ROOM 7
Chapter Fifty-One: The Best Friends
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Six months after graduation, Lyra and Alex were still best friends.
They shared an apartment. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A kitchen that saw more takeout than cooking. A couch that had seen more arguments than movies. They worked at different places. Ate at different times. Slept in different rooms. But every morning, Alex made coffee. Two cups. Black, no sugar. The way Lyra liked it. He left hers on the counter. She drank it before work. Every night, Lyra waited up. She sat on the couch, book in hand, until she heard his key in the lock. Then she went to bed.
They didn't talk about the terrace. They didn't talk about the kisses. They didn't talk about the way he'd held her waist. The way she'd said his name. The way they'd almost—but not quite—become something more.
They were best friends. That was what they'd always been. That was what they'd always be.
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Part One: The Dishes
It started on a Tuesday.
Lyra came home from work. The apartment was dark. The kitchen was a mess. Piles of dishes. Crumbs on the counter. The sink was full.
She stood in the doorway. Her hands were on her hips. Her jaw was tight.
"Alex."
No answer.
"ALEX."
He emerged from his room. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes half-closed. "What?"
She pointed at the sink. "The dishes."
He looked at the sink. At the piles. At the crumbs. "I was going to do them."
"When?"
"Later."
She walked to the sink. Turned on the water. Grabbed a sponge. "You said that yesterday."
He leaned against the doorway. "I was tired."
"You're always tired."
"I work long hours."
"So do I."
She scrubbed a plate. Rinsed it. Set it on the rack. He watched her. His arms were crossed. His face was unreadable.
"You don't have to do them," he said.
"Someone has to."
"I said I'd do them."
"You said that yesterday."
He walked to the sink. Took the sponge from her hand. "I'll do them now."
She grabbed it back. "No."
"Lyra."
"No. I'm doing them."
He grabbed it again. "Let me."
She pulled. He pulled. The sponge stretched. Water dripped. She glared at him. He glared at her.
"You're being stubborn," he said.
"You're being lazy."
"I'm being busy."
"You're being impossible."
He let go. The sponge snapped back. Water splashed her shirt. She stared at him. He stared at her.
"Look what you did," she said.
"You did it."
"I didn't."
"You pulled."
"You let go."
"You grabbed."
She grabbed a towel. Wiped her shirt. He watched her. His face was still. His eyes were dark.
"Lyra."
She didn't look at him. "What."
"Are we going to fight about dishes?"
She threw the towel at him. He caught it.
"You have a catching problem," she said.
"You have a throwing problem."
"I have an Alex problem."
He tucked the towel over his shoulder. "The worst kind."
She turned back to the sink. Finished the dishes. He stood beside her. Handed her plates. Rinsed cups. Dried bowls. They worked in silence. The water ran. The sponge squeaked. The apartment was quiet.
When the last dish was done, she dried her hands. He put the towel away.
"Thank you," she said.
He looked at her. "For what?"
"For helping."
He leaned against the counter. "I live here."
She nodded. Walked to the couch. Sat down. Picked up her book. Didn't open it.
He sat on the other end. His book was on the coffee table. He didn't reach for it.
"Lyra."
She looked at him.
"Are we okay?"
She set her book down. "We're fine."
"We're fighting about dishes."
"We're not fighting. We're discussing."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Same thing."
"It's not the same thing."
"It's our thing."
She looked at his face. At his eyes. At the way he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. She looked away.
"I'm going to bed," she said.
She stood up. Walked to her room. Closed the door.
He sat on the couch. Stared at the wall. Didn't move.
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Part Two: The Coffee
The next morning, she woke to the smell of coffee.
She walked to the kitchen. Two cups were on the counter. Black. No sugar. The way she liked it. The way he liked it. He was sitting at the table, reading the news on his phone.
She picked up her cup. Drank. He looked up.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
"You slept late."
"I slept fine."
He set his phone down. "You were up until midnight."
She stared at him. "How do you know?"
He picked up his cup. "I heard you."
She sat across from him. Her hands were wrapped around the cup. The warmth seeped through the ceramic.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
He nodded. "Me neither."
