Benji
The kerning on the Deadfall logo is a fucking war crime, and it’s making me want to break my own fingers.
I’ve been staring at it for forty minutes, nudging the D and the E closer together and then further apart. No matter what I do, it looks like the letters are either about to kiss or file a restraining order against each other. The band’s guitarist sent me a reference image that’s basically just the word DEATH in a free clip-art font, along with the note, “Something like this but cooler.” It’s the graphic design equivalent ofdraw me a horse but make it a better horse. God, I love my job.
My headphones are blasting, my coffee went cold an hour ago, and I have graphite smudged across three of my fingers because I keep switching between the laptop and the sketchpad like one of them is going to magically solve the problem the other created. The kitchen table is covered in loose paper, pens without caps, a dried-out Sharpie I keep meaning to throw away, and the remains of a granola bar I started eating at some point and forgot about. Friday night, baby. Living the dream.
My phone buzzes against the table. Three rapid-fire vibrations. The group chat. Probably Jude losing his mind over a throw pillow. I flip it face down without looking. Whatever it is, it can wait.
The apartment is too fucking quiet. Not silent—the fridge hums, the heater clicks on and off, and somewhere down the hall Soren is doing whatever Soren does at nine on a Friday. Probably reading a paperback and drinking tea like a person who actually has their life together. But the couch is empty. Milo’s shelf by the TV is bare—no cookbooks, no framed photo of him and his mom, no half-finished scarf from the two weeks he decided he was a knitter. Jude’s corner is clean for the first time in three years. It should feel like a win, but mostly it just feels empty.
Not that I care. Good for them. Jude’s got Rhys and Milo’s got Callum. They’re both claimed, nested, and disgustingly in love. I’m happy for them. I am. In that specific way you’re happy for someone who won the lottery, while you’re eating cold ramen.
I shove the laptop back and lean over the sketchpad, pressing the pencil down too hard. I get an ugly, thick line right through the D I was already fighting with. Great. Love that for me. I tear the page out, crumple it, and start again. The pencil lead snaps immediately.
My phone buzzes again. A different pattern. Not the group chat. I flip it over.
Ruth: You alive or do I need to send a search party
I snort. My grandmother texts like someone who learned how to do it last year and resents the entire concept.
Me: Alive. Barely. A font is kicking my ass.
Ruth: Thrilling. Come eat with me Saturday. Made a pot roast and your mother called and I need someone in my house who isn't exhausting
Me: Saturday works. Tell her I died.
Ruth: Told her last month. She didn't believe me. Selfish woman.
I set the phone down, the corner of my mouth twitching up. Ruth’s the only person I don’t perform for. It’s probably why she’s the only person who actually likes me instead of just finding me entertaining. The rest of the world gets the sharp version. Ruth gets the version that shows up on Saturdays, lets her feed him, and doesn’t pretend the quiet isn't suffocating.
I pick up a new pencil and try the logo again. The apartment hums. My skin itches.
Soren wanders in from the hallway like a very calm ghost and heads straight for the kettle. He’s in sweatpants and a sweater three sizes too big, hair tied up in a messy knot. He looks like someone who’s genuinely at peace with a Friday night in, and I kind of want to throw my coffee mug at his head.
“You’ve been at it for hours,” he says, filling the kettle.
“It’s a shit logo for a shit band, and I’m charging them double.”
He makes a quiet sound that could be agreement or amusement. With Soren, it’s hard to tell. He leans against the counter while the water heats. “It’s nice when it’s quiet,” he offers.
“It’s a fucking tomb, Soren.”
He tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering whether that’s true. “There’s room to think.”
“Great. Thinking. My favorite Friday night activity.” I drag my pencil across the page. “If you tell me silence is healing, I’m throwing this pencil at you.”
He almost smiles. He brings his tea to the far end of the couch, tucking his feet underneath him and pulling out a book. He doesn’t push. He never pushes. He just sits there, calm and present, and after a few minutes, the silence shifts from hollow to bearable. I hate that it helps, and I hate that I noticed it helping.
My phone lights up again. Jude sent a photo of something Rhys cooked, and Milo responded with heart-eye emojis. The casual domesticity of people whose Friday nights involve their mates instead of broken pencil leads. I read it. I don’t reply.
The front door flies open, and Shay blows in, kicking his shoes off so hard one of them smacks the wall.
“Men are garbage,” he announces, dropping his bag on the floor and collapsing onto the couch between Soren and me. “Absolute, irredeemable garbage. Every single one.”
“What happened?” Soren asks.
“I went to Byrne’s for one drink. ONE. And this alpha—some finance bro with a fade and a god complex—slides into my booth and says, and I quote, ‘You look like you need some company.’ As if I was sitting there radiating desperation instead of very clearly reading an article about market analytics on my phone.”