2
The leopard print slides from my shoulders.
I step out of it carefully, lifting one foot, then the other, leaving it folded over itself near the bed for a second before picking it up and hanging it over the chair.
My heels come off next.
The relief is immediate, quiet, almost embarrassing. The carpet feels soft under my feet after hours of structured shoes.
In the bathroom, the light is too bright at first.
I lean both hands on the edge of the sink and look at myself in the mirror.
The smokey eye has softened at the corners. Mascara still dark, but heavier now. Lip gloss is gone except for a faint shine that survived dinner and wine.
I reach for the cleanser.
The water takes a second to warm. When it does, steam rises lightly against the mirror.
The first touch of water against my face feels colder than expected. I work the cleanser slowly between my fingers before pressing it into my skin, careful around my eyes first, then my cheeks, my forehead, along my jaw.
Dark makeup stains the white cotton pad almost immediately.
One side of my face first. Then the other.
I always notice the difference halfway through. One eye still dark, one already clean. Half the night still there, half gone.
The mascara takes longer.
I hold the pad there for a few seconds before wiping again, slower this time. Black smudges disappear little by little until my own face starts to come back, softer, less deliberate than earlier.
By the time I rinse everything off, my skin feels cooler.
I pat it dry with the towel hanging beside the sink and run serum over my cheeks, down my neck, in the same order I always do without thinking.
The silence helps.
No voices. No music. Just water dripping once into the sink.
I change into pajamas slowly, oversized cream cotton pants and a loose shirt that smells faintly like detergent. Softer than anything I wore tonight. Familiar.
When I brush my hair, the strands still hold the shape from earlier, but less now. The blowout loosens with every pass of the brush until it falls naturally over my shoulders.
I like having a routine. It makes me forget about the things I worry about.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed for a second before reaching for my bag.
The black envelope is still there.
I pull it out.
The card inside catches the bedside lamp when I open it again.
I wouldn't if I was you.
The same words. Still flat. Still strange.
I read them once, then again, like they might change if I look long enough.
They don't.
The memory of the phone call returns before I can stop it.
That voice.
That single word.
Don't.
A small shiver moves through my arms even though the room is warm.
I slide the card back into the envelope and place it inside the top drawer of my bedside table, closing it immediately after, like not seeing it might make it less real.
For a moment, I stay still.
Then, without meaning to, I think of the restaurant again.
Not the note.
Not even the drive.
Just one brief image.
Celeste across the room, black dress, lifting her glass while Lucía spoke.
The way she had looked over once. Briefly. Nothing in her face.
I feel so much, even when her facial expression is neutral.
I lie down and pull the blanket over myself.
It shouldn't matter.
That thought comes easily now, almost automatic.
The room is dark a minute later except for the thin line of light under the curtains.
I check my phone once.
No new messages.
I set the alarm for morning.
And when I finally close my eyes, the evening stays with me longer than I want it to.
Morning comes slowly.
Not because I sleep badly, just because the room stays dim longer than usual. The curtains are only half closed, enough for light to get in without fully waking me the first time it reaches the bed.
When I open my eyes properly, the house is already awake somewhere below me.
A cupboard closes downstairs. Water runs for a few seconds.
I stay still for a moment, looking at the ceiling.
The night comes back in pieces. The restaurant. The envelope.
I don't open the drawer.
I already know it's there.
The thought passes before it settles too deeply. Morning makes everything feel less sharp.
I sit up slowly, pushing the blanket down. My hair falls forward immediately, softer than it looked last night, one side flattened from sleep.
The floor is cold under my feet.
In the bathroom, I rinse my face first, then brush my teeth while leaning one shoulder against the sink, still half asleep.
The mint wakes me up properly.
I smooth moisturizer into my skin and tie my hair back loosely before deciding what to wear.
Cream joggers. A fitted long-sleeve top. Something easy.
Downstairs, the smell of coffee reaches me before the kitchen does.
Dad is already there.
He stands by the counter in a dark T-shirt, looking at his phone while the coffee machine runs again. His glasses sit lower than usual, the way they always do when he hasn't fully started the day yet.
He looks up when I walk in.
"Morning."
"Morning."
One mug is already in his hand. Another waits beside the machine.
The kitchen feels warmer than upstairs. Sunlight stretches across the marble counter, catching the fruit bowl, the edge of the toaster, the knife near the board.
I take out the bread.
For a second, I stop.
Not long. Just enough to notice it.
Then I press the toast down and reach for the avocado.
The knife slides through it easily. I mash it slowly with a fork, add salt, spread it across the toast once it's ready.
