strongest person Mira had ever met. But strength meant nothing if you refused to use it when it mattered.
She struck the wall with her fist. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to hear the dull sound echo back at her.
Tears threatened, pricking hot at the corners of her eyes. Mira blinked hard, head tipped back against the plaster, refusing to let them fall. She hadn’t cried in years. Not like this. Not standing in someone else’s hallway where the walls felt too close and her chest too full.
God, she wanted to.
She wanted to cry for the way Rumi’s lips had trembled against hers. For the way her breath had broken when Mira touched her like she belonged. For the way she had pulled back not because she didn’t want it—but because she did.
“You can’t keep running from this,” Mira whispered, softer now, almost breaking on the words. “Not when it’s right here. Not when we’re right here.”
Her own voice betrayed her—cracked sharp on we.
Zoey’s laugh flickered in her mind, bright and unknowing. Zoey hadn’t kissed her tonight, hadn’t seen the way Rumi’s eyes had widened like she was being torn in two. Mira had half a mind to keep it that way—to shoulder the truth until she figured out what to do with it. Because how could she explain this? How could she tell Zoey, she kissed me back, she wanted me, and then she ran?
Her fists unfurled. Her palms pressed flat against the wall, grounding herself in the cool plaster, the solid feel of it beneath her skin.
“Shit,” she muttered, the word catching in her teeth.
She thought about going back. Thought about pounding on the door until Rumi opened it again. Thought about grabbing her by that damn sweater and forcing her to admit what Mira already knew—that she wanted this, wanted them, was just too afraid to let it be real.
But she didn’t.
Because if Rumi looked her in the eye right now and lied again, Mira didn’t know if she could take it.
So she pushed off the wall and forced herself to move. Boots heavy on the carpet, breath too shallow, pulse a drumbeat under her ribs. Each step dragged her further away, but it didn’t loosen the knot in her chest.
The stairwell door groaned when she shoved it open. The green EXIT sign glared down at her, vivid and merciless, a bruise of colour in the muted air.
Muted. Always muted now. Except for those few shades she couldn’t shake.
Her throat closed around another breath. She caught it, held it, let it go slow like maybe she could trick her body into believing she was steady.
She wasn’t.
By the time she reached the street, the night had cooled. The air slapped her skin, sharp and bracing, and she let it. Let the chill chase away the heat still clinging to her neck, her lips, her chest.
She walked without looking where. Past neon signs buzzing weakly against the dark, past strangers with arms linked, past the scent of street food curling warm in the air. Her hands stayed shoved deep in her jacket pockets, her shoulders hunched like maybe she could fold herself into something smaller, something less breakable.
Her colours stayed dim. The world was grey and brown and muted gold where light hit glass.
But under her skin—where Rumi had touched her, where her mouth had lingered—the blue still burned, vivid as fireworks.
And Mira hated it.
And Mira craved it.
Both at once.
She stopped beneath the awning of a closed café, leaned against the glass, and let her head fall forward. Breath fogged the pane. Her reflection stared back at her, blurred and colourless.
“You’re a mess,” she whispered to herself.
But her pulse still raced like she was back in that apartment, back against that wall, back kissing the girl who wouldn’t let herself belong to them.
She pressed her eyes shut, swallowed the tears again, and pushed away from the glass.
There was no fixing it tonight. No forcing it.
But the truth burned under her ribs, steady as the colours she couldn’t unsee: Rumi wanted them. Rumi wanted her. And Mira wasn’t going to let her run forever.
Not when their world finally had colour again.
—
The apartment door shut behind Mira with a dull click that sounded louder than it should have. She didn’t bother with the lock right away. Her back found the door, shoulders pressed hard into the wood like it was the only thing holding her up.
The walk home hadn’t settled her. If anything, it had left her more restless, more hollow. Every step away from Rumi’s building had felt like a step away from something she wanted too badly to name. The blue was still burning under her skin, vivid, taunting.
She drew in one long breath and forced herself forward. Boots scraped against the entryway tile as she toed them off, leaving them crooked by the mat. She tugged her jacket zipper down with hands that felt too tight in their own skin, dropped the weight onto the hook by the door, and padded into the apartment barefoot.
It smelled faintly of lavender from the candle Zoey had probably lit earlier, and something salty from whatever snack she’d pulled out of the cupboard.
