After Naomi leaves, the apartment settles into a different kind of quiet. Not uncomfortable—just... quieter. More intimate, maybe.
Keith, Dylan, and I drift naturally toward the living room. Keith flops onto the couch with the casual grace of someone completely at home in his space. Dylan takes the armchair, settling into it like he's claimed that spot a thousand times before.
I hesitate for just a second before sitting on the couch, leaving a careful amount of space between Keith and me.
Keith turns to face me, pulling one leg up onto the cushion, his expression bright with barely contained excitement. "Okay, so. Let's figure this out. When are you thinking of moving in?"
I consider that. "Next weekend? That gives me time to pack everything, organize, make sure I don't forget anything..."
Control. You need control over this. Plan it perfectly.
Keith nods enthusiastically. "Next weekend works! That's like... eight days. Plenty of time."
Dylan's dark eyes study me from across the room. "You're sure? We can help if you need more time."
"No, next weekend is good." I pause. "I just... I need time to get everything ready. Make sure it's all organized."
Keith pulls out his phone. "Okay, let me make a list so we don't forget anything—"
"Keith," Dylan interrupts calmly. "Put the phone down."
"But—"
"At least one of us will remember everything. You don't need to write it down."
Keith looks mildly offended. "Are you saying I won't remember?"
Dylan just looks at him.
Keith sighs and puts his phone away. "Fine. But if we forget something important, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
I can't help but smile at their dynamic—the easy back-and-forth, the familiarity. It's nice. Comfortable.
Keith turns his attention back to me. "So, room. We've got options, but..." He glances at Dylan. "Show him?"
Dylan stands without a word and I follow him down the hallway. Keith trails behind us, practically bouncing with energy.
We pass Keith's room—door open, showing organized chaos with gaming posters and that collection of vintage game boxes I saw yesterday. Then Dylan's room—door mostly closed, just a glimpse of dark, minimalist decor.
Dylan stops at the door between them and pushes it open.
The room is... perfect.
Simple, clean, with neutral walls and wooden floors. There's already furniture—a bed with a simple frame, a desk, a dresser, a bookshelf. But what catches my attention immediately is the window.
It's huge.
Not quite a full wall, but close—stretching from near the floor almost to the ceiling, flooding the room with natural light. The view looks out over the city, rooftops and sky stretching endlessly.
Light. So much light.
Something in my chest loosens.
"This okay?" Dylan asks, his voice carefully neutral.
I turn to look at him, something clicking into place.
He chose this room. Specifically. Because of the window.
"It's perfect," I say, and I mean it. "The window—I... I like having light. Natural light."
Dylan's expression doesn't change but something softens around his eyes. "I know."
He noticed. He paid attention and he noticed.
Keith grins. "Dyl's weirdly observant about stuff like that. It's actually kind of creepy sometimes."
"It's not creepy," Dylan says. "It's useful."
"Creepy useful."
Dylan ignores him, turning back to me. "Furniture's already here since this was a guest room. You just need to bring your stuff. Clothes, personal things, whatever."
I nod, my mind already cataloging what I'll need to pack. "That works. I don't have a ton of furniture anyway."
Clothes. Books. School supplies. Laptop. The plants—
"Oh," I say suddenly. "I have plants. A lot of plants. Is that... okay?"
Dylan blinks.
Just blinks.
Keith bursts out laughing. "Plants? How many plants are we talking?"
My face heats slightly. "Um. Maybe... fifteen? Twenty?"
Keith laughs harder. "Twenty plants?"
"They're not all big," I say defensively. "Some are small. Like succulents and stuff."
Dylan's expression is unreadable. "That's fine."
"Really?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know, some people think it's weird to have that many—"
"It's not weird," Dylan interrupts. "Bring the plants."
Keith is still grinning. "This is amazing. Our apartment is going to become a jungle."
"They're not that big—"
"I'm just saying, if I start finding vines growing under my door, I'm blaming you."
