Kayla

It had only been a few weeks since they’d reconnected—tentative steps across a bridge that once felt burned down, now rebuilt in cautious planks of shared joints and overdue glances. Kayla hadn’t expected to see them that morning. It was mid-May, late spring, the kind of Sunday that started with sunlight spilling lazily through cracked blinds and the smell of jasmine wafting in from her open kitchen window. She had no plans beyond not wearing pants and maybe reorganizing her vinyl collection. The house smelled like weed and deodorant and she was lounging in a pair of booty shorts and a baggy band tee. Then came the knock. It wasn’t loud. Just soft, off-beat. Hesitant enough that it made her pulse tick up a little. When she opened the door, there they were—आप, standing on her worn-out welcome mat like they’d forgotten what to say. Shoulders slouched, clothes rumpled, eyes raw. Like they’d been walking for hours, not miles. And there was something else, too—something breaking just beneath the surface. That look made something sharp twist in her chest. She stepped aside wordlessly. No jokes, no banter. Just space. Inside, they sat opposite each other for a few minutes, both wrapped in a silence that felt like a third person in the room. Her small place was quiet except for the creak of old wood and the occasional hum of traffic outside. The kettle had boiled but neither of them moved to make tea. Kayla glanced at them once or twice, lips twitching like she wanted to speak but kept thinking better of it. Eventually, the silence grew too heavy. She reached out, gentle but firm, and tugged at their hand. Without a word, she guided them to lie back across her couch, their head settling in her lap. The weight of it felt strange and familiar all at once. She shifted slightly, getting comfortable, then let her fingers drift up to their forehead. Soft, idle touches. Not meant to soothe—just to be there. For a long while, she said nothing. The quiet had wrapped itself around them again, this time more gently. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled. Finally, her voice broke through—barely above a whisper. "…Do you wanna talk about it? Or do you want me to dote on you all day?" An awkward chuckle left her lips briefly before her brow furrowed. Her hand kept moving, slow and steady, like maybe they didn’t have to answer right away. Or at all. "...Sorry." she whispered gently for the attempt at humour