“Got it,” I say, nodding toward the hallway.“Anything else?House rules about toothpaste caps or toilet seats?”
She exhales sharply, clearly done with the conversation.“I’m not your babysitter, Joel.Just… don’t be an asshole.Think you can handle that?”
She spins on her heel before I can respond, disappearing into her room and slamming the door behind her.
Off to a great start.
The apartment falls silent after Anna disappears, leaving me alone in her space.I shift my weight awkwardly, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder and my guitar case pulling on my other hand.The air feels charged, like it’s holding its breath.Or maybe that’s just me.I exhale, rolling my head from side to side.
I glance around the large open floor plan, taking in my new surroundings.It’s not what I expected—not that I’d spent much time imagining what Anna Chang’s life looked like these days.But still, it catches me off guard.
The kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one big open space, which is pretty unusual in these old Victorian Duluth homes.
It’s neat but not obsessively so.To be honest, that’s the most surprising part.She’s so uptight, I half expected for her to label her silverware drawer.Just to be sure, I open the kitchen drawers to check.Everything seems pretty normal.
The shelves lining the walls are packed with books and little knickknacks—some practical, like a small jade plant sitting in a ceramic pot, and some sentimental, like a framed photo of her and Ethan at a park that looks like it’s from when they were kids.
The furniture is functional, not flashy.A gray couch with a throw blanket draped over the back, a coffee table stacked with what looks like tech manuals, and a simple rug that ties the space together without trying too hard.
The space feels warm—not literally, because she keeps it just this side of freezing—but in the way it’s lived in.
Personal.
Like Anna carved this space out of the world for herself, piece by piece.
My gaze drifts back to the kitchen.There’s a bowl of oranges on the counter, next to a set of knives that look sharper than her glare.The fridge is covered in magnets—mostly from tech conferences, but one is shaped like a dinosaur.It’s bright green and slightly crooked, as if it doesn’t quite belong but refuses to be ignored.I kinda like it.
A faint smile tugs at my lips before I catch myself.Anna Chang has always been full of contradictions.Sharp edges and soft moments.The same girl who could argue her way into winning any fight could also spend hours quietly writing lyrics that could make your insides flop around or melt into a puddle.
I shake my head, dragging myself out of my thoughts and back to the task at hand—dropping my stuff in my new room for the next couple of weeks.
The hallway creaks under my boots as I make my way to the spare room she pointed out.The door is already open, and I step inside, taking in the bare-bones setup.A twin bed pushed against one wall, a small dresser, and a rickety desk that looks like it might collapse if I so much as breathe near it.The walls are painted a neutral off-white, and there’s a single window with plain blinds drawn shut.
I drop my duffel bag on the bed and lean my guitar case against the wall, letting out a slow breath as I take it all in.
The room is fine.It’s not like I need much—just a place to crash.But the silence of the apartment feels heavy, like the place is holding secrets it doesn’t want to share.
Come on, Joel.Don’t be so dramatic.This is what I wanted, right?Proximity.A chance to fix things.
But the cold shoulder Anna’s giving me makes it clear this is going to be a hell of a lot harder than I thought.
After unpacking just enough to keep my clothes from wrinkling into oblivion, I find myself back in the living room.The apartment is still eerily quiet.I can hear the faint sound of her typing from behind the closed door of what I assume is her office, but otherwise, it’s just me.
I sit on the couch and glance at the coffee table.A book on the rise of AI sits on top of a stack of programming books, the cover worn and dog-eared.I flip it open, skimming the underlined passages and notes in the margins.Anna’s handwriting is precise, almost too neat, but there’s a certain energy to it, like the thoughts couldn’t stay contained.
A soft laugh escapes me.She used to scribble notes in the same frantic style when we were kids, always chasing after some big idea or impossible problem.I remember teasing her about it once, and she told me, “If you don’t keep up with your thoughts, someone else will.”
She was thirteen.
That always amazed me.The depth of her thoughts and emotions for someone so young.I was fifteen and could barely think beyond which Wii game I wanted to play that day.
God, the quiet is suffocating, pressing in from all sides.I glance at the stack of books on the coffee table, then at the framed photo on the shelf.Nothing feels safe to touch, like even breathing too loud might set her off.
Finally, I give in, making my way back to the spare room.
I pick up my guitar, strumming softly to fill the emptiness.The melody comes to me before I even realize what I’m playing.
Her song.