I wake up to sunlight streaming through my window and for a moment—just a brief, blissful moment—I forget what day it is.
Then I remember.
Saturday. Keith's place. Meeting his roommate. Naomi will be there.
My stomach twists immediately.
No. Stop. Don't spiral. Not today.
I force myself out of bed and into my routine. The routine is safe. The routine is control.
I stretch—arms overhead, side to side, touching my toes. The familiar movements ground me, pulling me into my body instead of my head.
Three minutes to change. I time it without thinking, my hands moving efficiently through my closet. Black jeans. Gray hoodie. Simple. Unremarkable. Safe.
Bathroom next.
Toothbrush. Four minutes exactly. Up and down, side to side, the back molars, the front teeth. Rinse. Spit. Again.
The toiletries on the counter need adjusting. The toothpaste tube isn't quite parallel to the sink edge. The soap dispenser is a centimeter too far left.
I fix them.
There.
Better.
Downstairs. Breakfast.
Dad's already made tea—my favorite kind, the one that smells like honey and chamomile. Toast with butter, cut diagonally because something about triangles feels more manageable than squares.
I eat mechanically, chewing each bite the same number of times, washing it down with tea that's almost too hot.
Dad looks up from his newspaper and smiles. "Big day, huh?"
I force my face into something that probably looks like excitement. "Yeah. Should be fun."
"Keith's a good kid," Dad says, returning to his paper. "I'm glad you two reconnected."
He has no idea. No idea that my hands are shaking under the table. No idea that every cell in my body is screaming at me to cancel, to stay home, to not risk—
Risk what?
Being seen. Being known. Being exposed as the broken thing you actually are.
"Yeah," I manage. "Me too."
I finish breakfast, rinse my plate, place it in the dishwasher in the exact spot I always do.
Shoes next.
Black sneakers. They match the outfit perfectly. Laces tied with even tension on both sides. Double knot because single knots come undone and that feels too much like losing control.
I grab my keys.
"Have fun, kiddo," Dad calls from the kitchen.
"Thanks, Dad."
I step outside and the door clicks shut behind me.
Okay. You're doing this. You're actually doing this.
Why? Why are you doing this? You don't deserve to have fun. You don't deserve friends. You don't deserve—
Stop.
I shove the thoughts into the dark corner of my mind where I keep all the things I can't deal with right now.
The drive to Keith's place is muscle memory—left at the light, straight for three blocks, right onto Cedar Street. Dad gave me the address days ago and I've memorized it without meaning to.
My hands grip the steering wheel too tightly.
What if Keith regrets inviting you?
What if his roommate hates you on sight?
What if Naomi realizes you're not actually worth being friends with?
What if they all see through you and realize you're just—
I pull up to the building and cut the engine.
My hands are shaking.
I press them flat against my thighs, willing them to stop.
Breathe. Just breathe.
You can do this.
Can you though?
You're going to smile and laugh and pretend everything is fine when you know—you KNOW—you don't deserve any of this. Not after what you did. Not after—
Mom died because of you.
The thought hits like a physical blow and I have to close my eyes against it.
Stop. Not now. You can't fall apart now.
I dig my nails into my palms—not enough to break skin but enough to hurt, enough to pull me back into the present.
Okay.
I get out of the car and walk toward the building before I can talk myself out of it.
The apartment number is 3B. Third floor.
I take the stairs because elevators feel too small, too trapped, too much like being cornered on a rooftop with nowhere to-
Stop.
Third floor. Door 3B.
I stand in front of it for a long moment, my hand raised to knock.
You can still leave. You can still turn around and go home and text Keith that you're sick or tired or—
I knock before I can finish the thought.
Footsteps approach from inside.
The door opens.
And it's not Keith.
It's someone else entirely.
Dark brown hair that falls in soft waves, catching the light from inside the apartment. Dark skin that reminds me of milk chocolate, smooth and warm. Eyes so dark they're almost black, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to take a step back.
This must be Dylan. The roommate.
We stare at each other.
He doesn't say anything.
I don't say anything.
Say something. Why aren't you saying anything? This is so awkward. You're making this awkward. Just say hi. Just—
"Uh," I manage eloquently. "Hi?"
Dylan's expression doesn't change. "Hi."
More silence.
Great. Amazing. This is going so well.
"I'm... Cecil?" Why does that sound like a question? I know who I am. Probably.
"I know."
Okay. Cool. Great.
More staring.
I'm about to actually die of awkwardness when Keith's voice cuts through from somewhere inside.
"Dyl, who is it—oh!"
Keith appears behind Dylan, his face breaking into that bright, unreserved smile that makes my chest do something complicated.
"Cecil! You made it!" He physically moves Dylan aside—actually puts his hands on his roommate's shoulders and shifts him like furniture—and reaches for me.
"Come in, come in! Sorry, you two looked like statues out here."
He laughs and despite everything, I feel my lips twitching into something like a smile.
"Dylan, this is Cecil. Cecil, this is Dylan—my roommate I mentioned."
Dylan nods once. Still doesn't smile.
He hates me already. Great.
"Nice to meet you," I say, because that's what you're supposed to say.
"Yeah," Dylan replies.
Keith rolls his eyes. "Don't mind him. He's always like this with new people. He'll warm up, I promise."
He guides me inside with a hand on my shoulder and I try not to think about how warm that touch is, how solid, how—
Stop being weird.
The apartment is... nice. Modern but comfortable. Clean lines and neutral colors but with enough personality—posters on the walls, books on shelves, a gaming setup that looks expensive and well-loved.
It feels lived in. Warm.
