It was getting harder to pretend everything was normal.
Not that anything had been normal since the night Celeste stepped out of the painting, but at least Amelia had convinced herself she could handle it. She could teach Celeste about the world, show her how to exist in it, and pretend this was nothing more than a strange miracle—an impossible, beautiful accident.
But after last night—after the dream, after Celeste remembering something—Amelia couldn't shake the feeling that there was something bigger at play.
And it terrified her.
She sat at the kitchen counter, staring into her untouched coffee as the early morning light filtered through the window. The apartment was still quiet, but she could hear the soft sound of Celeste moving in the other room.
Her thoughts spun in endless circles.
Celeste knew things. She knew how to read. She understood the world, even though she had never been in it before. And now, she was remembering things from a past she shouldn't have.
What did it mean?
Was Celeste truly just a painting that came to life? Or had she been something before Amelia ever painted her?
The thought made her stomach twist.
"Hey."
Amelia flinched, nearly knocking over her coffee. She turned to see Celeste standing in the doorway, dressed in one of Amelia's oversized sweaters, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Her hair was slightly messy from sleep, and she looked at Amelia with that quiet curiosity that always made Amelia feel like she was the one being studied.
"You're staring at the table," Celeste pointed out.
Amelia blinked. Right. She had been sitting here for… how long? She shook her head, forcing a tired smile. "Just thinking."
Celeste tilted her head. "About what?"
Amelia hesitated. She wanted to ask—wanted to demand answers from Celeste, even though she knew Celeste probably didn't have them. But instead, she just sighed. "A lot of things."
Celeste didn't push. She never did. That was another thing about her—she had a strange patience, a kind of understanding that went deeper than words.
Instead, she stepped further into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer. She rummaged around for a moment before retrieving a spoon.
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
Celeste didn't answer immediately. She walked over to Amelia's coffee mug and, with exaggerated precision, began stirring the coffee.
Amelia blinked. "...Okay?"
"You weren't drinking it," Celeste said simply.
"That's because I was thinking."
Celeste smiled, something teasing and affectionate in her expression. "Then I'll stir while you think."
Amelia huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "That's not how it works."
Celeste only hummed, continuing her slow, thoughtful stirring. "I want to go outside today."
Amelia stiffened. "Outside?"
Celeste nodded. "Yes. I think it's time."
Amelia stared at her. Time for what?
Celeste had never asked to leave before. She had seemed content in the apartment, content with Amelia, content with learning about the world through books, music, and whatever Amelia could teach her. But now…
Something had changed.
Amelia set her coffee down. "You don't even have shoes."
Celeste smiled, and it was so soft, so knowing, that Amelia almost forgot how to breathe. "Then let's get some."
—
The streets of Brooklyn were alive with movement.
Cars honked, people talked loudly, the scent of coffee and fresh bread drifted from bakeries, and the air buzzed with the rhythm of city life.
Celeste took it all in with wide, wonder-filled eyes.
Amelia walked beside her, nervous and protective, scanning the crowds like someone might see Celeste for what she truly was. But, of course, to everyone else, Celeste was just a girl.
A beautiful girl, sure—one who turned heads as she passed, her presence impossible to ignore—but still just a girl.
Celeste's fingers brushed against Amelia's. "It's… loud."
Amelia huffed a laugh. "Welcome to New York."
Celeste smiled, looking up at the towering buildings, the endless sky between them. "It's wonderful."
Amelia wanted to say something—wanted to ask why now? Why, after all this time, did Celeste suddenly want to leave the apartment? But instead, she just watched her, this impossible girl who had come from paint and magic and something Amelia didn't understand.
She felt the strangest ache in her chest.
Celeste wasn't hers, not really. But God, it was starting to feel like she was.
—
They found a pair of boots in a small thrift store. Celeste picked them out herself, running her fingers over the worn leather as if trying to remember something.
"These," she said simply.
Amelia paid in cash, and as they walked back onto the street, she stole a glance at Celeste's face. There was something different in her expression now, something more certain.
Like she had taken a step toward something neither of them could name.
—
That night, Amelia dreamed again.
She was in the field, the sky dark and endless.
But this time, she wasn't alone.
Celeste stood beside her, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth, her hair moving with an unseen breeze.
And this time, Celeste reached for her hand.
The moment their fingers touched, the world shifted.
A feeling—recognition—rushed through Amelia like an unstoppable tide.
She knew this place.
She knew Celeste.
Amelia woke with a gasp, heart racing.
The room was dimly lit by the glow of the street lights outside, casting golden patterns on the ceiling. She sat up, pressing a hand against her chest, trying to calm the frantic beat of her heart.
She turned her head—and found Celeste already awake, sitting by the window, staring at the stars.
She wasn't surprised.
Somehow, she had known Celeste would be awake, as if their dreams had ended at the exact same time.
Celeste turned, her eyes meeting Amelia's.
"You dreamed it too," Celeste whispered.
Amelia swallowed hard. "Yeah."
Neither of them said anything else.
But the quiet between them was heavy.
Something was coming.
And Amelia wasn't sure she was ready for it.