Dad doesn't say anything while I do it.
He never comments on small things when he knows not to.
I sit across from him with my plate and coffee.
The first bite is easy once I start.
Outside, a car passes slowly down the street.
Dad sets his mug down.
"We should leave in about an hour."
I look up.
"For the apartment?"
He nods.
"I want you to see it properly in daylight."
Something about that makes me smile.
"As opposed to?"
"As opposed to deciding based on lighting."
I take another bite.
He checks something on his phone again before putting it down.
"You slept okay?"
"Yeah."
He nods once.
"Good."
The quiet after that feels normal.
Not empty.
I finish half the toast before setting it down again.
I reach for my coffee while Dad picks up his keys from the counter.
And the morning keeps moving.
Dad drives.
I offer once, mostly out of habit, but he shakes his head before I finish the sentence, already unlocking the car.
"It's easier if I do," he says.
So I take the passenger seat and pull the seatbelt across my chest while he adjusts the mirrors like he always does, even though nothing ever seems out of place.
The morning outside is clear in that quiet way weekends sometimes are. Less traffic. Wider gaps between cars. The city doesn't feel fully awake yet.
For the first few minutes, neither of us says much.
The radio stays off.
Sunlight moves across the dashboard every time we turn.
I watch it slide over his hand on the steering wheel, over the watch he never takes off, over the small coffee stain near the cup holder that has probably been there for months.
The envelope crosses my mind once when we stop at a red light.
Just the thought of it sitting in my drawer.
I look out the window instead.
People move differently on Saturday mornings. Slower. Someone walks a dog past a bakery with two paper bags in one hand. A woman in running clothes waits outside a pharmacy, checking her phone.
Dad turns into a quieter part of the city a little later, where the buildings change.
Taller. Cleaner. Glass instead of brick.
The kind of entrance that always has polished doors and plants that somehow never look dusty.
He pulls into the underground parking garage and stops beside a black column marked with a silver number.
"This is us," he says.
The garage smells faintly like concrete and cold air. Cleaner than most garages. Even the lighting feels expensive somehow, soft instead of harsh.
When we step out, my footsteps echo lightly.
Dad locks the car and leads the way toward the elevator without explaining much, which feels intentional, like he wants me to see it before he says anything else.
The elevator doors open almost immediately.
Inside, everything is mirrored.
Soft lighting overhead, pale walls, no fingerprints anywhere on the metal.
Dad presses the top floor.
The ride is smooth enough that I barely feel it move.
I watch the numbers climb.
The higher we go, the quieter it feels, which makes no sense because elevators already have their own kind of silence, but this one feels sealed off from everything below.
When the doors open, they open directly into the apartment.
Not into a hallway.
Straight into it.
For a second, I don't move.
The first thing I notice is the light.
It reaches everywhere.
The windows stretch almost from floor to ceiling, wide enough that the whole far wall feels transparent. Morning light falls across pale wood floors, across a long cream sofa, across the edge of a marble island in the kitchen.
The whole place feels still, like no one has fully lived in it yet.
I step out slowly.
The air smells new. Clean wood, faint fabric, something almost like fresh paint but lighter.
To the left is the kitchen.
White marble with soft grey veins running through it. No clutter. Just a bowl of fruit already placed in the center of the island like someone thought about what empty spaces should look like.
The stools are cream too, high-backed, with gold details at the legs.
A coffee machine sits untouched near the wall, still too polished to feel used.
Beyond that, the living room opens wide.
Low furniture. Neutral colors. A black glass table. Shelves already arranged with books placed carefully enough that they look decorative first, readable second.
Nothing feels crowded.
Even the silence feels expensive.
I walk farther in.
A rug softens my steps near the sofa.
There's a lamp near the corner, tall and gold, curved over one side of the seating area.
Everything matches without trying too hard.
Dad watches me without interrupting.
The city stretches beyond the windows, lower than I expected from up here. Buildings I know look smaller, almost arranged.
For a second, all I can hear is the faint hum of the refrigerator somewhere behind me.
Then I look right and see the dining area.
Glass table. Six chairs. No marks on anything.
Further down, the hallway opens toward the bedrooms.
The walls stay pale all the way through, broken only by dark frames and one large abstract painting I don't understand but still like because of the colors.
"It's fully done," I say quietly.
Dad nods.
"I didn't want you starting with empty rooms."
I walk toward the window.
Even standing still here feels strange, like I should say something bigger than what I'm thinking.
But mostly I'm just looking.
At the way the sunlight reaches the floor.
At the untouched cushions.
At how quiet everything is.
