Four Days Later
I wake up naturally, sunlight streaming through the curtains of Keith's old room.
Not my room. Keith's old room.
I still think of it that way, even though he and Dylan have both insisted—multiple times—that it's mine for as long as I need it.
Which, according to what I told them, should have been just two nights.
It's been six days now.
And no one has said a word about me overstaying.
I stretch slowly, blinking at the ceiling, and realize something that makes me go completely still.
I slept through the night.
Actually slept. No waking up at three AM with that familiar hollow ache in my chest. No lying awake for hours trying to remember how to feel something other than empty. No forcing myself to smile at my reflection in the dark just to make sure I still can.
Just... sleep.
When was the last time that happened?
I can't remember.
I sit up slowly, taking in the room that's become oddly familiar over the past few days. My bag—still mostly unpacked because I kept thinking I'd leave "tomorrow"—sits in the corner. The desk has a few of my textbooks scattered across it from studying with Cecil yesterday. There's a mug on the nightstand, half-full of cold tea from last night.
Evidence of living, not just existing.
The thought catches me off guard.
I get up and move to the window, pulling the curtain back to look out at the morning.
The city is awake and moving—people heading to work, cars in traffic, the normal chaos of daily life.
And I'm here.
In this apartment.
With these people who—
Who care.
The thought still feels foreign. Impossible, almost.
But it's true.
I know it's true because I've watched it happen. Experienced it. Over and over again for the past four days.
---
Three Days Ago
"Movie night!" Keith had announced, appearing in the living room with his arms full of snacks like he was preparing for an apocalypse.
Dylan was setting up the TV, and Cecil was curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him since I arrived.
"What are we watching?" I'd asked, settling into the armchair that had somehow become "my spot."
"Your choice," Keith said, dumping the snacks on the coffee table with zero regard for organization. "You're the guest."
"I'm not a guest anymore," I'd protested. "I've been here for three days."
"Guest, roommate, family member—whatever. You're choosing." Dylan had settled onto the couch next to Cecil. "What do you want to watch?"
I'd hesitated, unused to being asked that question and having it actually mean something.
Usually when people asked what I wanted, they were really asking me to guess what they wanted so they could feel like they'd been accommodating.
But Keith was looking at me expectantly, snack bag already open. Cecil had his head tilted curiously. Dylan was holding the remote, clearly prepared to pull up whatever I said.
They actually wanted to know.
"Titanic," I'd said, testing it.
Keith had groaned immediately. "You just want to watch me cry."
"I—what?"
"She knows," Keith had said to Dylan and Cecil, gesturing at me dramatically. "She knows I cry during Titanic. Everyone cries during Titanic, but I cry during all of Titanic. The whole thing. It's a problem."
Cecil had laughed—a real, genuine laugh that made something warm bloom in my chest.
"We're not judging your emotional availability, Keith," Dylan had said, but he was grinning.
"You're absolutely judging. I can feel the judgment."
"Then maybe don't announce it so dramatically," I'd pointed out, smiling despite myself.
"Too late. I've committed to the drama." Keith had flopped onto the couch between Dylan and Cecil. "But fine. Titanic it is. Prepare for my emotional devastation."
And he had cried.
Not just at the end—though that was particularly dramatic—but throughout the entire movie. When Jack drew Rose. When they were dancing in third class. When the ship started sinking. When Rose let go.
At one point, Cecil had wordlessly handed him a tissue.
Keith had taken it, blown his nose loudly, and continued watching with complete investment.
And no one had made fun of him.
No one had told him to "man up" or "it's just a movie" or any of the dismissive things people usually say when someone shows genuine emotion.
They'd just... let him feel it.
The same way they'd let me cry in the kitchen that first morning.
The same way they'd let Cecil be honest about his struggles.
They just let people be.
---
Present
I'm still standing at the window, lost in the memory, when there's a soft knock on my door.
"Naomi? You awake?" Cecil's voice, quiet and careful.
"Yeah," I call back. "Come in."
The door opens and Cecil appears, already dressed, his hair slightly damp like he's recently showered.
"Morning," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "Just wanted to check if you were up before we started making breakfast. Didn't want to wake you if you were still sleeping."
Something in my chest tightens.
They've been doing this every morning.
Checking first. Never assuming. Never barging in or making noise that would wake me if I needed the rest.
Such a small thing. Such a simple courtesy.
But I can't remember the last time anyone cared enough to be that considerate.
"I'm up," I say, and my voice comes out softer than intended. "I'll be out in a minute."
Cecil nods, but doesn't leave immediately. He's watching me with that careful attention he has—the kind that sees too much but never pushes.
"You okay?" he asks.
And I realize—really realize—that he means it.
He actually wants to know.
Not because he's performing politeness or because it's expected.
But because he genuinely cares about the answer.
"Yeah," I say, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, it's not a lie. "Yeah, I think I actually am."
Cecil's smile is small but genuine. "Good. That's really good, Naomi."
He disappears back down the hallway, and I'm left standing there, staring at the empty doorway.
They care.
They actually, genuinely care.
---
Two Days Ago
I'd been having a bad day.