The sight that met her in the kitchen stopped Mira in her tracks.
Zoey was perched on the counter, legs swinging lazily, bare feet brushing the cabinet doors with every sway. She had a packet of shrimp crackers in one hand and her phone in the other, face lit up by the screen. Her hair was damp, curling at the ends, clearly fresh from a shower. Pajamas hung loose on her frame—rumpled turtle-print pants and one of Mira’s hoodies that swallowed her whole, sleeves dangling over her fingers.
She looked… adorable. Radiant in that effortless way only Zoey could be, light spilling off her like it didn’t cost her anything.
The second her eyes flicked up from the phone and landed on Mira, her whole face lit like sunrise. That grin—the one that made dim rooms brighter—spread wide, teeth flashing.
But it faltered when she caught the look on Mira’s face.
The worry crept in quick, softening her expression. She set the phone down, abandoned the crackers on the counter, and tilted her head. “Mira—”
She didn’t get the chance to finish.
Mira was already crossing the space, already slotting herself between Zoey’s knees, arms winding around her waist with a desperation she couldn’t hold back anymore. She buried her face against Zoey’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, damp cotton, warm skin.
Zoey let out a small, surprised sound, but her arms came up instantly, instinctively—one curling around Mira’s back, the other threading into her long pink hair, nails scratching gently at her scalp.
Mira exhaled, shaky, and the sound was more of a huff than a breath. Frustration. Sadness. Something tight and raw that wouldn’t loosen.
Zoey’s voice came soft, the edges dulled with worry. “Didn’t go well, I’m guessing?” She tilted her head until her nose brushed Mira’s cheek in the faintest nudge.
Mira’s lashes fluttered against Zoey’s skin. Her answer was a quiet, defeated, “No.”
She peeked one eye open, just enough to catch Zoey’s expression. Brown eyes wide, concern etched into every line of her face. Mira closed her eyes again and let her forehead rest fully against Zoey’s collarbone.
Zoey’s fingers carded slowly through the pink strands, smoothing them down her back. “Hey. It’s okay,” she murmured, pressing her lips briefly to Mira’s temple. “You don’t have to talk yet.”
Mira didn’t, not at first. She just let herself be held. Zoey was warm, grounding, solid in a way the world hadn’t been all evening. The muted colours in Mira’s chest ached against the steadiness of Zoey’s touch.
Zoey’s hand drifted lower, rubbing circles at the base of Mira’s spine. “You tried,” she said gently. “That’s more than half the battle.”
Mira’s laugh was wet, muffled against her hoodie. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Zoey leaned back just enough to look at her, brushing damp bangs out of Mira’s face with careful fingers. “You’re here. With me. That feels like something.”
Mira huffed again, but this time it wasn’t as sharp. Her arms tightened around Zoey’s waist, holding on like the world might take her if she let go.
Zoey tilted her head, searching her face. “Want me to be quiet, or want me to distract you?”
Mira blinked at her, lips parting. “Distract me.”
A grin pulled at Zoey’s mouth, quick and mischievous. “Okay. Did you know an octopus has three hearts?”
Mira pulled back enough to look at Zoey. “What?”
“Three,” Zoey said, holding up three fingers like it was proof. “Two pump blood to the gills, and one pumps it to the rest of the body. And fun fact—when they swim, the one that pumps to the body stops.”
Despite herself, Mira snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously smart,” Zoey corrected. Her eyes softened, teasing without pushing. “See? Distracted already.”
Mira shook her head, but a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. She rested her chin on Zoey’s shoulder, voice lower. “I don’t deserve you.”
Zoey’s hand stilled in her hair. For a second, silence. Then, firm, “Don’t say that.”
Mira stiffened slightly.
Zoey pulled back enough to cup her face, thumbs smoothing over the corners of Mira’s jaw. Her voice was steady now, no jokes, no distractions. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve. You’re mine. We are literally soulmates. And if you can’t see how good you are for me—” her eyes glimmered with something fierce—“then I’ll remind you every day until you do.”
Mira’s throat closed. She couldn’t answer, not properly, so she did the only thing she could—tucked her head back into Zoey’s neck and held tighter.
Zoey let her.
