All night, I didn't go home.
Didn't even think about it. I crashed at Miles's place, half-listening to him ramble about music theory while my phone lit up the table again and again. Faye. Always Faye.
I didn't answer once.
I knew she was worried sick. She always was when we fought, even if she pretended otherwise. But I couldn't. Not this time. I needed space—needed to let her words bruise instead of rushing to forgive her like I always did. Needed to be mad, even if only for a few hours.
When I finally dragged myself back the next morning, the apartment was too quiet. Then I saw her. Curled on the couch, tangled in the throw blanket, her hair a messy halo around her face. She looked younger like that. Softer. Vulnerable in a way she'd never admit out loud.
My footsteps stirred her, and her eyes blinked open. The moment she saw me, she sat up fast, like she'd been waiting all night.
"Harry—"
"Not now." My voice was sharper than I intended, but I didn't take it back. "I have class."
She scrambled to her feet, reaching for my hand. I pulled away before her fingers could catch mine and disappeared into the bedroom. The shower roared to life, drowning out whatever she might've said next.
She watched me with puppy dog eyes as I walked out of the house to school. I almost stopped in my tracks when I heard a light sniffle, as if she was about to cry, but I didn't.
Not this time.
The day dragged. I couldn't focus on lectures. Couldn't even hear Miles when he asked if I was okay. All I saw was her face—hopeful when she reached for me, wrecked when I pulled away.
By the time I got back that night, exhaustion sat heavy on me. But the smell of something warm, something salty, greeted me at the door.
She was standing by the table, two bowls waiting. "I made dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
Her eyes dropped, voice small. Childlike. "You used to eat my food even when you weren't hungry."
I looked at the table. Noodles. The only thing she knew how to make. There was barely any steam left, curling from the bowl, but with it memories—late nights when we were younger, her shoving a plate into my hands after a fight, both of us pretending food was enough to fix what words had broken.
I sat. Because even when I wanted to stay angry, I couldn't ignore her. Not for long.
We ate in silence. My jaw worked, chewing noodles that tasted like nothing, while her eyes kept flicking to me, searching for cracks.
She tried once, halfway through, to start a conversation. Something about Leah, about campus. I didn't encourage it. My silence pressed her back into hers.
At the end, she drew a shaky breath. "Harry, I—"
I stood, chair scraping against the floor, and left the table before she could finish. Locked myself in the studio.
The keyboard stared back at me, blank and accusing. My fingers hovered but couldn't play. The walls felt too tight. The air too heavy.
Because she was everywhere. Faye was always everywhere.
It had been that way since we were kids. Anytime we fought, I couldn't think, couldn't function. I was always the first to apologize.
I remembered one night when we were little. She was maybe eight. She'd hidden my sketchbook, refused to give it back, laughing while I chased her through the house. We fought and mom yelled at her. By bedtime, we weren't speaking. I swore I wouldn't cave this time. But when I heard her crying into her pillow, I snuck into her room and gave her my headphones. We shared one bud each, falling asleep to the same song. The next morning, she acted like nothing had happened. That was Faye. Always moving on faster than me.
Another time, middle school. She told me she hated me. Screamed it, actually, because I wouldn't let her walk alone to a sleepover across town. She said I babied her too much and her friends laughed at her because of me. The word cut so deep I thought I'd never forget it. But hours later, she was slipping into my room, curling up on the edge of my bed, whispering, "I don't hate you, Harry. I just get mad." I told her it was fine, even though it wasn't. Even though it hurt like hell.
I don't even remember when the guilt for being adopted stopped being the reason I always folded. Somewhere along the line, it turned into something else. Something heavier.
***
The sound hit me first—soft, muffled, broken. It came from her room when I passed by with a glass of water in hand. I stopped cold, throat tightening.
"Faye?" I knocked gently. No answer. Only the sound of a sniffle swallowed by silence.
I turned the knob and stepped inside. She was a small, curled shadow on the bed, buried under the duvet, knees pulled tight to her chest.
"Are you crying?" My voice came out softer than I meant.
"No," she mumbled, but her voice betrayed her, raw and cracked.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, the dip pulling her closer to me. "Take off the duvet, Faye."
She shook her head stubbornly.
I reached down and tugged gently. She resisted at first, but the fabric slipped away. My chest constricted at the sight—her hair a tangled mess, nose running, eyes rimmed red and swollen. She looked so young in that moment. So breakable.
"Faye…" The word left my mouth like a plea.
Before I could say anything else, she lurched forward, burying herself against me. Her arms locked around my waist, her head pressed hard into my chest. She was trembling, sobbing.
"I'm sorry," she whispered between breaths. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it."
For a moment, I froze, every muscle locked. Then instinct won out. My arms wrapped around her, one hand stroking her hair. "It's okay," I murmured. "It's okay. I forgive you."
"You do?" Her voice was small, desperate.
"Yes." I didn't even think before saying it.
She pulled back just enough to see my face, her lashes wet, her lips trembling. My chest ached from the sight alone. "Get some sleep, Faye."
She nodded, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand like a child. But then, quieter. "Sleep with me."
I swallowed hard, the words knocking me off balance. "I… I can't. I've got homework. Things I need to finish."
Her eyes searched mine, wide and wet. "Why does it feel like you've been avoiding me since I got here? Did you really forgive me, Harry?"
"Yes." The word caught in my throat, too quick, too forced.
"Then stay." She reached for my hand, holding it tight between her small palms. "Sleep here. With me. Just tonight. Please."
Her lower lip jutted out, her eyes shimmering that impossible blue that always undid me. "I want you to sing to me, Harry."
Every cell in my brain screamed no. But my chest tightened, my hand already caught in hers, my voice breaking at the thought of telling her no.
Because this was Faye. And I had never been able to deny her.