“Yeah.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, pretending it was no big deal when really it felt like the biggest. “Coffee, tea, water … I think I’ve got a soda or two in the fridge. Consider it a housewarming thank-you. Or, you know, an excuse to hang out for a little while longer.”
Her smile spread slowly, lighting up her whole face. “I could stay for a drink.”
And just like that, the space between us shifted. She wasn’t just the woman who teased me at the café or the person who feigned annoyance at the library or made me laugh when I least expected it. Not anymore. After a gift like this, she was something more. Something I was positive I wasn’t ready for but couldn’t bring myself to let go of either.
I grabbed a couple of sodas from the fridge and handed one to her. “Coke okay?”
She opened the can with ease. “Coke is fine. Though, full disclosure, I’m not sure this pairs well with fish.”
I smirked, leaning back against the counter. “What, you’re saying I’m not supposed to make a toast to my new roommate?”
She lifted her can toward the box. “Fine. To Dory.”
“To Dory,” I echoed, tapping my can against hers. “May she survive despite having me as her caretaker.”
Her laugh bubbled out, light and contagious. “Honestly, I give it two weeks.”
“Wow, way to have faith in me.”
“Hey, I bought her insurance policy,” she teased, nodding toward the fish.
We both laughed, the sound bouncing easy between us, until it settled into something quieter, more comfortable. She took a sip of her drink, staring down at thecan in her hands. Her smile dimmed at the edges, thoughtful.
“You know …” she said slowly, “sometimes I wonder if I’d be any better at this whole ‘taking care of things’ thing than you are.”
I frowned, catching the shift in her tone. “What do you mean?”
Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I’ve done everything my parents wanted. Double major, full-time job, always pushing. But instead of feeling proud, I just feel …” She hesitated, searching for the word. “Exhausted. Like none of it is even mine. Like I’m chasing their definition of success and”—she let out a shaky laugh—“and it doesn’t feel like success at all.”
Something in her expression twisted my gut. I’d been so caught up in my own grind, my own battles, I hadn’t stopped to think that maybe she was fighting too.
She went on, softer now. “I grew up watching my parents fight constantly. They blamed their unhappiness on not having enough. Not enough education, not enough money, not enough status. So I thought … if I could just get all those things, maybe I’d be different. Maybe I’d be happy.” She glanced at me, her eyes tired but honest. “But I’m not. Not really.”
For a long moment, I couldn’t say anything. I just looked at her—this woman who seemed to have it all together, who had somehow seen through me enough to know I needed a fish in a tank—and realized she was carrying just as much weight as I was.
“You’re not your parents, Livvi,” I said finally, voicelow. “And you don’t have to live by their definition of what makes a life worth something. You get to choose yours.”
Her eyes softened, the faintest trace of relief flickering there. Like maybe she wanted to believe me.
I knew how easy it was to say—and how much harder it was to do. My dad had his own blueprint for my life—give up swimming, settle down, start a career that looked good on paper. Every call from him was a reminder of how far I was straying from what he thought mattered. So yeah, I got it. How suffocating it felt when someone else tried to script your future.
I swallowed a sip of Coke, my words sticking in my throat before I forced them out. “Truth is, I’m not all that different.”
She slanted her head, watching me closely.
“I’ve spent my whole life with blinders on. Everything’s about swimming, training, proving myself. Like if I just work harder, push longer, maybe I’ll finally make it. And for a while, that focus … it’s all that’s kept me moving.” I huffed out a humorless laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “But it’s lonely sometimes. Empty. I’m guessing that’s what you saw in that picture, wasn’t it?”
She didn’t look away. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
“And that’s why this”—I gestured toward the fish—“hit me harder than it should’ve. Because it means you see me. Even the parts I try to keep hidden.”
Silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, charged, like something shifting between us.
Livvi set her soda down and leaned her elbows onthe counter, closer than before. “Maybe that’s what we both need. Someone to see us. Not the accolades or the goals or the trophies. Just … us.”
Her words landed like a punch I hadn’t seen coming. Because wasn’t that what I wanted? What I was afraid to want?
I should’ve pulled back, cracked another joke, anything to break the intensity building between us. But I didn’t move. Couldn’t.