81
The apartment was quiet, except for the occasional hum of traffic outside and the soft static of the Bluetooth speaker Amanda had connected to her phone. Something lo-fi and wordless played in the background—easy to ignore, but grounding enough to keep the silence from feeling too big.
Amanda lay sprawled on the living room floor, one leg bent, her cheek resting on her arm as she stared up at the ceiling like it held the secrets to the universe. Her sketchbook was open in front of her, the blank page waiting. A pen twirled idly between her fingers.
Ericka sat cross-legged beside her, her blazer long discarded and sleeves rolled up. A half-eaten takeout container balanced near her knee, and her own notepad was filled with slightly chaotic business ideas and questions written in looping cursive.
"I want the brand to feel like... freedom," Amanda said suddenly, her voice thoughtful and soft.
Ericka tilted her head. "What kind of freedom?"
Amanda blinked, staring at the ceiling again. "The kind that makes you exhale. Like when you take off your heels at the end of a long day and your soul just sighs."
Ericka smirked. "Sounds like a wellness brand."
Amanda threw a crumpled napkin at her.
"I'm serious!" she laughed. "That's actually really beautiful. You want people to feel safe in your clothes."
"Yeah." Amanda sat up, pulling the sketchbook into her lap. "Safe. But also powerful. Like... soft armor. I don't want it to be about trends. I want it to be about how someone feels when they put it on."
Ericka watched her for a long moment, admiration etched into her face like a permanent fixture. "Then you're already doing what most designers never figure out."
Amanda rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. "I want every piece to tell a story."
"Then tell me one," Ericka challenged, scooting a little closer and resting her chin on Amanda's shoulder. "Right now. From scratch. Make it up."
Amanda bit her lip, then flipped to a clean page and began sketching quickly, her strokes confident and fluid.
"Okay... picture this," she began. "A woman wakes up in a tiny apartment in Paris.
She's an artist, messy bun, oversized button-down shirt, paint on her fingers.
Her life's chaotic—but this morning, for some reason, she feels calm.
She opens the window, and the breeze makes her feel brand new.
The dress she puts on? It's linen. Barely structured.
Light gray. Like storm clouds before they break.
She ties a ribbon around her waist and goes downstairs to buy peaches. "
Ericka was practically melting against her shoulder. "Please tell me the ribbon is detachable."
"Obviously," Amanda whispered, half-laughing.
They both laughed then, the kind that made their stomachs ache a little. Amanda kept sketching. A dress, soft and layered. A cropped jacket with clean lines. Something fluid but not shapeless.
Ericka tapped her pen against her notepad. "Okay, next brainstorm prompt: what would your first runway show look like?"
Amanda grinned, eyes sparkling. "Barefoot models walking down a moss-covered runway. Bare faces. Slow music. Smells like sage and vanilla."
Ericka nodded like she was taking mental notes. "We'll get a production team. Lights low. Maybe fog machines. I'll bring the investors."
Amanda laughed again, leaning her head back and staring at the ceiling once more. "You really believe in me, huh?"
Ericka reached over, threading their fingers together.
"No," she said. "I believe in us."
Amanda's breath caught.
She didn't say anything for a moment—just squeezed Ericka's hand and let the quiet fill up the space between dreams.
_________________________________________________________
Saturday morning bloomed slowly, wrapped in the kind of soft sunlight that made everything feel like the opening scene of a dreamy rom-com.
Amanda padded barefoot through the kitchen of her new apartment, still getting used to the echo of empty walls and the way light poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The space still smelled like fresh paint and possibility.
She stood by the window with a cup of tea, wearing one of Ericka's oversized button-ups like a dress. Behind her, the soft clink of keys in the lock made her turn.
Ericka stepped in, holding a giant coffee and a rolled-up design magazine like it was a bouquet of roses. Her hair was in a sleek ponytail, and she looked unfairly gorgeous in a leather jacket and jeans.
"You ready?" she asked, her grin bright. "Because today's the day we make this place feel like yours."
Amanda laughed softly. "I still feel like I'm squatting in a Pinterest board."
"Exactly," Ericka said. "Let's go fix that."
They hit the city with an agenda and no real plan—just the open road and a few bookmarked places on Amanda's phone. First stop: a quirky vintage spot in an old warehouse with exposed brick walls and velvet armchairs that looked like they belonged in a 1960s French film.
Amanda floated through the space, stopping every few feet to run her fingers over textured fabrics or lift up vases shaped like twisting sculptures.
"I want the space to feel like a hug," Amanda said, her hands waving with excitement. "Warm. Creative. A little moody, but not sad. Like... mysterious encouragement."
Ericka leaned on the edge of a mid-century credenza and raised an eyebrow. "Mysterious encouragement?"
Amanda nodded seriously. "It's a vibe."
"Babe, you're a vibe," Ericka murmured, before quietly flagging down a salesperson to add the credenza to their purchase list.
By the third store—a bright, open showroom with curated minimalist décor—Amanda had flopped dramatically onto three different couches and insisted on testing every rug for "feet feel."
"This one is too itchy," she said, wiggling her toes. "This one feels like a sad hotel lobby. And this one—this one is heaven."
Ericka crouched beside her, resting her chin on Amanda's knee. "Then heaven it is."
Amanda blinked, caught off guard by the sweetness in her tone. She brushed her fingers through Ericka's hair.
"You're really doing this with me."
"I told you," Ericka said, her voice low. "It's not just a gift. It's an investment in you. In what you're going to create here."
Amanda swallowed hard. "I just don't want to take advantage—"
Ericka shook her head. "Stop. You're not taking anything. You're building something. And I get to be part of that story."
They ended the day at a handmade furniture shop tucked into the corner of a quiet street. Amanda found a wooden drafting table that stole her breath—scratched up, but sturdy, with decades of someone else's imagination still lingering in the grain.
She ran her hand over the surface reverently.
"This one," she whispered.
Ericka didn't hesitate. "It's yours."
That evening, they sat on the floor of Amanda's still-unfurnished apartment, surrounded by sample swatches, empty coffee cups, and the muffled laughter of a long, happy day. Amanda leaned against Ericka's shoulder, sketching out a rough layout for the space on a notepad balanced on her knees.
"Do we need a neon sign that says 'Create'?" she asked.
"Only if it's pink," Ericka replied.
They burst into laughter again, Amanda doubling over, her head falling into Ericka's lap.
"You know what this space really needs?" Amanda said, catching her breath.
"What?"
"You. Somewhere in it. Always."
Ericka ran her fingers through Amanda's curls and smiled, quiet and sure.
"Good," she whispered. "Because I'm not going anywhere."