Rain slides down the window in thin, silver lines, the street outside turning to watercolor — pale lights smearing across wet asphalt. The sign in the window hums faintly, its gold paint dulled by the dim. Inside, the air smells of cut stems and cool water. I wipe down the counter one last time, the rag damp and soft against my palm, each motion slower than it needs to be.

The cooler hums low, steady as a heartbeat. A bucket drips by the sink, quiet and rhythmic. Somewhere in the back, the clock ticks unevenly — the sound of time not rushing for anyone.

My phone buzzes on the counter. 

Ellis: Sorry, late again. Rain’s got the highway slow.

I read it twice, thumb hovering over the screen. Be careful, I type. Then pause. Delete it. Type it again. Be careful, babe. Send. The screen glows a little too bright in the low light. I set the phone facedown.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t empty — it’s layered. Water in the gutters outside. The faint hum of a car rolling by. The creak of the floor under my weight. All the noises that make a life feel steady. I tell myself they’re enough.

I start to close up — lights dimmed, vases rinsed, petals gathered from the floor. The smell of earth lingers under my nails. Rain hits harder for a moment, like it’s reminding me it’s there, then softens again to a whisper.

I cross to the door and turn the lock. My reflection catches faintly in the glass — older now, but still twenty-three. Still that same person who hums to fill the quiet. My hair’s a little longer, face a little sharper from years of late nights and early mornings. I’ve learned steadiness, patience, maybe even calm. But my eyes still search the space beyond the rain, like they’re waiting for something to take shape.

A car passes, its headlights spilling gold across my reflection before fading out of view. I touch the glass where the light had been, my fingertips leaving small prints in the fog.

“It’s not the waiting that hurts,” I whisper to no one. “It’s how normal it starts to feel.”

The cooler clicks off. For a heartbeat, the shop is silent except for the rain. I breathe in the scent of peonies and wet stone. The stillness settles deep, familiar as breath.

I turn away from the door. The world keeps raining.

Steam curls from the kettle, soft and slow, turning the kitchen light to haze. I lean against the counter, phone in hand, the hem of my long yellow shirt brushing my thighs. The air smells faintly of chamomile and rain, the kind of quiet scent that settles without asking to be noticed. My bare feet stick slightly to the tile where I spilled water earlier. The apartment hums, low and even, like it’s listening with me.

The phone vibrates once. 

Ellis: Love you. Sorry for missing dinner again.

I read it twice. My thumb hovers. It’s okay. Get some rest, I type. Then delete it. Type again. Delete again. The words look too formal, too patient. I start over. I love you too. Send.

The dots never appear.

The kettle clicks off with a small, final sound. I pour water into the chipped mug sitting by the sink—the one Ellis found at a roadside thrift shop last fall. The glaze is pale blue, uneven where it meets the handle. He’d said it looked like sky after rain. I keep it because it feels like him—sturdy, imperfect, trying.

I stir honey into the tea, listen to the spoon knock against porcelain. The sound fills the space that conversation used to. Rain hums steady on the roof above, an old rhythm that matches the way I breathe now. The shop below has gone dark; the air carries the faint scent of peonies through the floorboards.

I move through the apartment, small routines that make the night behave: watering the ivy on the shelf, folding the blanket that’s always half off the couch, straightening the picture frames that lean just slightly. My hands trail across surfaces as though touch keeps them from fading—wood, fabric, glass. Each one warmer than it should be.

The TV flickers without sound in the other room. A half-watched movie plays to no one. I catch my reflection in the dark window, cup in hand, hair loose, shoulders softer than they used to be. For a second, I imagine Ellis here—the sound of him setting his keys down, the weight of his arm around my waist—but the image fades before I can hold it.

The tea cools between my palms. Outside, thunder rolls far enough away to sound like memory.

“The quiet isn’t empty,” I whisper, setting the cup down. “It’s just used to me.”

Rain answers against the roof, steady, patient, the same rhythm it always keeps.

A romance movie plays low on the TV — two voices laughing softly in the rain, the kind of laughter that sounds close enough to touch. The light flickers across the room, blue and gold, shadows moving with the rhythm of passing headlights outside. I sit cross-legged on the couch, the tea cooling between my palms, the faint taste of honey gone dull.

The apartment hums around me — pipes, rain, a quiet that feels like breathing. The couch dips slightly where I always sit, fabric warm under my knees. I pull the blanket across my lap and let the sound from the movie blur into the background. A man’s voice, soft and sure. A woman’s answer, half a laugh, half a sigh.

The window’s cracked open, and the night air drifts through, damp and clean. Somewhere down the street, someone runs through puddles, laughing — bright and unguarded, a sound that reaches me like it doesn’t care about walls. For a heartbeat, it sounds like Ellis. Not in the way of fantasy, but in the way of muscle memory — how the body fills in what it misses.

I look toward the window. The glass catches my reflection — my face layered with the flicker of the movie’s light, the rain streaking behind it. I can’t tell where I end and the night begins. The laughter outside fades, replaced by the low hiss of tires on wet pavement.

On screen, the characters are still standing in the rain, smiling like they’ve just figured something out. I can’t remember what part comes next. Maybe I never knew. The tea’s gone cold, but I keep holding it anyway. It gives my hands a reason to stay still.

I think about Ellis — the distance between his words and his body, how love becomes geography when someone’s always traveling. The last time he was here, he fell asleep on this same couch, rain tapping at the window just like this. The pillow beside me still dents the same way.

“Every movement feels half-shared,” I whisper, my voice catching in the quiet, “as though someone’s just left the room.”

The words hang there for a moment, settling with the dust and the light. I reach for the remote, turn the volume down until the movie becomes a blur of color and breath. The laughter fades first. The rain stays.

Outside, the streetlight hums. Inside, the silence knows my name.

The rain has thinned to a hush, mist curling along the glass like breath. I stand by the window, one hand wrapped around the mug I’ve forgotten to drink from. The tea’s gone cold, the surface still and dark, catching the faint reflection of the shop sign below — Leclair’s Floral Creations, its gold lettering glowing weakly through the drizzle. The puddles on the street shimmer with that same gold, trembling with each passing car.

The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft drip of rain from the gutters. The air smells of earth and steam, of something clean that won’t last. I set the mug on the sill, trace a finger down the glass where condensation beads, and watch it trail behind me like a slow-moving thought.

My reflection looks back: calm face, tired eyes, a little smile that doesn’t quite reach. The kind of expression that feels practiced. I tilt my head, see how the light from the street cuts along my jaw, turning everything soft and faint. For a moment, I barely recognize the person staring back — steadier, maybe, but quieter too.

The phone beside me lights up again. 

Ellis: I’m trying, Aster.

The glow fades before I can decide what to say. I don’t pick it up. The message feels heavier for its honesty, like an apology too tired to stand on its own. I rest my palm flat against the window instead, cool glass meeting warm skin.

“Sometimes I think I’m good at being alone,” I whisper, voice small enough to disappear into the mist. “Other times, I realize I’ve just practiced it too long.”

Outside, the rain slows until it’s barely there — a sound softer than silence. Streetlights blur against the damp, their halos blooming outward like flowers caught between waking and sleep. The world feels gentler in this light, washed out and waiting.

I breathe against the glass, watch the fog of it bloom and fade. The marigolds in the window box glow faintly beneath the sign, petals bright as embers. They lean toward the street like they’re searching for warmth.

The air holds steady. The city exhales.

And I stay there — hand against the cool pane, surrounded by gold and quiet — listening for something I know won’t come.