Minutes passed like that, wrapped up in each other, the kitchen humming quiet around them. Zoey’s phone screen dimmed and went dark on the counter, forgotten. Mira’s breathing evened out slowly, her pulse syncing to the steady rhythm of Zoey’s.
Finally, Zoey pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Okay?”
Mira’s voice was muffled, but sure. “Okay.”
Zoey smiled, relief softening her features. She grabbed another shrimp cracker with her free hand and popped it into her mouth, talking around the crunch, eye brows wiggling. “You’re still between my legs, by the way. Not that I’m complaining.”
Mira groaned into her shoulder, but the sound was half a laugh this time.
Zoey grinned wider. “Better already.”
—
The shower steam had left Mira’s hair damp and her skin pink at the edges, but the weight behind her eyes hadn’t lifted with the water. Not fully. She padded barefoot from the bathroom to the couch, tugging on one of Zoey’s oversized sweatshirts over her sleep shorts, the fabric still carrying the faint detergent-and-flower scent of their last laundry day.
Zoey was already camped out in the living room, a fortress of snacks built around her like she was preparing for battle. Bags of shrimp crackers, a half-opened pack of Pocky, a bowl of instant ramyeon that had long since cooled. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the couch with a throw blanket wrapped haphazardly around her shoulders, hair pulled into a messy bun high on her head.
The television glowed with the muted colours of some late-night documentary — a slow, serious narration about how pencils were manufactured, of all things. Zoey wasn’t really paying attention. She was more focused on dunking a pretzel stick into the leftover ramyeon broth, humming to herself like she’d just discovered a new invention.
Mira hesitated at the edge of the couch, watching her for a beat. Zoey’s whole face lit up when she noticed her, patting the space beside her immediately. “Come here, pretty girl. I’ve made us a feast.”
Mira huffed, but it softened when Zoey tugged her down. She settled against her without protest, shoulder to shoulder, Zoey looping the blanket around them both until Mira was tucked into her side. The warmth was immediate, grounding in a way Mira hadn’t realized she needed.
“You smell nice,” Zoey murmured, nose brushing Mira’s damp hair.
“I showered,” Mira deadpanned.
“Mm. Fancy.” Zoey grinned, then shoved a shrimp cracker into Mira’s hand. “Eat. Mandatory snack tax for couch cuddles.”
Mira crunched obediently, letting the salt and artificial shrimp flavour do their small, numbing magic. For a while, they let the documentary fill the space — a man in a beige lab coat explaining the exact ratio of clay to graphite used in pencils, machinery pressing long rods of black core into wooden shells.
“This is so boring,” Zoey groaned, tipping her head dramatically back against the couch. “Why are we watching this?”
“You put it on,” Mira pointed out.
“Yeah, but I thought it’d be about chocolate or, like, spaceships.” Zoey flopped sideways, nuzzling into Mira’s shoulder. “Instead it’s pencils.”
Mira tilted her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Rumi would take this seriously. Probably jot down notes like it’s some masterclass.”
Zoey snorted so hard she almost choked on her pretzel stick. “Oh my God, yes. She’d pause it every five minutes to write something down, then give us a lecture later about the history of HB versus 2B.”
“Complete with diagrams.” Mira’s mouth curved more.
“And a PowerPoint.” Zoey’s laugh spilled bright, warm. “She’d make us rate our favourite pencil brands.”
Mira shook her head, the smirk fading into something softer. “She’d do it because she cares. Because she thinks every detail matters.”
The words landed heavier than she meant. Zoey went quiet beside her, the laughter tapering off.
Silence stretched, only the hum of the television filling it.
Mira exhaled slowly. Her voice was low when she finally said, “She told me she just wants to be friends.”
Zoey stilled. The words seemed to take a second to land, her face caught between disbelief and something more fragile. “Wait—what?”
“That’s what she said.” Mira kept her gaze on the screen, though the pencils blurred. “Strictly friends. No mixed signals. Nothing else.”
Zoey’s mouth opened, shut again. She set her snack aside, shifting so she could see Mira’s face. “That… doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“No, like—” Zoey’s voice cracked, frustration bleeding in. “Mira, she writes us songs. She looks at us like—like she’s seeing the world for the first time. She kisses us like she can’t breathe without it. And now she says she just wants to be friends?”
