Later, I called home.
Grandma picked up on the second ring.
Her voice, small and soft, wrapped around me like a blanket.
"Ash? Is that you, little leaf?"
"Yeah," I said, smiling into the receiver even though she couldn't see it. "I reached New York. The college is… huge. People are nice."
"And Lena? Did you see her?"
"Yeah," I lied. "She was so happy to see me. Said she missed you too."
There was a pause on the other end; that gentle, knowing kind.
For a second, I thought she saw through me like always.
But then she laughed softly.
"That girl always had sunshine in her eyes. I'm glad she's still keeping you company."
I pressed my thumb against my eyelid until I saw stars.
"Yeah. She's… she's still the same."
Grandma hummed a tune I hadn't heard since childhood a lullaby she used to sing when I couldn't sleep.
Sometimes it feels like she has gone back to when I was a child. The way she treats me these days, the way she calls me little leaf… it scares me. It makes me feel like she could disappear any moment. Like I'm already losing her.
"You sound tired, little leaf. Don't forget to rest. And don't let the city make you forget who you are."
"I won't," I said.
Another lie.
When the call ended, I just sat there, staring at the dark screen of my phone.
I wanted to cry and tell her the truth, that Lena didn't even smile, that I'd seen her kiss someone else, that my heart felt like it was being peeled apart slowly.
But Grandma didn't need more sadness. She'd carried enough.
So instead, I whispered into the quiet room.
"Goodbye, Grandma. I'm happy here."
And hoped that, wherever she was, he believed me.
The worst lies are the ones we tell to protect the people who love us most.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I trudged down the dimly lit streets, scanning every "Room for Rent" sign with the kind of desperate hope that only comes after sleeping in a drafty stairwell for three nights.
Most places were in neighborhoods where even the streetlights seemed scared to stay on.
One room had a door that didn't lock and a hallway that smelled like burnt wires. Another was above a bar where the walls shook with bass and bad decisions.
The few that looked halfway livable asked for deposits I couldn't dream of paying.
Everywhere I turned, there was a reason I couldn't stay. Too dangerous, too filthy, too far gone, or just too expensive for someone like me.
By the time I reached the end of the street, my breath fogging in the cold, I couldn't tell if the ache in my chest was from hunger or hopelessness.
ran into someone outside a small café.
"Woah, watch it," a voice called.
I looked up. Alice, hair tied back, a book bag slung over one shoulder, eyes sharp enough to pierce steel.
"You look like hell," she said.
"I, uh, I'm fine," I muttered.
"Bullshit," she said. "Spill it. What's got you wandering like a lost ghost?"
I hesitated. Talking didn't help, but somehow the words slipped out. "I can't find a place to stay. Everywhere is full. Or unsafe. Or… ugh." I trailed off, realizing I sounded pitiful.
She tilted her head, smirking. "You know, my roommate just moved out. You can crash at my flat. We'll split rent. Done."
I froze. "I… can't. You're… you're a girl."
"Wow, excellent observation," she said, deadpan. "You want a cookie for that?"
"People will talk," I muttered, cheeks burning.
"Let them," she said easily. "People talk when they're bored. Or ugly. Or both."
I opened my mouth, tried to argue, but the words stuck. My pride fought with my exhaustion and the gnawing cold inside me.
Alice crossed her arms, gaze softening slightly. "Suit yourself. But if you end up sleeping in a park, don't blame me when the pigeons stage an intervention."
Her humor cut through the tension, but beneath it I sensed genuine concern. Somehow, she knew the difference between mockery and empathy.
I groaned, defeated. "Fine. I'll… take your offer. Just for a night, okay?"
"Sure," she said, eyes twinkling, "for a night. Then I'll raise the rent to two nights of your dignity."
Walking to her flat, I kept my head down, embarrassed but secretly relieved.
The apartment was tiny, one single room with a kitchenette shoved in the corner and a bathroom barely big enough for a laundry basket. My duffel bag felt heavier the moment I realized… where exactly was I supposed to sleep?
Alice noticed my frozen stare.
"Relax dude. I'm going downstairs to grab a folding bed for you. My last roommate was a girl, so we shared the bed. Don't worry, I promise you won't die from my snoring."
I froze. We'll share the same room? My face burned.
"Uh… I don't think… "
"Yes, yes, I know it's awkward. But you can't exactly sleep standing up." She grinned, utterly unbothered.
I hesitated, but she leaned against the counter, folding her arms.
"You can leave if you wish, but don't blame me if you get arrested for sleeping on the road."
I swallowed hard. I had no choice. Reluctantly, I nodded.
"Fine. I'll stay. But only because I need a roof over my head."
She clapped her hands together.
"Perfect! We'll split rent, bills, and chores. Speaking of which, I cook terribly, so you can do the cooking. I will accept cleaning duties with a proud heart."
"I can cook," I said, trying to sound casual, though my stomach twisted in nerves.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Really? Finally, someone competent around here. Excellent. You can be in charge of meals; I'll rule the mop." Then she gave me a quick guide, "Bathroom's down there. Couch pulls out. Oh, and the faucet leaks. It's like living with a tiny waterfall that won't shut up."
"I'll fix it," I said before I could stop myself.
She glanced at me, surprised, maybe a little amused.
"You fix things?"
"Sometimes," I said. "When I can't fix people."
There was a silence after that. I sat down on a chair and pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over Lena's contact, then locked it again.
Tomorrow I'll find another place. I can't burden this kind girl like that, or risk her reputation because of me.
Alice spoke without looking at me.
"You can unpack, you know. The floor won't bite."
"Maybe later," I said.
"Suit yourself. Just don't die of politeness."
She smirked, and for a moment, I smiled. The first time in days.