The first morning in her new apartment was nostalgic. Being surrounded by a new place that smelled of fresh paint, new wood, and an absolute, terrifying silence.
For Alyx, waking up that morning for the first time in three months in a bed with new sheets, instead of on the brown sofa of the old apartment surrounded by Marshall's light snores or Robin and Ted's murmurs as they left, was something novel. The bare white walls, devoid of home decor, seemed to amplify the sounds of her own body: her too-fast heartbeat and slightly labored breathing.
Although she had finished unpacking the larger items the day before—her trading equipment and kitchen utensils, all neatly organized—her clothes remained in bags, and the Polaroid of the three of them at Coney Island ended up in a drawer of her desk, buried but closer than where she had hidden Lily's sketchbook and earring.
The first ritual in the new space was making coffee. The Italian coffee maker hissed on the granite countertop—*the kind Lily would have liked*, she thought involuntarily, and tried to distract herself with the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee that filled the space. Her hand trembled as she poured the first cup, not just from the caffeine still in her system but also from starting her habit anew in a different place, compounded by the anxiety of being in a new space without the noise of her friends nearby.
With her prepared cup of coffee in one hand, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter, she headed to the apartment's balcony. She lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing—she hadn't bought any more furniture besides the bed in her room and the desk she had brought with her. There, she dedicated herself to observing the urban landscape: some buildings and a bit of greenery in the common areas. The smoke scratched her throat, but the nicotine was a chemical balm for her raw nerves. Just two cigarettes that morning, as she had imposed on herself, since she disliked smelling like smoke all day.
As days passed, Alyx gradually distanced herself from the group, trying to find herself first. Physically, by no longer appearing at MacLaren's every night as the group did—though she had done this before, now it was more spaced out. At first, she invented excuses about needing to watch an important trade, being tired from working out (they believed she went to the gym due to her more toned body—clearly it wasn't just the gym but martial arts), or having a neighborhood meeting. Time went by until she stopped giving so many excuses—she simply didn't go.
Her days acquired a new routine to which she strictly adhered, leaving no room in the day to dwell on her emotional chaos.
In the mornings, she dedicated herself to trading, always focused with a cold mind for decisions and entries. She no longer had the distractions of Marshall in zombie mode, Ted with his romantic plans for a woman he barely knew but swore was the love of his life, or Robin with her journalistic anecdotes.
She took risky positions based on those premonitions from another life, profiting monetarily from what she knew. The numbers in her accounts grew. The money she earned became a kind of point-scoring game she set for herself with new goals.
In her afternoons, now alone, she increased her Muay Thai days, which made her more relentless. Her height and reach had improved exponentially; where she once felt lanky and clumsy, she now felt more in control of her physical movements. The trainer praised her for her technique and ferocity. "It looks like you're fighting your demons," he said once. She just nodded slightly, drenched in sweat, her knuckles raw under the wraps. Every kick to the bag was for Lily, every elbow strike for Marshall, and every rapid combination for the Alyx who believed a three-way love was possible.
On alternate nights, she took her painting classes. She abandoned the frequent themes of landscapes and buildings she painted from memory. Now, she painted sensations, giving shape to the tightness in her chest when seeing the bar's empty window, the texture of the silence in her new apartment, the color of Marshall's pain—a murky, grayish-brown—and Lily's—a bright green cracked with black veins. Her teacher, a serious woman with eyes that seemed to miss no detail, watched her in silence. She never commented on her common paintings until now, with this change. One day, she said, "Finally, you're painting your truth, not the one you think you should paint." Alyx didn't respond. She just mixed more black into the palette.
The other nights were a vicious cycle. What she thought was control now had another destructive escape valve: loneliness, coffee, and cigarettes beyond the limits she imposed on other days. Sometimes, she opened the new sketchbook she had bought—a cheap one, without the sentimental weight of Lily's—and drew only emptiness: an empty chair, an empty window, an empty bed. They were simple, stripped-down drawings that terrified her for what they revealed.
On the other hand, the group noticed her absence. At first, it was a minor annoyance. She had stopped going to the bar several times since Lily left to take care of Marshall, but now they didn't even know what she was doing.
"Where's Alyx?" Barney would ask.
"Working, I think," Marshall would reply, distracted and sunk in his own post-Lily, post-Barney cynical transformation.
But then the absences piled up, leading to changes in the group's dynamic. Her presence, though recurrent and spaced out, had been a silent, stabilizing balm for the group.
"It's weird," Robin commented, looking at the empty space where Alyx used to sit, observing, analyzing, occasionally passing a dry comment that put things in perspective. "Without Alyx, Barney's stupidities have no counterweight. It's like a nuclear reactor without control rods."
Ted nodded, playing with his beer. "Yeah. She was always the one who made me see when I was being a dramatic idiot. Now I only have your opinion, and you're Canadian, so you're too polite to tell me directly."
Robin shot him a death glare.
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