Despite myself, I laugh. The anxiety that's been humming under my skin loosens another notch.
They don't think it's weird. They're okay with it.
We head back to the living room and settle into our previous positions. Keith is still grinning about the plants, occasionally muttering "twenty plants" under his breath like it's the funniest thing he's heard all day.
Dylan's expression has returned to its usual calm neutrality, but I catch him watching me with something that might be amusement.
"Okay," Keith says, composing himself. "Plants are a go. What else? Any allergies we should know about? Dietary stuff?"
"I'll be cooking," Dylan adds, his tone serious. "Need to know if there's anything you can't eat."
The way he says it—so serious, like this is the most important question in the world—makes me want to smile.
Keith was right. Food is Dylan's love language.
"Seafood," I say. "I'm allergic. Not deathly allergic, but I break out in hives and it's not fun."
Dylan nods, filing that information away with the intensity of someone committing it to permanent memory. "Noted. Anything else?"
I hesitate. "I'm... I can be picky about textures and smells. It's not really an allergy, just... sometimes certain foods are hard for me to eat if they look or smell weird."
The OCD. But I can't say that. Not yet.
Dylan doesn't ask for clarification. Just nods again. "That's fine. I'll make sure things are... normal."
"Normal works," I say, relieved he didn't push.
Keith leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What about help? With moving? We can come over, help you pack, carry stuff—"
"Both of us," Dylan adds. "We'll both help."
I open my mouth to protest—to say I can handle it myself, that I don't want to be a burden—but the words don't come.
Because the truth is... I don't want to do it alone.
"Okay," I say instead. "Yeah. That would be... really helpful actually. Thank you."
Keith's smile is so warm it makes my chest hurt. "Of course. What are friends for?"
Friends.
The word settles somewhere deep and tender.
Dylan stands, heading toward the kitchen. "I'm making lunch. You staying?"
The question is directed at me, casual but with an undercurrent of something I can't quite name.
He wants me to stay.
"If that's okay," I say.
"It's okay."
He disappears into the kitchen and I hear the sound of the refrigerator opening, pans being pulled from cabinets.
Keith stretches out on the couch, looking pleased with everything. "This is going to be great, C. Seriously. Having you here is going to be amazing."
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
He means it. They both mean it.
The voice in my head—the one that's been screaming at me for as long as I can remember—is still there. Whispering that I don't deserve this, that they'll regret it, that I'll ruin everything eventually.
But it's quieter now.
So much quieter than usual.
I glance toward the kitchen where Dylan is moving around with efficient purpose, then back at Keith who's scrolling through his phone with a contented smile.
When they're around... it's quieter.
The realization should probably scare me. Should make me anxious about what happens when they're not around.
Will it get worse? Will the voice get louder when I'm alone?
But right now, in this moment, I just feel...
Grateful.
"Hey Keith?" I say quietly.
He looks up. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For... all of this. For asking me to move in. For being okay with my weird plant collection. For—" I gesture vaguely. "Everything."
Keith's expression softens into something unbearably gentle. "You don't have to thank me, Cecil. We want you here. Both of us."
From the kitchen, Dylan's voice carries out. "He's right."
I laugh despite the tightness in my throat. "Thanks, Dyl."
"Don't mention it."
Keith grins. "See? We're a package deal now. You're stuck with us."
Stuck with them.
The phrase should feel claustrophobic. Trapping.
Instead, it feels like safety.
---
Lunch is grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup—simple but perfect. Dylan makes them with the same careful attention he seems to give everything food-related, and they're possibly the best grilled cheese sandwiches I've ever had.
We eat at the dining table again, falling into easy conversation. Keith tells a story about one of his professors who apparently showed up to class in costume of an alien last week. I listen, occasionally adding my own thoughts, feeling the anxiety continue to recede.
It's not gone. It's never completely gone.
But it's manageable.
More than manageable.
Almost... quiet.
After lunch, Keith suggests a movie. We end up back on the couch—the same positions as last night, Keith on one side of me, Dylan in the armchair.