Not for any particular reason—sometimes the darkness just creeps back in, regardless of circumstances. The hollow feeling had returned, that familiar emptiness that makes everything feel pointless and exhausting.
I'd tried to hide it. Old habits die hard.
Put on a smile, went through the motions, pretended everything was fine.
But at dinner, when Keith had asked how I was doing, I'd hesitated just a fraction too long before answering.
And Dylan had noticed.
"Want to talk about it?" he'd asked quietly, after we'd finished eating and Cecil was doing dishes.
"Talk about what?"
"Whatever's making you retreat back into performing."
The observation had been so gentle, so accurate, that my automatic deflection had died on my tongue.
"I don't know," I'd admitted. "It's just... one of those days, I guess."
Dylan had nodded slowly. "Want company or space?"
The question had thrown me. "What?"
"Do you want one of us to sit with you, or do you need time alone?" He'd said it so matter-of-factly, like both options were equally valid. "There's no right answer. Just what you need right now."
I'd stared at him, completely unprepared for that level of emotional literacy.
"I don't know," I'd said honestly.
"Okay. How about this—we'll be in the living room if you want company. Your room is there if you need space. You can move between them as much as you want. No explanation needed."
And that's exactly what had happened.
I'd spent an hour in my room, just sitting with the emptiness.
Then I'd migrated to the living room, where Keith and Dylan and Cecil were watching something mindless on TV.
No one had asked why I'd joined them. No one had demanded I explain or forced me to be social.
Cecil had just shifted over on the couch to make room.
Keith had tossed me part of the blanket he was using.
Dylan had offered me some of the tea.
And we'd sat there together in comfortable silence until the hollowness had receded to something manageable.
---
Present
I head out to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee and the sound of quiet conversation.
Keith and Dylan are at the stove together—Dylan cooking, Keith doing some kind of interpretive dance with a spatula that's probably supposed to be helping but is definitely just chaos.
Cecil is at the table with his mug of tea, watching them with fond exasperation.
They all look up when I enter.
"Morning," Keith says brightly, waving the spatula. "We're making pancakes. Dylan's making pancakes. I'm providing moral support."
"You're providing obstacles," Dylan corrects, but he's smiling.
"Same thing."
I settle into my usual chair next to Cecil, accepting the mug of tea he slides across the table to me.
He made it exactly how I like it—not too sweet, with just enough honey.
Because he paid attention. Because he noticed.
Because he cares.
"Sleep okay?" Dylan asks, flipping a pancake with more skill than should be legal.
"Really well, actually." I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms. "I... thank you. All of you."
Keith turns from the stove, spatula forgotten. "For what?"
"For everything." I look between the three of them—these people who have somehow, impossibly, become more real to me than anyone I've known in years. "For letting me stay. For not making me leave when my two days were up. For asking how I am and actually meaning it. For letting me be not okay without trying to fix me."
My voice cracks slightly on the last part.
"For making me feel like I matter. Not because of what I can do for you or how much happiness I can give you. Just... because I exist. Because I'm here."
The kitchen goes very quiet.
Then Keith crosses the room and pulls me into a hug.
Not a casual hug. A real one. Tight and warm and completely sincere.
"You do matter," he says firmly. "So much. And you're not going anywhere until you're ready. Got it?"
Dylan appears on my other side, his hand resting on my shoulder. "What he said. You're part of this now. Part of us."
I look at Cecil, who's watching with understanding in his eyes.
"Told you," he says softly. "They don't just say things. They mean them."
And suddenly I'm crying.
Not the exhausted, hollow crying from that first morning.
Not the desperate, breaking-apart crying from all those nights alone in my apartment.
This is different.
This is relief and gratitude and the overwhelming realization that I'm not alone anymore.
That I don't have to carry everything by myself.
That it's okay to not be okay because these people will sit with me in the darkness without trying to force me into the light before I'm ready.
Keith just holds me tighter.
Dylan's hand stays steady on my shoulder.
And Cecil gets up to stand beside us, his presence quiet but solid.
We stay like that until the crying subsides into hiccupping breaths.
Until I can finally pull back and wipe my face with the back of my hand.
"Sorry," I say automatically.
"Don't," all three of them say in unison.
I laugh—wet and slightly hysterical but real.
"Okay. Okay. No apologizing for feelings. I'm learning."
"Good." Keith returns to the stove where Dylan has been heroically preventing the pancakes from burning. "Now let's eat breakfast before Dylan's masterpieces get cold."
"They're just pancakes," Dylan mutters, but he looks pleased.
We settle around the table together—Keith still making commentary about everything, Dylan rolling his eyes fondly, Cecil quietly amused by both of them.
And I sit there, eating pancakes that taste better than they should, surrounded by people who chose to care about me.
Not because I'm the Goddess of Happiness.
Not because I can make them feel better.
Just because I'm Naomi.
And somehow, impossibly, that's enough.
The smile on my face isn't forced.
Isn't performed.
Isn't the automatic mask I've worn for so long I'd forgotten what my real face looked like underneath.
It's just... real.
Genuine.
Mine.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something other than empty.
I feel happy.
Actually, genuinely happy.
Not because I'm supposed to. Not because it's my purpose or my duty or what everyone expects.
But because I'm here, in this moment, with these people.