Axel #2
“Because Daniel asked me to. And because I want to be.”
She looked at me directly for the first time all week. Her eyes studied me like she was trying to solve an equation that didn’t quite make sense.
“You’re a better person than I am,” she said finally.
“I’m really not.”
“True. A better person wouldn’t finish the bread without warning. You should have mentioned you used the last of it.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. “I was just following instructions exactly. Sorry if it came off as extremely petty.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Match made in heaven, clearly. My mother’s a genius.”
We looked at each other and something passed between us—a truce, maybe, or the beginning of one.
Daniel appeared in the doorway. “You two need help?”
The moment broke like a soap bubble.
“We’re done,” Delia said, drying her hands. “Thanks though.”
The drive back to Brooklyn was different than the drive there. Delia didn’t angle herself away from me. Didn’t stare out the window like she was trying to escape. Just sat normally, occasionally commenting on traffic or pedestrians doing ridiculous things.
“That guy’s wearing a dinosaur costume,” she said as we passed someone on the street.
“It’s Friday night in New York.”
“Valid point.”
At her apartment, we went through our evening routine with less tension. She didn’t immediately disappear to her bedroom. Instead she asked if I wanted tea.
“Tea?” I repeated, because she’d barely spoken to me all week and now she was offering beverages.
“Yes. Hot water with leaves in it. Ancient beverage. Very soothing.”
“I know what tea is.”
“Do you want some or not?”
“Yes.”
She made tea while I sat on her couch. When she handed me a mug and sat on the opposite end—not the other room, not her bedroom, just the other end of the same couch—it felt like progress.
We drank in silence that wasn’t quite hostile anymore. Just quiet. Almost comfortable.
“I’m sorry,” Delia said suddenly. “For being difficult. I know you’re trying to help.”
“You’re not being difficult.”
“I’m absolutely being difficult. It’s basically my superpower at this point.”
“Then I should have asked before reorganizing your space.”
“Maybe we’re both bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Living together. Not living together. Whatever temporary situation this is.” She stared into her tea. “I’m not used to having someone around. Or someone caring if I eat or sleep or burn down the apartment.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t burn down the apartment.”
“Me too. It’s rent-controlled.”
I almost smiled.
She set down her tea and looked at me. “Truce?”
“Truce.”
“I’ll try to be less defensive. You try to be… less perfect.” She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m not perfect.”
“You made breakfast this morning while I was still asleep. The eggs were flawless. The toast was golden. The fruit was arranged artfully. It’s honestly offensive.”
“I’ll make worse eggs tomorrow, I promise. I’ll even leave in some eggshells for an extra crunch.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Thank you.” Then she smiled—real and warm—and something in my chest swelled with warmth.
“I’m going to bed,” she said, standing. “Try not to organize anything while I’m asleep.”
“No promises.”
She headed toward her bedroom area, then paused. “Axel?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For coming tonight. Also, for not making it weird after what my mom said. For just… being there.”
“Always.”
The word slipped out before I could stop it—too honest, too revealing.
But she just smiled and disappeared to her room.
I sat on her couch for a while longer, finishing my tea, trying not to think about Elena’s words or the way Delia had looked at me in the kitchen or the fact that “always” was both a promise and a confession.
Eventually I stood, started my usual evening routine of checking doors and windows and making sure everything was secure.
That’s when I saw them.
Delia’s paintings, stacked against the wall in her art corner.
I’d been trying not to look too closely at them all week—it felt invasive, like reading her diary without permission.
But tonight, with her words still echoing in my head and Elena’s observation still burning in my chest, I couldn’t help myself.
I moved closer.
The paintings were raw. Bold colors and violent brushstrokes, figures that were simultaneously breaking apart and trying to hold themselves together. Pain rendered visible. Grief made tangible.
One in particular caught my attention—a woman in a white dress, surrounded by shattered pieces of something that might have been mirrors or windows or promises. Her face was turned away but her posture screamed devastation. The colors were harsh and beautiful and absolutely gutting.
This was what Delia saw when she looked at herself—and it gutted me.
I stood there for a long time, studying the paintings, understanding for the first time just how hurt she was. Not just her heart or her pride, but her belief in herself as a whole person. Not something broken.
I turned off the lights, settled onto the couch that was definitely too short for my frame, and stared at the ceiling.
Truce, she’d said.
It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.