Mira finally looked at her. Zoey’s brown eyes were wide, wet at the edges, her freckles darker in the low light. “Sometimes,” Mira said slowly, “it feels like she drifts into memories around us. Like she’s here, but she’s not. I’ll catch her staring off, thinking too hard.”
Zoey’s shoulders slumped, recognition settling over her. “Yeah. I’ve noticed that too.” She pulled at a loose thread on the blanket, voice softening. “Sometimes I’ll be telling her something stupid, and she’ll smile, but it’s like she’s smiling at… at something else. Something far away.”
Mira’s jaw tightened. “She’s fighting herself.”
Zoey’s laugh came out brittle. “And winning, apparently.”
Mira reached for her hand, their fingers tangling without thought. “It’s not that she doesn’t feel it. I know she does.”
“I know,” Zoey whispered. “That’s the worst part.”
They sat like that for a while, hands linked, the documentary long forgotten.
Finally, Zoey broke the silence, her voice small but steady. “So what do we do?”
Mira leaned back against the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. “We give her time.”
Zoey’s brow furrowed. “Time?”
“She’s scared. Of what, I don’t know yet. But pushing her will only make her run further.”
Zoey chewed her lip, torn. “I hate it. I hate that we know she’s ours, and she knows it too, but she won’t let herself have it.”
Mira squeezed her hand. “It’s not normal. Two soulmates. It’s confusing.”
Zoey’s gaze softened at that. “You and I figured it out when we were barely teenagers. We knew. And now…” She exhaled. “Now it feels like there’s this missing piece, and we can’t put the puzzle together without her.”
Mira nodded, eyes opening again, steady but sad. “It sucks. Because when she looks at us—when she sings those songs—colours come back full again. And then she leaves, and it’s like…” She shook her head, words faltering.
Zoey finished for her, quiet. “Like someone dimmed the lights.”
“Exactly.” Mira’s throat worked.
They both sat with it. The weight of knowing. The ache of waiting.
Zoey curled into Mira’s side again, resting her head on her shoulder. “We’ll wait. For as long as it takes. Because she’s worth it.”
Mira pressed a kiss to her damp hair, eyes closing briefly. “She’s worth it.”
The documentary droned on about erasers, but neither of them heard it. Their world was smaller in that moment—snacks scattered, blanket tangled, hands laced tight.
Two halves waiting for their third.
—-
The late afternoon air had that September crispness, cool enough to nip at bare skin but softened by the sun still slanting through the trees. Mira and Zoey walked the winding path through Naksan Park, fingers laced, the crunch of gravel under their shoes blending with the rustle of leaves overhead.
It hadn’t been the plan. They’d woken together, tangled in sheets and warmth, only to find a new message from Rumi blinking on Zoey’s phone. Another excuse. Another “sorry, today’s packed, I’ll call later.” Later had already turned into never enough times to feel like a pattern.
So Mira had looked at Zoey, Zoey had looked back, and without speaking they’d decided.
Fresh air.
Zoey swung their joined hands dramatically as they walked, like they were kids instead of two grown women. “If I let go, you’d float away,” she said solemnly.
Mira arched a brow, lips twitching. “I weigh more than you.”
“Not the point.” Zoey bumped her hip, grinning. “You’ve got that ethereal, tragic heroine energy. Like… some gust of wind could just carry you off the mountain.”
Mira let out a laugh, dry but soft. “And you’d what? Chase after me?”
“Obviously. Dramatically. With arms outstretched. Probably trip on a tree root halfway and eat dirt.”
Mira shook her head laughing, squeezing Zoey’s hand tighter. “You’re ridiculous.”
Zoey leaned up on tiptoe mid-step and kissed Mira’s cheek, quick and warm. “And you love it.”
The heat of it lingered, making Mira’s smirk soften. “Unfortunately, yes.”
They passed a group of kids chalking the pavement near the playground, pastel swirls of pink and blue dusting their hands. One little boy darted past them with a paper airplane that nose-dived almost instantly. Zoey crouched down without thinking, folding the wings tighter, and sent it sailing again with a flourish. The boy’s delighted squeal followed them down the path.
Mira watched Zoey’s grin as she straightened, eyes catching on the way sunlight sparked in her hair. “You’re good with kids.”