The movie is some action thing with explosions and improbable physics. Keith provides running commentary about everything that's unrealistic. Dylan occasionally points out things that are actually accurate, which Keith disputes on principle.
I just watch, a small smile on my face, feeling warm and full and strangely content.
Somewhere during the second act, my phone buzzes.
A text from Dad: "How's it going, kiddo? You doing okay?"
I type back: "Yeah. Really good actually. They're helping me plan the move."
Dad: "Good. I'm happy for you, Cecil. You deserve this."
I don't. I think automatically.
But I don't type it.
Instead I type: "Thanks, Dad. Love you."
Dad: "Love you too. Don't forget about your old man when you're living your best life with your new roommates."
I smile and tuck my phone away.
Keith glances over. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just my dad checking in."
"He doing okay with all this?"
"I think so. He's happy for me. Said Keith and Dylan are stealing his son, but in a joking way."
Keith grins. "We absolutely are stealing you. No regrets."
Dylan makes a sound that might be agreement.
The movie continues. The afternoon stretches into evening. At some point, Keith orders pizza—"because we've been eating Dyl's cooking all weekend and he deserves a break."
Dylan doesn't argue, which I'm learning means he actually agrees.
We eat pizza on the couch, the TV playing some nature documentary Dylan found. It's comfortable. Easy.
This is what it's going to be like. I realize. Living here. With them.
Meals together. Movies. Conversation. Just... existing in the same space.
The anxiety tries to spike.
What if you ruin it? What if they get tired of you? What if—
But I push it back.
Not now.
Right now, I'm just going to be here.
In this moment.
With these people who somehow want me around.
---
As the evening winds down, I realize I should probably head home.
"I should go," I say reluctantly. "It's getting late and I have class tomorrow."
Keith looks like he wants to protest but doesn't. "Yeah, okay. Let me walk you out."
Dylan stands too. "Drive safe."
"I will."
Keith walks me to the door while Dylan hangs back, giving us space.
At the threshold, Keith pulls me into a quick hug. "Text when you get home, okay? Just so I know you made it."
Something in my chest tightens. "Okay."
"And we'll see you next weekend. For the move."
"Next weekend," I confirm.
He grins. "This is going to be great, C. I promise."
I want to believe him.
And maybe... maybe I actually do.
I head down to my car, the cool evening air sharp against my skin. The drive home is quiet, my mind replaying the day in fragments.
Dylan's hand on my shoulder. Welcome home.
Keith's excitement about the plants.
The room with the enormous window.
The way the voice in my head got quieter when they were around.
I pull into my driveway and sit in the car for a moment, staring at my house.
Next weekend, this won't be my home anymore.
Keith and Dylan's place will be home.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it feels like hope.
I pull out my phone and text Keith. "Made it home safe."
His reply is almost instant. "Good! Get some sleep. Big week ahead."
I smile and head inside.
Dad's in the living room, reading. He looks up when I enter. "Hey, kiddo. How was it?"
"Good," I say. "Really good. We figured out logistics for the move."
"Next weekend, right?"
"Yeah. Keith and Dylan are going to help."
Dad smiles. "They're good people, Cecil. I'm glad you have them."
"Yeah," I say aloud. "Me too."
I head upstairs to my room and stand in the doorway, looking at the space I've lived in for... I don't even know how long.
Time to start packing.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just want to hold onto this feeling—this quiet, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay.
I get ready for bed, going through my routine automatically. Brush teeth. Four minutes. Arrange the bathroom items that have gotten slightly out of alignment during the day.
When I finally climb into bed, I expect the anxiety to come roaring back. Expect the voice to get loud again now that I'm alone.
But it doesn't.
It's still there—a constant hum in the background.
But it's not screaming anymore.
I close my eyes and think about the room with the big window.
About Keith's laugh.
About Dylan staying outside my door all night.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I fall asleep feeling something close to peace.