"Naomi's already here," Keith says, leading me toward the living room. "She got here like twenty minutes ago and has been absolutely destroying us at—"
"CECIL!"
I barely have time to process before Naomi crashes into me, arms wrapping around me in a hug that's enthusiastic and overwhelming and—
I freeze.
My brain short-circuits for a second, unsure how to respond to sudden physical contact from someone I barely know.
But Naomi doesn't seem to notice. She pulls back, beaming. "I'm so glad you're here! Keith and Dylan have been boring without you."
"Hey!" Keith protests, but he's laughing.
Dylan says nothing.
I glance at them—Keith grinning, Dylan watching with that same intense expression—and something feels... off. Not bad, exactly. Just... I can't quite name it.
But then Naomi is pulling me toward the couch and the moment passes.
"Okay, okay, so we were playing this racing game and I've been absolutely dominating but now that you're here we can do teams—"
"You've won exactly one race," Keith interjects.
"Which is one more than you!"
I can't help it—I laugh. Actually laugh.
Keith catches my eye and his smile softens into something warmer, something that makes my face heat slightly.
Stop it.
"So," Naomi says, shoving a controller into my hands. "You any good at games?"
I shrug. "I'm okay."
Understatement of the century, but whatever.
"Let's find out!" She plops down on the floor near the TV and I settle onto the couch behind her.
Keith sits down next to me—close enough that our shoulders are almost touching—and Dylan takes the spot on my other side.
Sandwiched between them. Great. This is fine. Totally normal.
The game loads and Naomi starts explaining the controls even though I already know them.
We play.
I win the first race.
"Okay, that was luck," Naomi declares.
I win the second race.
"Beginner's luck!"
Third race. Fourth race. Fifth race.
I win all of them.
"WHAT," Naomi wails dramatically, flopping backward. "HOW? You said you were OKAY."
I shrug, trying not to smile too obviously. "I am okay."
"You're a liar. That's what you are." But she's grinning.
Keith laughs and holds up his hand for a high-five. I meet it automatically, the sharp slap of our palms connecting satisfying in a way I can't explain.
"That was amazing," Keith says, his eyes bright with genuine pride. "Seriously, where did you learn to drive like that?"
"Just... practice, I guess."
Dylan hasn't said anything but when I glance at him, there's surprise written clearly across his face. Like he didn't expect me to be good at anything.
See? He does hate you.
Or maybe he just didn't expect you to be good at games. That's allowed. Stop assuming the worst.
We play a few more rounds—trying different games, different combinations of players. Naomi keeps up a running commentary that's equal parts trash talk and genuine enthusiasm.
Keith cheers after every win like I've just accomplished something monumental.
Dylan remains mostly quiet but I catch him watching me sometimes, his expression unreadable.
Somewhere around the eighth or ninth game, Keith brings out snacks and drinks.
"I made tea," he says, handing me a cup.
"Chamomile. I remembered it's your favorite."
Something in my chest clenches.
He remembered.
"Thanks," I manage, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
The others grab chips and soda but I stick with just the tea. My stomach is too tight for food, anxiety still humming under my skin despite the comfortable atmosphere.
But the tea helps. Warm and familiar and safe.
We keep playing.
At some point Dylan's shoulder bumps mine—completely accidental as he leans forward to grab his controller. He mutters an apology.
"It's fine," I say quickly.
It happens again a few minutes later. And again.
I don't mind.
Keith is more deliberate—fist bumps after I win, high-fives, once even a one-armed hug that lasts maybe two seconds but leaves me feeling warm and confused.
The games blur together. Time passes in a way that feels... easy. Natural.
I'm not performing. I'm not hiding.
Or maybe I am but it doesn't feel as exhausting as usual.
I win another race and Naomi throws a pillow at me. "I quit. You're too good. This isn't fair."
"You're just a sore loser," Keith teases.
"I am NOT—okay, maybe I am. But still!"
I laugh and set down my controller, my gaze drifting between them.
Naomi, sprawled dramatically on the floor, grinning despite her complaints.
Keith, leaning back against the couch, his smile soft and genuine and directed entirely at me.
Dylan, quiet but present, his dark eyes less intense than before—almost... relaxed.
And me.
Sitting here.
Between them.
And I realize something.
I feel... safe.
When did that happen?
The anxiety is still there—a constant hum in the background, the voice that whispers I don't deserve this, that I should leave, that I'm fooling everyone including myself.
But underneath that...
Comfort.
Actual, genuine comfort.
I glance around the apartment again—the warm lighting, the organized chaos of lived-in space, the gaming setup we've been using for hours.
Is it the place? I wonder. Or is it them?
Naomi launches into a story about something that happened in one of her classes and Keith listens with exaggerated interest, asking questions that make her laugh even harder.
Dylan contributes a dry comment that somehow makes the whole thing funnier.
And I just... sit here. Listening. Smiling.
Not forcing it.
Just... being.
Maybe it won't be that bad, I think.
The voice in my head—the one that's been screaming at me all day—tries to argue. Tries to remind me that I don't deserve this, that I shouldn't feel good, that I'm a monster who—
But for the first time in a long time, I push it back.
Just for tonight.
Just for now.
I let myself have this.
For some reason, I feel very comfortable here.
My eyes drift between Keith, Dylan, and Naomi again.
I'm just not sure if it's the place itself...
Keith catches me looking and smiles—soft and warm and full of something I can't quite name.
...or the people surrounding me.
Either way.
Right now, in this moment, surrounded by laughter and warmth and people who seem genuinely happy I'm here...
Maybe that's enough.