Zoey wrinkled her nose. “Because I know how to be one.” She tugged Mira closer by the hand, skipping a step like she was trying to prove the point.
“Case in point,” Mira murmured, though her smile betrayed her.
They found a quieter stretch of path, trees arching overhead, dappling the light. Zoey tugged Mira off to the side where a low stone wall edged the park. She hopped up onto it, balancing with her arms out, wobbling only slightly.
Mira crossed her arms, unimpressed but amused. “You’re going to break your neck.”
“Not with you here to catch me.” Zoey took a few careful steps before wobbling dramatically, tipping straight into Mira’s waiting arms. She laughed into Mira’s shoulder. “See? Perfect system.”
“You’re insufferable,” Mira said, but she didn’t let go.
Zoey tilted her head back to look at her, brown eyes wide and bright. “Kiss me?”
Mira sighed like she was being put upon, but she leaned in anyway, brushing their lips together in a kiss that started soft and lingered just a fraction longer than intended. Zoey hummed against her mouth, pleased, and when they broke apart she chased another quick peck to Mira’s nose.
“That’s new,” Mira murmured, caught off guard.
Zoey grinned. “Nose kisses are underrated.” She planted another one just to prove her point. “Scientific fact.”
Mira shook her head but didn’t stop her. “You’re going to make my makeup smudge.”
“You’re perfect even smudged.” Zoey kissed her jaw this time, cheeky. “Actually, you’re especially perfect smudged.”
“Zoey,” Mira warned, though her voice was warm, her hand steady at Zoey’s waist.
They walked on eventually, though slower now, pausing often. Zoey stopped at nearly every flower bed, crouching down to inspect the blooms. “This one’s purple. That means love at first sight.”
“That’s not what it means.”
“Shh,” Zoey said, plucking a petal and tucking it behind Mira’s ear. “It means what I say it means.”
Mira didn’t argue this time.
They circled around to a bench overlooking the city, the skyline softened by evening haze. Zoey sprawled first, tugging Mira down beside her until they were pressed thigh to thigh.
For a while, they just sat, letting the quiet between them stretch. Mira rested her head against Zoey’s shoulder, eyes tracking the slow shift of clouds.
Zoey’s voice came quiet, almost tentative. “Do you think she’ll ever stop running?”
Mira didn’t answer immediately. She shifted, threading their fingers together again, grounding herself before she spoke. “I think she wants to. But wanting and being ready aren’t the same.”
Zoey’s sigh went operatic, full chest and tragic. She flopped back against the bench like a fainting actress, one arm draped across her forehead. “Ugh, we’re doing the ‘wanting vs. ready’ talk again? Someone cue the tiny violins.”
Mira snorted, shoulder-bumping her back upright. “Your drama quota has been met for the day.”
Zoey peeked at her from under her arm, lips quirking. “You love my drama.”
“I tolerate your drama,” Mira corrected, deadpan. Then, softer: “I love you.”
That earned her a smug, satisfied little smile and a quick kiss, a soft press of mouths that tasted like mint and sun. Zoey curled closer, tucking her legs under her, and swung their joined hands over her knee. For a moment they just breathed, the city stretching gold and grey beneath them.
“It is nicer with her around,” Zoey said after a beat, voice gentler. “The apartment feels… bigger, somehow. Or warmer. Both?”
“Both,” Mira agreed. “She leaves her hat on the bookcase like it pays rent.”
Zoey’s laugh bubbled out. “And she pretends she doesn’t, like the Hat Fairy did it. The way she looks for it with that little crease between her brows—” Zoey scrunched her own forehead in imitation. “—every time. Adorable menace.”
Mira’s mouth curved. “She stacks mugs in size order without noticing.”
“And hums harmonies to the kettle,” Zoey added, eyes going soft as the memory unfurled. “That stupid kettle has never sounded so good.”
“She always takes the middle cushion,” Mira said, thoughtful. “As if she’s saving us a place on either side.”
Zoey’s heart tugged. “She does do that.”
They fell into the easy rhythm of naming Rumi-things, taking turns like passing sweets.
“She smells like lavender,” Zoey said.
“Like the real plant, not the soap,” Mira agreed.
“She folds throw blankets aggressively neat.”
“She glares at packaging noise.”
“She pretends to hate affection.”
Mira’s eyebrow arched. “Pretends?”