It doesn't feel like a place someone bought quickly.
It feels chosen.
And that somehow makes it harder to speak for a second.
I move farther inside without really deciding where first.
The apartment makes that difficult because everything opens into everything else. No sharp divisions, no small rooms immediately asking to be entered. Just long lines, soft colors, light everywhere.
The kitchen island catches my attention again, mostly because the marble looks colder up close.
Pale grey veins run through it in uneven lines, almost like cracks that stopped halfway.
There's nothing unnecessary on it except the fruit bowl and a small tray near the edge with two unopened bottles of sparkling water.
Even that looks arranged.
I touch the surface lightly with my fingertips.
Cold.
Behind me, Dad sets the keys down somewhere near the entrance.
"You can change anything you want," he says.
I glance back at him.
"There's nothing to change."
"That's what people always say in the first five minutes."
I smile a little.
The cabinets are matte, almost blending into the wall until the light catches their edges. I open one out of curiosity.
Inside, everything is already there.
Plates stacked evenly. Glasses lined by height. Cups still untouched enough that they look like they came out of packaging this morning.
I close it again and move toward the hallway.
The first room is smaller than I expect but bright. Probably meant as an office. A desk already in place near the window, pale wood again, with a chair upholstered in soft beige fabric. Shelves on one wall, empty except for two books and a plant that looks too healthy to be fake.
The second room is clearly a guest room.
A neatly made bed, grey linen, curtains tied back. A lamp on each side, identical.
Nothing personal.
That's what makes the whole place feel strange at first. Beautiful, but waiting.
The bedroom at the end is the only room that immediately feels softer.
The bed is larger than mine at home, low, dressed in white sheets and a muted beige throw folded across the end.
The headboard runs wide across the wall, upholstered in cream fabric.
One side table has a lamp. The other has only a book placed there like someone thought a room should always suggest life, even before anyone lives in it.
The windows here are even wider.
Light falls directly across the bed and the floor beside it.
To the left, a door opens into the bathroom.
I stop there longer.
White stone again, but warmer somehow because of the light. Two sinks. Large mirror. Glass shower with black trim. Everything clean enough to reflect itself.
Towels folded perfectly.
A tray near the sink already holds soap, hand cream, even a candle.
I lean slightly against the doorway.
It feels finished in a way that makes me suddenly aware of how temporary my room at home has always been, even though it never felt temporary until now.
Dad appears behind me but doesn't step inside.
"You like it?"
I look back toward the bedroom.
The silence here is different from home. Not emptier, just uninterrupted.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "A lot."
He nods once, like he expected that answer but still wanted to hear it.
There's a walk-in closet beside the bathroom too, already fitted with shelves, drawers, and long rails with nothing hanging yet except a few spare wooden hangers spaced too neatly apart.
I step inside and immediately imagine filling it without meaning to.
Shoes below. Jackets on one side. Dresses where the light won't touch them too directly.
The thought feels oddly adult.
When I step back into the bedroom, I notice how the city looks different from this angle. Less immediate. More distant.
Cars below move like they belong to another pace entirely.
Dad leans one shoulder against the doorway.
"You don't have to move in immediately," he says.
"I know."
"But it's yours whenever you want it."
I nod.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then I walk back toward the living room, slower this time, noticing the small things I missed earlier.
The stitching on the sofa cushions.
The books near the shelf, mostly architecture and photography.
A folded blanket draped over one arm of the sofa that looks untouched, too carefully placed to have been used.
Near the window, there's a narrow black table with nothing on it yet.
That empty space stands out more than anything else.
Like it's waiting for something personal to make the place settle.
I stop there and look down at the city again.
The apartment is beautiful.
But what stays with me most is how quiet it is.
The kind of quiet that could either feel peaceful or lonely depending on the day.
And I'm not sure yet which one it would be.
I stay near the window a little longer.
From here, the city looks flatter than it does from the street, almost arranged. Cars move in clean lines far below. People are too small to make out properly.
The glass is colder than I expect when I touch it lightly.
Behind me, Dad walks slowly through the living room, glancing around the way people do when they already know a place but still check if it feels right with someone else inside it.
"There's more downstairs," he says.
I turn.
"What kind of more?"
"Gym. Pool. Things people mention when they want a building to sound impressive."
I smile.
"It already is impressive."
He doesn't answer that. He only reaches for one of the water bottles left on the kitchen island and hands it to me.
The bottle is cold.
I twist the cap open slowly.
The apartment still doesn't feel entirely real.
Maybe because everything is already finished.
Nothing here needs fixing. Nothing needs arranging. Every room already knows where everything belongs.
