McKenzie woke the next morning with a headache that wasn't entirely from crying.
It came from a memory—Lily sitting across from her, chin resting in her palm, eyes soft in a way no one had looked at McKenzie in months.
She made herself breakfast mechanically: toast, too much cream cheese, and a cup of coffee she'd forget to finish. Her roommate was still asleep, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the heater.
She checked her phone.
A new message.
From Lily.
McKenzie blinked at the name, feeling a flutter she quickly told herself wasn't excitement.
Lily:
Hey, just checking in. I hope you're doing a little better today.
Simple. Soft.
Thoughtful.
McKenzie read it twice before replying.
McKenzie:
Thanks. I am. Yesterday helped… more than you know.
Her thumb hovered over the send button before she added:
And you didn't have to check in, but I'm glad you did.
She hit send before she could reconsider.
Across campus, Lily felt her heart squeeze at the message. She reread the words until the letters felt warm in her hands.
She had woken early, restless.
Last night replayed in her mind like a dream she wasn't sure she was supposed to keep.
McKenzie wasn't just attractive—she was gentle, sincere, and heartbreakingly vulnerable. And Lily wasn't used to wanting someone so badly while knowing she had no right to.
McKenzie was still healing.
And Lily? Lily was falling.
That week, everything changed.
Instead of passing each other with polite nods, they started greeting each other with small smiles. Instead of occasional conversations, they found themselves talking after classes, walking the same routes even when their destinations weren't exactly aligned.
Lily learned that McKenzie doodled in the margins of her notes, little stars and hearts she filled in when she was bored. That she liked spicy food but couldn't handle it. That she always carried an extra hair tie around her wrist, even though she lost those too.
McKenzie learned that Lily drew people who didn't exist but felt real. That she drank mint tea like it was a personality trait. That she spoke softly in crowded spaces but laughed loudly when she was comfortable.
Day by day, their friendship became something no one warned them about:
dangerously easy.
Friday Afternoon
It happened in the art building—quiet, dim, buzzing faintly with the smell of paint. Lily was sitting on the floor, sketching, her hair tied messily with a pencil she'd forgotten was there.
McKenzie found her without meaning to.
She had been dropping off a form, nothing important, when she saw a familiar silhouette in the hallway through the open studio door.
"Lily?" she called softly.
Lily startled, looked up, and her face broke into a smile so warm it made McKenzie's chest ache.
"Oh," she laughed, brushing hair from her face. "Hi."
McKenzie stepped into the room.
"You draw here a lot?"
"Sometimes. The light is nice."
McKenzie's eyes drifted to the sketchbook on Lily's lap.
"Can I… see?"
A pause—quick, fleeting—but enough for McKenzie to feel she'd overstepped.
"You don't have to," she hurried. "It's okay if you don't want anyone to—"
"No," Lily said quickly. "You can."
She turned the book toward McKenzie.
Inside were delicate lines—faces, hands, expressions that looked like moments frozen in time.
One sketch made McKenzie stop.
It was… her. (T.N so predictable🥱)
Not perfectly, not intentionally, but there she was—her posture, the curve of her cheek, the way she twirled a strand of hair when nervous.
McKenzie's breath caught.
"Is that… me?"
Lily's cheeks flushed instantly.
"Oh—um—it's not— I mean—it's similar, but I wasn't—" She clutched her pencil. "Sorry. I should have asked—"
"It's beautiful," McKenzie said softly.
Lily blinked, stunned.
"You didn't do anything wrong," McKenzie added. "I'm… honored, actually."
And she meant it.
Lily looked away quickly, but McKenzie still saw the way her lips curved, softly, like she was fighting a smile and losing.
The air suddenly felt warm.
Alive.
Too full.
McKenzie cleared her throat. "You really are talented."
Lily tucked her hair behind her ear. "You really say that like you mean it."
"I do," McKenzie whispered.
For a moment, the only sounds were the hum of distant ventilation and the frantic beats of two hearts trying not to be obvious.
The Walk Home
They left the building together, the sky shifting into evening gold.
McKenzie walked closer than necessary.
Lily didn't move away.
When they reached the split in the path where they normally separated, neither of them stepped off.
Finally Lily spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
McKenzie nodded.
"How are you doing? Really?"
The question was so gentle, so sincere, that McKenzie felt something inside her unspool.
"I'm… trying," she murmured. "Some days, I still think about her. Tanya. But it doesn't hurt as much around you."
Silence.
Lily froze.
The words hit deeper than McKenzie realized.
"I mean—" McKenzie stammered. "Not in some weird way. Just—being around you is… easy."
Lily exhaled slowly. "It's not weird." She hesitated. "It's… nice to hear."
Then, almost too quietly:
"I like being around you too."
McKenzie felt her pulse skip.
Just once.
But enough that she noticed.
A gust of cool wind rustled the leaves around them, but the warmth between them didn't fade.
Not even a little.
When they finally parted ways, McKenzie glanced back once.
Lily was still looking at her.
Not like a stranger.
Not like someone who barely knew her.
But like someone who wanted to.
And for the first time since Tianna, McKenzie wasn't afraid of that.
She almost welcomed it.