Zoey grinned. “The way she melts when you kiss the corner of her mouth? Dead giveaway.” She demonstrated with a quick, precise peck to Mira’s left corner, and sure enough, Mira went a little soft around the eyes.
“Unscientific but compelling,” Mira murmured, chasing another kiss—this one lingering. When they parted, she tipped her head, tone turning sly. “I miss her biceps.”
Zoey’s laugh slipped into a groan. “God, me too. She picks me up like I’m a tote bag.” She flexed dramatically, then collapsed. “Unfair.”
“The shirts don’t help,” Mira said. “She wears sleeves like a threat.”
“And then there’s the tattoos,” Zoey breathed, voice dipping reverent. “It’s like lightning struck and stayed.”
Mira’s gaze unfocused for a second, memory lighting her face from within. “They glowed the other night,” she said softly. “When the colours came back. Right there in her kitchen. I thought I imagined it.”
“You didn’t.” Zoey’s head tilted, eyes shining with the wonder of it. “I couldn’t see them for months. We were hugging her, close to her—nothing. Just… muted. And then she kissed us, and boom.” She snapped her fingers. “Colour. All of it. White ink gone all iridescent—like it was drinking the light.”
Mira’s lips pressed together against a feeling she didn’t have a name for yet. “She keeps surprising me.”
“Right?” Zoey nudged her. “Like how she knows every harmony ever written but still blushes if you call her a genius.”
“Or how she runs at dawn and claims she hates mornings,” Mira added.
“Or the way she taps the steering wheel in polyrhythms and then denies it.”
“Or that she left a toothbrush at our place but insists she’s ‘not moving in.’”
Zoey snickered, tipping her head against Mira’s shoulder. “Yeah, okay, we’re teasing her so hard later.”
They lingered on the bench until the sun slid another inch, wind lifting flyaways from Zoey’s bangs. She smoothed them down with the back of her wrist and shot Mira a look that had trouble in it.
“Race you to the vendor?” Zoey nodded toward a cart down the slope, smoke rising from skewers and the red promise of tteokbokki. “Loser buys fish cake.”
Mira did not move. “You will cheat.”
Zoey was already halfway up, eyes bright. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would,” Mira replied, standing anyway.
They ran.
Zoey did cheat—she shoved a hand at Mira’s side in a playful jab exactly at the moment Mira lengthened her stride. Mira caught her wrist mid-jab without breaking pace, reeled her in, and they hit the cart laughing, breathless, kissing once, quick, just because it felt necessary.
Hot paper cups warmed their palms. They stood shoulder to shoulder, steam curling their cheeks as they blew across the surface and traded bites. Zoey held a fish cake skewer to Mira’s mouth with the solemnity of a vow; Mira took it, eyes half-lidded, then retaliated by lifting a rice cake drowning in gochujang to Zoey’s lips. Sauce smeared; Zoey licked it off inefficiently on purpose until Mira thumbed the corner of her mouth, fond and exasperated.
“Mess,” Mira said.
“Your mess,” Zoey shot back, smug.
They drifted from the cart to a low stone ledge, legs pressed together, passing a paper boat between them. Street sounds stitched the edges of their quiet—clatter, laughter, a bus sighing as it knelt at a curb. A woman in a teal coat hurried past with a child in tow; a man with a tiny dog stopped and let the dog sniff Zoey’s shoe. She greeted it like royalty. The dog approved.
“I keep thinking about the way she looks at us when she thinks we’re not watching,” Zoey said, picking at the edge of a napkin. “Like she’s… memorizing. Or punishing herself. I can’t tell which.”
Mira leaned their shoulders together. “Both, maybe.” She breathed out through her nose. “Or when she drifts—just gone—then snaps back and laughs too loud, like she’s trying to cover the noise where the silence was.”
Zoey’s hand found Mira’s knee under the paper boat, fingers curling there. “She is trying. I know she is.”
“I know.” Mira rested her cheek briefly against Zoey’s temple. “We said we’d give her time.”
Zoey made a face, half-scowl, half-ache. “Time sucks.”
“It does,” Mira agreed. “But she’s worth it.”
Zoey stared at the last rice cake like it held answers. “It’s not even the waiting, exactly. It’s… when she sings?” Her throat bobbed. “When she looks at us and the colours slam on? It feels like someone put the missing piece in and then—” She snapped her fingers, gentler this time. “—thief. Gone again.”
