IVY GALANIS' POV
"Bitch, I got the job!" Maya practically screams, doing a mini victory dance as she struts toward me like she is on a personal runway.
Half the street turns to stare. A few people give her that tight-lipped can-you-keep-it-down look. Maya does not notice. Maya never notices. She is too busy flicking her blonde curls like she is auditioning for a perfume ad.
We meet here a lot — this tiny coffee shop tucked between a thrift store and someone's basement tattoo studio. It smells like roasted beans, vanilla syrup, and the kind of hope you can only find in places with scratched wooden tables and fairy lights nobody remembers turning on.
"That is my girl," I mutter into my iced latte as she reaches me. "The nation's problem child."
"Ivy," she breathes dramatically as she drops into the seat opposite me, "I. Got. The. Job."
I pass her the white chocolate mocha I ordered for her. "Congratulations, superstar."
Her brows wiggle like she is about to deliver a plot twist. "Do you know the best part?"
"Tell me."
Her excitement warms something in my chest — something fragile. I love seeing her like this. Maya feels like sunlight. Even when my own world is permanently overcast, she finds a way to shine.
"My dad said"—she pauses for effect—"he is getting me an apartment now!"
We squeal. People stare again. We don't care.
For a moment, it is just us — two girls with complicated lives and ridiculous dreams.
"One day," I murmur, "I am going to escape my aunt. You are going to help me pack."
She points two fingers at me like fake guns. "I am your ride or die. I got you."
"Love you for real, May."
"Obviously." She flips her hair. "Who else puts up with you?"
I lift my pinky. "Besties?"
"Besties for life." She hooks hers through mine.
We sit there, fingers still loosely touching. The silence is not awkward — it is comfortable, like a soft blanket wrapped around sore bones.
Maya finally sips her drink. Her eyes widen instantly.
"Oh my God," she whispers. "This is orgasmic."
I snort. "It is literally your regular order."
"Still." She takes another dramatic sip, eyes fluttering shut. "Art."
I shake my head. She is ridiculous. And perfect.
"This is the beginning of my soft life era," Maya declares to the sky.
"With what salary? A stylist's pay?" I tease.
"Let me dream, bitch. My dad still exists."
"Fine. Manifest away."
"Oh!" Maya gasps. "My aunt came over with my dad yesterday."
"No way. Aunt Clara? The one who believes crop tops summon demons from the abyss?"
Maya slaps my shoulder across the table. "Yes! And she had a whole melt-down. Like, a full demon exorcism because I was wearing this."
She gestures to her outfit — strapless bralette, cargo skirt, legs for days. Of course, Aunt Clara combusted.
"Cheers to crazy aunties," I say, lifting my cup.
We clink.
Maya leans forward, eyes narrowing like she is studying me the same way she studies outfits. "You know, sometimes I wonder what your life would look like if you actually enjoy things. Imagine Ivy Galanis in her fun era — terrifying."
I roll my eyes. "My fun era exists."
"Where?" she fires back. "In witness protection?"
I burst into laughter, loud enough that a couple at the next table startle. Maya looks proud of herself as usual.
Then she starts talking about her apartment fantasies: a skylight, a huge balcony, a closet big enough to host a summer camp for shoes, gold accents everywhere, and questionable art that looks like the artist sneezed paint.
I listen. I laugh. I tease her. But somewhere in between her rambling hands and glittery dreams, I feel something I don't often feel: peace.
Maybe it is the warm sunlight. Maybe it is the soft indie music in the background.
Maybe it is just Maya — the girl who took one look at broken me and decided I was worth keeping.
She is still talking when her voice fades into white noise, my mind drifting to a place I rarely let myself visit.
Before everything fell apart. Before hospitals and funerals. Before I moved into Aunt Tessa's personal torture chamber.
When life was soft, and someone loved me loudly.
When I was not alone.
"Ivy?"
I blink back to reality.
"Sorry," I say, shaking the ghosts off. "What did you say?"
"You," Maya says, eyes narrowing. "Your vibe is off."
"It's nothing."
"You are lying." She leans in. "And you know I hate when you lie."
I laugh. "May—"
"Don't May me. Talk."
"It's just. . ." I sigh. "My aunt."
"Again?" She frowns. "I swear I want to fight that woman."
"You would not last five minutes."
"I would last six," she says proudly.
I laugh. She definitely would.
Then my traitor mouth adds quietly, "Do you ever think about getting out of all this? Like. . . the loop we are stuck in?"
"All the time." She shrugs. "But I feel like. . . maybe I am where I am supposed to be. Just not who I am supposed to be yet."
Her words hit deeper than she realizes.
I look down at my drink, watching the ice melt. "I feel trapped most days."
Maya's foot nudges mine under the table, gently. "I know."
The breeze picks up, carrying her jasmine perfume toward me — warm, soft, familiar.
"Ivy," she murmurs, "I will always be here. I will be your sugar when you are too salty. And your calm when you spiral. We balance each other."
I stare at her — this loud, chaotic, loving hurricane of a girl — and something inside my chest softens painfully.
Because she is right.
She has always been right.
And I know, in a way deeper than words, that I will always love her.
Platonically.
Honestly.
Fiercely.
Maya Morgan may be chaos wrapped in glitter, but she is my only constant.
My only safe place.
My family — in a world where I no longer have one.