82
It started with a simple question.
They were curled up on Ericka's couch, the city lights painting the room in gold and silver streaks beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A muted documentary played in the background, narrating something about the rise of eco-fashion in Europe—something Amanda had picked but neither of them was actually watching.
Amanda was nestled under Ericka's arm, a shared blanket wrapped around them like a cocoon. The scent of jasmine from a nearby candle hung in the air, and the stillness between them wasn't tense—it was warm, familiar.
"Can I take tomorrow off?" Amanda asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ericka blinked, brushing a thumb along Amanda's arm. "Sure. Everything okay?"
Amanda nodded, sitting up just enough to meet her eyes.
"Yeah. I just... I think I need a little space.
Not in a bad way," she added quickly, seeing the way Ericka's brow knit.
"I've been kind of wrapped up in everything lately—the apartment, work, us.
I just want a day to breathe. To wander.
Clear my head. Maybe sketch a little... meet new people. "
There was a pause—brief but palpable. Ericka didn't speak immediately. Instead, she studied Amanda for a moment, lips parted like she was weighing the right response.
"Of course," she said finally, soft but even. "You deserve it. Just... keep your phone on, alright? So I don't freak out if I don't hear from you."
Amanda smiled, her shoulders relaxing. "Promise."
Ericka leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Have a good day. Explore. Recharge."
The next morning, Amanda slipped out quietly, trying not to wake Ericka.
She wore high-waisted jeans with just the right amount of stretch, a soft gray crop top that clung to her like it was made for her, and the gold chain Ericka had given her last month.
Her curls framed her face perfectly, and her canvas tote hung on her shoulder, sketchbook tucked safely inside.
She started her day at a small café nestled between two bookstores—a hidden gem she'd passed a dozen times but never stepped into. It smelled like espresso and fresh paper. She ordered a lavender matcha and found a sun-drenched window seat.
The sketchbook opened almost on its own, her pencil dancing before she realized she'd even picked it up. It was like breathing.
That's when she noticed them.
A group of three artists sitting at the next table—animated, expressive, full of color.
One had cobalt blue hair and a septum ring, flipping through a tattered portfolio.
Another was sprawled sideways in their chair, sketching on a napkin and complaining about gallery lighting.
The third was deep in conversation about an upcoming pop-up exhibit.
"Hey," the one with the napkin said, glancing at Amanda's page. "That's a clean line. You do portrait work?"
Amanda looked up, blinking in surprise. "Sometimes. Mostly fashion illustration."
"Ooh," the blue-haired one said, eyes lighting up. "We've got a designer."
An hour later, Amanda was sitting with them.
They talked about everything—art school, gallery politics, weird commissions, and failed collaborations. They joked easily, tossing ideas back and forth like they were painting mid-air. Amanda laughed until her ribs ached, and somewhere along the way, she told them about her new space.
"You should come to the show tonight," one of them said. "It's this warehouse loft thing. Super chill. Bring your sketchbook. There's always someone worth drawing."
Amanda hesitated. She could still feel the ghost of Ericka's arm around her from the night before. But she hadn't felt this free, this seen, in a long time.
"I'm in."
The event was even more vibrant than she expected.
Strings of lights hung from exposed beams. Live music played in the corner, jazzy and experimental.
People drifted through like waves, wine in hand, admiring the eclectic artwork displayed on every inch of the walls.
Amanda found herself pulled into conversation after conversation, sketching freely in a corner while sipping a deep red Cabernet.
She forgot to check her phone.
She forgot to check the time.
It wasn't until someone tagged her in a gallery story—a wide panning shot of the room, Amanda's laugh rising from the background, her curls bouncing as she turned her head toward someone speaking—that she thought to glance down.
Three missed calls.
A text.
Ericka:
Hey. You okay?
Just wanted to hear your voice.
Amanda's stomach clenched. She hadn't meant to worry her. She'd just... gotten swept up in it all.
Amanda:
I'm good. Just lost track of time. I'll call you when I head home.
But what Amanda didn't know was that Ericka had already seen the story.
Had seen Amanda in the frame, smiling, radiant, surrounded by strangers. Her laugh—familiar and unguarded—echoed louder in that video than it had in days. And Ericka... she wasn't jealous. Not exactly.
She was unsettled.
Because Amanda looked happy.
And Ericka couldn't help but wonder—was that the version of Amanda that didn't need her?
As Amanda wandered from piece to piece, unaware of the spiral happening miles away, she felt something shifting inside her too. Not distance, exactly. But change.
And as the night wore on, somewhere between a new sketch and a sip of wine, she started to realize: maybe this was the beginning of a new chapter.
One she wasn't sure how Ericka would feel about just yet.