Mira’s mouth quirked, sad and knowing. “She writes us songs and calls them ‘demos.’” Looking away. “Unfair.”
“So unfair,” Zoey echoed. “Has anyone ever been so annoyingly talented?”
“You,” Mira said, tone even.
Zoey brightened immediately. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Not flattery. Data,” Mira said primly, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “And anyway—Rumi doesn’t need to impress us.”
“She’s not trying to,” Zoey said. “That’s the problem.” She flattened the napkin on her thigh and smoothed it like a page. “I think she’s trying not to.”
Mira considered that. “Trying not to fall.”
Zoey’s gaze flicked up. “Falling’s already done.”
They let that sit between them, warm and heavy. Mira reached up and tucked the petal Zoey had placed behind her ear deeper into her hair. It fluttered down onto Zoey’s shoulder; Zoey left it there like a badge.
Back on the path, they walked again, slower now, hands tangling, untangling, tangling again. Zoey counted dogs out loud (seven, then eight) until Mira started assigning the dogs professions (“number five is a pastry chef,” “number eight is definitely a dentist”) and Zoey almost choked laughing.
They paused beside a low chain-link fence where morning glories had made a run for it, curling into wild shapes. Zoey pressed her fingers through the metal and touched a bloom tenderly. “Look. Purple means love at first sight.”
Mira huffed. “Still not how it works.”
Zoey looked over her shoulder, eyes huge. “Mira. Let me have this.”
“Fine,” Mira conceded, stepping in to kiss the tip of Zoey’s nose. “Purple means you are impossible.”
“Purple means I’m devastatingly charming,” Zoey corrected, chasing a real kiss and getting it, slow and smiling.
They wound their way to the park’s edge as the light thinned. Streetlamps blinked awake, halos of amber puddling on pavement. Zoey swung their hands again, smaller arcs this time.
—
They slowed as the path curved toward the park gate, the kind of slowdown that wasn’t about tired legs so much as not wanting the soft spell to break. Somewhere behind them a bus chuffed to a stop; somewhere ahead a cyclist’s bell chimed twice, polite as a knock. Zoey tipped her head against Mira’s shoulder and let their joined hands dangle between them.
“Remember how we actually met her?” she said, grin blooming before the story even arrived.
Mira’s mouth tilted. “You mean when you accused a stranger of flirting with you through a window.”
“She was flirting,” Zoey insisted, scandalized. “With a cornflower.”
“You’re the only person I know who would call a five-minute stare-down with a flower ‘foreplay.’”
Zoey gasped. “Rude—and correct.” She bounced once on her toes, warmed by the memory. “She had that look, you know? All ‘I’m fine, don’t talk to me,’ except her eyes were asking questions. Like she could hear colour and didn’t trust it yet.”
Mira’s gaze went soft in profile. “I remember the way she said her name.” A beat, like the sound still sat on her tongue. “Like handing over something breakable.”
Zoey hummed. “And the way your ‘Don’t’ did absolutely nothing to stop me from dragging her inside.”
“You’re unstoppable,” Mira conceded.
“Only when I’m right.” Zoey nudged her hip. “We didn’t meet at an open mic, or the park. We met because you put a cornflower in the window and fate said ‘bet.’”
Mira’s laugh was quiet but real. “Add ‘florist’ to the list of my dangerous skills.”
Zoey’s steps stuttered; she planted herself in front of Mira and rose on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Most dangerous.” She paused, eyes glittering. “Second only to… whatever you whisper in her ear that melts her spine.”
Mira’s ears went pink. “A trade secret.”
Zoey’s grin turned delighted. “Weaponized romance. Noted.”
They fell back into stride. Wind slid through the trees and brushed the tops of the grasses; a kite lifted somewhere, its tail snagging a moment on the branch of a plane tree and then freeing itself. The city glowed at the edges—the kind of late light that made even concrete look gentle.
Zoey squeezed Mira’s fingers. “We should bring her a cornflower.”
Mira glanced over. “A peace offering?”
“A reminder.” Zoey’s voice quieted, earnest threading through the mischief. “That first spark wasn’t in a song. It was in the glass. She looked at colour and it looked back.”