And still, it feels unfinished in another way.
I walk back toward the sofa and sit down for the first time.
The fabric is softer than it looked, the cushion sinking just enough beneath me.
From here, I can see the hallway again, the clean lines of the walls, the light reaching the floor near the bedroom.
Everything is quiet enough that I can hear the faint hum coming from somewhere in the kitchen.
"You'll need your things here," Dad says after a moment.
I look up.
He stays standing near the island, one hand resting against the edge of the marble.
And immediately I understand what he means.
Because that's what's missing.
Not furniture.
Not anything obvious.
Just the absence of ordinary things.
No shoes near the entrance.
No bag dropped over a chair.
No jacket hanging somewhere carelessly.
No charger on the counter. No skincare near the bathroom sink. No clothes folded badly over a bed.
Nothing personal enough to interrupt how perfect everything looks.
I glance toward the hallway again.
"My room will look completely different in here," I say quietly.
"It should."
I nod.
I'm already thinking without meaning to.
Which dresses I'd move first.
The boxes under my bed.
The drawer where half my things are mixed together because I stopped organizing weeks ago.
My perfumes.
The small framed photo still sitting near my mirror.
The apartment suddenly feels less distant once I imagine those things here.
More mine.
"I'll probably need the whole day," I say.
"For what?"
"To move things."
Dad nods like he expected that answer.
"There's no rush."
But there is, a little.
Not because anyone is forcing it.
Just because now that I've seen it, I can already feel the difference between this place and my room at home.
The quiet here feels older.
Cleaner.
Like it belongs to someone who has already figured things out.
I stand again and walk slowly toward the narrow black table near the window.
Empty.
That's the first place I'd put something.
Maybe flowers. Maybe nothing.
Something small enough not to ruin the view.
I rest my fingers lightly against the edge of it.
"Tomorrow?" Dad asks.
I glance back.
"For moving?"
"If you want."
The answer comes easier than I expect.
"Tomorrow."
He nods once.
And the word settles in the apartment almost as clearly as the light does.
Tomorrow.
Not abstract anymore.
Real enough that I can already picture myself opening drawers at home tonight, deciding what comes first.
I look around once more before we leave.
The apartment already feels different now that the word tomorrow has been said out loud.
Not distant anymore. Just waiting.
By the time we get back downstairs, I'm already thinking in lists.
What stays.
What goes first.
What I'll forget if I don't start today.
The elevator ride down is quieter than before.
Dad checks something on his phone while I stand beside him, watching our reflections in the mirrored wall.
For a second, I barely recognize the shift in myself.
An hour ago, this was just a place.
Now I'm mentally opening drawers.
When we step back into the parking garage, the air feels cooler than upstairs.
Dad unlocks the car, but before I get in, I stop.
"What?"
"I should call someone today."
"For what?"
"To move everything tomorrow."
He nods immediately, like that was obvious.
"Do it today. Weekend schedules fill up."
That makes sense.
I get in the car and pull my phone out before he even starts the engine.
The first company I find looks too corporate.
The second one answers immediately.
A man picks up after two rings, voice calm, already sounding like he's done this all morning.
I explain the basics while Dad drives us slowly out of the garage.
A house. Tomorrow morning. Boxes and furniture, but not much furniture. Mostly clothes, personal things, smaller pieces.
The man asks for the address twice.
Then the apartment address.
Then says they can send a team at ten.
"Tomorrow?" I ask.
"Yes, tomorrow morning."
I glance out the window.
People move along the sidewalk outside, carrying coffee cups, shopping bags, nothing urgent.
"Okay," I say. "That's fine."
He confirms everything and hangs up after giving me a reference number I immediately save because I know I'll forget it otherwise.
"That easy?" Dad asks.
I nod.
"Tomorrow at ten."
He smiles slightly, eyes still on the road.
"That's usually how moving works."
I lean back in the seat.
For a moment, I just hold the phone in my hand.
There's something strange about arranging your own life in under five minutes.
Like adulthood is mostly small phone calls no one prepares you for.
"We should probably get boxes," I say.
"There are already boxes at home."
Of course there are.
Dad always has boxes somewhere.
The thought makes me smile.
By the time we reach the house, I'm already thinking room by room again.
Shoes first.
Then clothes.
Then everything on my desk.
Bathroom things.
Chargers.
The small things feel bigger than furniture somehow.
Because they're what make a room belong to someone.
When I unlock the front door, the house feels different too.
Still home.
But slightly less fixed than it did this morning.
Like part of me has already started leaving before anything's been moved.