“Eat,” she says. “You’re twitchy.”
“I’m emotionally unraveling, not malnourished.”
She shrugs. “You can be both.”
I unwrap the bar with a sigh and take a bite.
She studies me for another moment, head tilted slightly. “You slept at all?”
“Some.”
“Cried?”
“This counts.”
She nods, satisfied. “Okay. One more question before we get into the heavy shit.”
I brace myself. “What now?”
Cassie points toward the bundle of wires near my gaming shelf. “Why is your HDMI cable duct-taped to the wall?”
I blink. “Because I tripped on it two nights ago and rage-patched it.”
Cassie bursts out laughing. I join her a second later, half-cackling, half-cringing at the memory.
“Oh my god,” she wheezes. “You’re thriving.”
“I’m surviving.”
“Same thing in this economy.”
We’re still laughing and that’s the exact moment tension unwinds just enough that I can breathe again.
We sit at my kitchen table, there’s coffee and leftover cinnamon rolls. The calm only she brings, that grounding energy I always forget I need until I’m wrapped up in it again.
“I think I’m falling for them.” The words come out quieter than I meant, admitting them makes it real. It is real.
Cassie’s gaze doesn’t change. “You’re just now realizing that after a few months…?”
I stare down at my cup. “Like… not just attracted to them, not just fun. Like, terrifyingly into them.”
A pause. “Both of them equally?”
My breath shudders. “Yeah.”
Cassie hums, leaning back. “And… are they falling for you?”
I blink. “I think so?”
She sips her coffee. “Then you’re not spiraling. You’re catching up because clearly they’d walk to the ends of the earth for you.”
I let out a stifled laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
“You’ve always been the one who kept the lid on,” she says eventually. “The fixer, the funny one. The one who bounces back before anyone sees the crack.”
I stare at my coffee.
She leans forward, elbows on the table. “So why does this feel different?”
