9:48 PM — Kali and Dahlia's shared apartment

  The scent of coffee filled the kitchen with that special warmth only the everyday can bring when silence is present. Dahlia was sitting on the counter, legs crossed, hair loose, holding a mug in both hands as if the answer to something she hadn't yet figured out might be hiding inside. Kali walked around barefoot, wearing an oversized Nirvana T-shirt — clearly Nicco's — and rainbow socks that screamed against the gray floor.

  "Do you actually like black coffee, or do you drink it just to seem mysterious?" Kali asked, stopping beside her with a raised eyebrow.

  "It keeps me awake," Dahlia replied, eyes still fixed on her mug.

  "That sounds like, 'I don't want to talk, but if you push just a little, something might slip out that I didn't mean to share.'"

  Dahlia barely smiled.

  "And what do you drink?"

  "Sugar with caffeine and a splash of emotional whiskey. But today I'll settle for not thinking."

  They looked at each other for the first time that night. A pause. Not uncomfortable, but filled with something unnamed.

  "And Nicco?" Dahlia asked.

  "In my room. I think he's looking for his dignity under the bed. Says he lost it after today's improvised karaoke."

  "You and Nicco last night...?" Dahlia asked subtly.

  "No, we're best friends. We just watched some old movies and sang, that's all," Kali replied, casually amused.

  Just then, Nicco appeared. Hair tousled, shirtless, in pajama pants that read "Venice Beach," holding an open bag of chips and wearing a face that said, "don't judge me, I've got evidence of suffering."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Did you know there's a childhood photo of me in one of Dahlia's philology books?" he said as he walked in. "I'm convinced it's a conspiracy."

  "It's a medieval drawing of a demon with a moon-shaped face," Dahlia clarified without flinching.

  "Exactly. And still, it represents me better than my ID."

  Kali burst out laughing, and with it, the air in the room seemed to lighten a little.

  Nicco flopped down on the couch, stretching out like he'd just run a marathon.

  "So, what's the plan tonight, queens of sarcasm? Movie? Unsolicited confessions? An ABBA dance routine?"

  "Silence and food," said Dahlia.

  "Great combo," added Kali.

  "I accept the challenge," he said.

  They stayed in the living room, no bright lights, just small lamps lit and a soft playlist playing that none of them remembered starting. Instrumental jazz. Nothing too melancholic. Just enough to feel like the world moved at a different rhythm.

  "Can I ask a question?" Nicco broke the silence after a while.

  "Depends," Kali said, popping a grape into her mouth.

  "Did you two... know each other before?"

  Kali and Dahlia looked at each other. The question hovered like a note no one dared to end.

  "No," Dahlia answered.

  "No," Kali echoed. But her voice wasn't entirely convincing.

  "It's just... there's something weird. I can't explain it. You look at each other like you've already had this conversation in another language, a long time ago."

  Kali lowered her gaze. Dahlia took a sip of her coffee.

  "Sometimes you don't need to know someone to feel like you already understand them," Dahlia murmured, almost absentmindedly.

  Kali looked at her with a mix of curiosity and... respect.

  "That was intensely poetic."

  "It happens when I don't sleep," she replied with a subtle shrug.

  The silence returned, but it wasn't the same. It held something different. As if, between scattered words and bags of chips, a small crack had opened where something else could slip through.

  "Can I stay over tonight?" Nicco asked suddenly. "I don't want to go back alone."

  Kali nodded without a word. Dahlia did too.

  "You bring the popcorn," Kali said. "And tomorrow you're making breakfast."

  "If it means I don't have to be alone, I'll even make heart-shaped pancakes."

  "That sounds dangerously romantic," Dahlia remarked.

  "Only if my principessa wants it to be."

  They laughed. Not loudly. But enough.

  That night, nothing out of the ordinary happened. No revelations. No broken secrets. Just three people in a living room where no one had to pretend.

  And that, in a world that felt shakier with each passing day, was a quiet miracle.