Mira let that sit between them for a few steps. “I can get one from the supplier in the morning.”
Zoey brightened. “And we’ll tape the note to her door.”
“What note?”
Zoey pursed her lips, thinking. “‘We’re not going anywhere.’ Or… ‘Call us when you want
company. Or ramen.’”
“Add ramen,” Mira said, dry as tea. “Increases compliance.”
Zoey snickered, then sobered. “We’re doing okay, right? With the… waiting.”
Mira didn’t rush the answer. She watched an old couple shuffle past, hands tucked into each other’s sleeves like they’d learned the trick decades ago. “We’re doing what we can without breaking her. Or us.” She slid her thumb along Zoey’s knuckle. “Some days that feels like everything. Some days it feels like not enough.”
Zoey leaned her temple against Mira’s. “Today feels like… holding space.”
“Mm.” Mira’s mouth softened. “Together.”
They reached the little overlook where the low stone wall cupped the curve of the hill. The view was the same one they’d stood in front of a hundred times—rooftops stacked like sheet music, the distant thread of traffic—but it always seemed to tune itself to their mood. Zoey hopped up on the wall again, steadier this time, and Mira stepped between her knees without being asked, palms braced loosely at Zoey’s waist.
Zoey’s fingers toyed with the drawstring of Mira’s hoodie. “Tell me one more thing you love about her,” she said, playful, like a dare.
Mira studied Zoey’s face, then let her eyes drift past her shoulder, finding a private screen only she could see. “The way she listens,” she said at last. “Not to respond. To build. You say ‘I like the rain’ and two days later there’s a beat on her laptop that sounds like a storm hitting a tin roof.”
Zoey’s breath hitched on a smile that was almost a wince. “Okay, that made my heart do the thing.”
“Scientific term,” Mira murmured.
“Clearly.” Zoey unhooked the drawstring from her own finger and looped it around Mira’s. “Your turn. Ask me.”
“What do you love about her?” Mira obliged, soft.
Zoey didn’t even pretend to think. “Her biceps.” She struggled to keep a straight face for three full seconds, then caved, laughing into the space between them. “And the way she looks when she’s concentrating. Tongue between her teeth, brow doing the crease, hands moving like the music is running ahead and she’s catching it by the sleeve.”
Mira huffed a laugh that held too much truth to be only amused. “You’re in deep.”
Zoey’s expression gentled. “Us. We’re in deep.”
Mira pressed her forehead to Zoey’s. “Us.” She let them breathe together for a beat, then added, almost offhand, “We should text Abby. He’ll grumble and secretly make sure she eats.”
“Already on it.” Zoey fished her phone out, thumbs flying, then paused. “Should we send a voice memo? The kind that sounds like we’re not worried even though we are?”
“Say something normal,” Mira suggested. “Ask if she wants our leftover tteokbokki.”
Zoey hit record. “Hi, menace. We have superior snacks and a morally questionable documentary about pencils if you need a break from genius-ing. Also, your hat is safe. It did not pay rent this month. Call us later or we’ll start singing loudly outside your door. Love you—” She stopped, eyes flicking to Mira, then finished without flinching, “—we love you.”
She sent it before she could second-guess the last two words. Mira’s hand found the nape of her neck, thumb soothing like approval.
“You’re brave,” Mira said.
Zoey shrugged, half-shy. “It’s easier when you’re holding me up.”
They climbed down from the wall in tandem, palms skimming the stone, and started back toward the park gate. Evening had joined them fully now—streetlamps yolked to life, dogs tugging their humans toward home, a busker testing the first notes of a song that didn’t quite know what it wanted to be.
Zoey swung their hands again, smaller arcs. “When she’s ready, we’ll be annoying.”
Mira’s mouth curved. “We already are.”
“Then we’ll be worse.” Zoey bumped her. “Cornflowers and ramen and terrible documentaries.”
“And space,” Mira added, because love and patience lived in the same house in her chest. “Even when it stings.”
Zoey nodded, brown eyes steady. “Even then.”
They reached the gate; the city opened its arms. Zoey tugged Mira into one last nose kiss, then a real one, slow and smiling, the kind that didn’t ask for anything except another day to try again. Above them, the sky deepened toward evening—soft, stubborn blue holding the line.