Chapter 12
12
I tried to focus.
Tried to let the weight of my stylus moving across the screen keep me grounded, keep me tethered to something other than the feeling still lingering on my lips even a day later.
The taste of him.
I had spent years pretending I didn’t want this, that I didn’t want him . Years swallowing my feelings, convincing myself that whatever I felt back then wasn’t real. That what happened when that quarantine itch got the best of us wasn’t real.
But that kiss had been real. Too real.
And now, even as I tried to force my mind on my work, tried to breathe past the heat still curling inside of me, I couldn’t shake it.
The memory wouldn’t leave me alone—the way he’d gripped my waist, pulled me flush against him, pressed his lips to mine like he had been waiting for this moment as long as I had.
And last night, when I heard him come home—his quiet footsteps, the way he paused outside my door like he was deciding something—I waited. I waited for him to open it. To walk in, cross the line, and take us both out of this misery. To end the game, end the friendship, and collect what had always been ours.
But he didn’t.
He went to the shower instead. Then disappeared into his room like none of it happened. Like I hadn’t kissed him back. Like we hadn’t already begun unraveling.
So this morning, I stayed hidden. Didn’t greet him. Didn’t step into the kitchen like I usually would. I curled into my silence, praying he’d be gone soon—telling myself that if I ignored it, maybe it would fade.
Like that was even possible.
I wasn’t sure how I managed to keep working today—how my fingers kept moving, how my eyes stayed on the screen. But somehow, they did. Somehow, I kept sketching, chasing the shape of something new.
The celestial woman was done. That chapter closed.
Now, I was starting something different. Something I didn’t have words for yet. Just lines. Angles. Fragments.
It wasn’t even a full figure—just the beginnings of someone heavy with emotion. Someone layered and distant, as if built to be seen but not touched.
My fingers hovered above the screen…I didn’t know what I was making yet.
But I felt him.
I pulled off my glasses, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to find my center and calm. He was everywhere. In my mind, my heart, his energy pulling at me. Like it always had.
I needed to breathe.
The sharp buzz of my phone made me flinch. I blinked at the screen, clearing my throat before answering.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Hey, baby girl,” she practically sang, “How’s my favorite daughter doing?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m your only daughter.”
“Exactly.”
A small smile pulled at my lips despite myself. “I’m good. Just working.”
“Mmhmm.” She dragged out the sound like she already knew something was off. “And how’s the temporary roommate situation?”
“It’s fine.”
“Just fine?” she asked, that knowing smirk clear in her voice.
I exhaled slowly. “It’s… an adjustment.”
She let out a soft hum, and I already knew what was coming next.
“Amaya, sweetheart, you do realize I know you better than you know yourself, right?”
I stayed quiet.
“You’ve been in love with that boy since you were fifteen.”
My throat tightened.
“Mom.”
“What?” she asked, feigning innocence. “You think I didn’t notice how you used to follow him around? How you always managed to be where he was? How you wrote his name in your notebooks?”
Heat rushed to my face, embarrassment and frustration mixing.
“We were kids,” I muttered.
“Exactly,” she said. “And now you’re adults. You’re not the same people you were back then.”
We weren’t.
But I had spent so long holding onto that hurt, that moment I had realized he didn’t see me the way I saw him, that I never gave myself the chance to acknowledge that things had changed.
That maybe, we had changed.
I did everything I could to stay busy. To keep my hands moving and my mind off him. I played music—loud at first, then soft. Straightened up the apartment, trying to undo the chaos I’d made while working on the commission.
I took my everything shower—washed my scalp, exfoliated, stood under the steam until my skin went pruny and my thoughts softened. Let soul music spill from the speakers until it felt like my heart was leaking through my chest.
I stayed in motion, clinging to distraction, until one glance at the clock told me it was already past eleven.
Amir was always home by now.
Not that we had a schedule or anything, but since he moved in, we had fallen into a rhythm. He’d get home around dinner, we’d eat, talk, or watch something on TV. And then there was always that moment—that lingering, unspoken tension that neither of us dared to acknowledge.
But tonight, he wasn’t here and I didn’t know how to feel about that. I hesitated before grabbing my phone and calling him.
It rang.
And rang.
And then went to voicemail.
My stomach tightened.
A second later, my screen lit up with a text.
Amir: You okay?
I frowned. He always called.
Something was off.
Me: Yeah, I’m good. Just checking in.
Amir: I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.
That was it.
No explanation. No reassurance. Nothing. I stared at my screen, my chest tightening with unease. I felt a pull so strong it scared me—like if I didn’t see him, I’d drown in whatever this feeling was.
And before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my purse, called an Uber to avoid having to find parking, and headed to the studio.