Close Friends
New York — November 2023
Elle Smith's apartment was smaller than people expected.
That was the funny thing about social media.
People saw photos of rooftop events and magazine shoots and assumed she lived in some impossibly glamorous penthouse overlooking Manhattan.
In reality, her apartment was a one-bedroom walk-up in the East Village with uneven heating, tiny countertops, and neighbours who argued loudly enough through the walls that she knew far too much about their relationship problems.
But it was hers.
The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla candles and coffee. Books were stacked everywhere — beside the couch, under the bed, balanced dangerously on windowsills. Half her wardrobe lived on a clothing rail because the closet was too small.
Rain tapped against the windows while Elle sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter in an oversized hoodie, scrolling through comments beneath her latest Instagram post.
Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand likes.
A number that still felt absurd even after Miss America.
Especially after Miss America.
Sometimes she thought people assumed winning changed everything forever.
It didn't.
It just meant more people suddenly believed they knew you.
"You're doing the thing again."
Elle looked up.
Her best friend Ava sat curled into the couch eating takeout noodles straight from the carton.
"What thing?"
"The smiling-at-your-phone thing."
"I'm not smiling."
Ava stared blankly. "Elle. You literally look like you're texting your wife."
Elle threw a cushion at her immediately.
"Shut up."
Ava caught it one-handed. "Who is he or ... her?"
"There is no she."
"That's disappointing because there's definitely a face."
Elle rolled her eyes and looked back at her phone before she could stop herself.
One unread message.
A laugh escaped her immediately.
Which was annoying.
Because she did not get giggly over people.
Especially not athletes.
Especially not athletes who lived in another country.
Especially not athletes who somehow looked attractive even in blurry physio-room selfies.
Dramatic, Elle typed back.
The reply came almost instantly.
I play football professionally. Drama is part of the contract.
Elle smiled to herself.
Over the past two weeks, talking to Leah had become strangely easy.
Dangerously easy.
It started with quick replies to stories. Then longer conversations. Then voice notes. Then suddenly Leah Williamson had become part of her daily routine without either of them really acknowledging it.
Elle would wake up to messages sent from London at ridiculous hours.
Leah would finish rehab and somehow end up texting Elle from Arsenal's training ground parking lot for forty minutes.
And underneath all the flirting and sarcasm, something softer had started forming too.
Something real.
Her phone buzzed again.
Elle stood from the counter and wandered toward the fire escape window.
Outside, Manhattan glowed wet beneath streetlights. Yellow taxis slid through rain. Someone below was yelling about parking.
The city always sounded alive.
But sometimes alive wasn't the same thing as full.
She took a quick photo of the skyline and sent it.
Loud.
A minute passed.
Then Leah replied:
Looks lonely.
Elle stared at the screen for a second.
That was the thing about Leah.
She noticed too much.
Most people saw her life online and assumed she was constantly surrounded by excitement. Beautiful clothes. Big events. Followers. Attention.
Leah somehow looked at one blurry skyline photo and saw the loneliness underneath it.
Sometimes it is, Elle admitted finally.
The typing bubble appeared immediately this time.
London feels like that too sometimes.
Elle leaned lightly against the window frame.
Rain streaked down the glass between her and the city.
"You like them," Ava said from the couch.
Elle sighed dramatically. "You're obsessed."
"No," Ava corrected. "You're obsessed."
"I barely know her."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "ah her... and yet you smile every single time your phone lights up."
Elle hated that she was right.
—
The next morning, Elle woke up late tangled in blankets with sunlight cutting through her curtains.
Her phone was full of notifications.
Instagram comments. Brand emails. An invite to some launch party in SoHo she absolutely did not want to attend.
And one voice note from Leah.
Elle opened it immediately.
"Morning," Leah's sleepy voice came through softly. "Or afternoon. Honestly your timezone confuses me."
Elle smiled instantly.
"I saw your latest post," Leah continued. "Which, by the way, was unfair."
Elle laughed quietly into her pillow.
"Like genuinely unfair. You looked..." Leah paused briefly. "Yeah. I'm not finishing that sentence."
Elle bit her lip immediately.
The voice note continued.
"Anyway. I'm currently sitting in my car avoiding rehab because apparently I'm emotionally mature now."
The message ended there.
Elle replayed it.
Then again.
There was something intimate about voice notes. More intimate than texting. The pauses. The laughs. The tiredness in someone's voice.
Leah sounded real there.
Not England captain Leah Williamson.
Just Leah.
Her phone buzzed again before she could reply.
Elle groaned aloud.
Please tell me you defended my honour.
I said you're terrifying.
Perfect.
Another message instantly.
And beautiful. Obviously.
Elle's stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
She stared down at the screen for a long moment.
Because compliments were normal in her world.
People complimented her constantly.
But most of them felt empty. Automatic.
Leah's never did.
Maybe because Leah sounded surprised by her own honesty every time she said something soft.
Like she wasn't used to meaning things out loud.
And maybe that was why Elle couldn't stop thinking about her.