They drank in silence. The apartment was quiet. The sun was rising. The city was waking.
"Alex."
He looked at her.
"I'm sorry. About yesterday. The dishes."
He set his cup down. "I'm sorry too."
She looked at his face. At his eyes. At the shadows under them. "You didn't sleep."
He shook his head. "Neither did you."
She reached across the table. Her hand was inches from his. She pulled it back.
"We should go to work," she said.
He nodded. "We should."
She stood up. Walked to her room. Closed the door.
He sat at the table. Stared at the cup. Didn't move.
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Part Three: The Fight
Thursday was worse.
She came home late. The apartment was dark. The kitchen was clean. The dishes were done. The counters were wiped. The floor was swept. He was sitting on the couch. His book was open. His eyes were on the page.
"You did the dishes," she said.
He looked up. "I did the dishes."
"Thank you."
He nodded. Went back to his book.
She stood in the middle of the room. Her bag was on her shoulder. Her coat was still on. Her hands were empty.
"Alex."
He looked up.
"Why are you being weird?"
He set his book down. "I'm not being weird."
"You're being weird. You did the dishes. You cleaned the kitchen. You're sitting on the couch reading. You're not—" She stopped.
He waited. "I'm not what?"
She dropped her bag. Took off her coat. Walked to the couch. Stood in front of him.
"You're not being you."
He stood up. His face was inches from hers. "What does that mean?"
"You know what it means."
"I don't."
She stepped closer. "You're quiet. You're distant. You're—" She stopped.
He stepped closer. "I'm what?"
She looked at his face. At his eyes. At his mouth. "You're avoiding me."
He went still. "I'm not avoiding you."
"You are. You've been avoiding me since Tuesday. Since the dishes. Since—"
He grabbed her arms. His hands were tight. His face was close. "I'm not avoiding you, Lyra. I'm trying to—" He stopped.
She waited. "Trying to what?"
He let go. Stepped back. His hands went to his pockets. His face went blank.
"I'm trying to be your best friend," he said.
She stared at him. "That's not—"
"That's what we are." His voice was flat. "Best friends. That's what we've always been. That's what we'll always be."
She grabbed a pillow from the couch. Threw it at him. He caught it.
"You have a catching problem," she said.
"You have a throwing problem."
"I have an Alex problem."
He tucked the pillow under his arm. "The worst kind."
She walked to her room. Slammed the door.
He stood in the living room. The pillow was under his arm. The book was on the couch. The apartment was quiet.
He didn't move.
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Part Four: The Knock
She heard it at midnight.
Three knocks. Soft. Careful.
She was lying in bed. The lights were off. The curtains were open. The city was bright.
"Lyra."
She didn't answer.
"Lyra. I know you're awake."
She sat up. "What?"
"Can I come in?"
She looked at the door. At the shadow under it. At his feet. "Why?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Because I'm tired of fighting."
She got up. Walked to the door. Opened it.
He was standing there. His hair was messy. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were tired.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She leaned against the doorframe. "For what?"
He looked at her. At her face. At the shadows under her eyes. At the way she was holding the door like a shield.
"For the dishes. For the coffee. For—" He stopped.
She waited. "For what?"
He stepped closer. "For being scared."
She went still. "Scared of what?"
He touched her face. His fingers traced her cheekbone. "Of losing you."
She stared at him. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"You're not going to lose me."
He pulled her into his arms. His face was in her hair. His arms were around her. His voice was low.
"I can't be your best friend anymore, Lyra."
She pulled back. Looked at him. "What?"
He touched her face. "I can't. I've tried. For months. For years. I've tried to be just your best friend. I've tried to make coffee and do dishes and sit on the couch and pretend that's enough."
She grabbed his shirt. "Alex—"
"It's not enough." His voice cracked. "You're not enough. You're everything. And I can't—" He stopped.
She pulled him closer. Her face was inches from his. "Then don't."
He kissed her.
She kissed him back. His hands were in her hair. Her hands were on his face. Her back was against the doorframe. His body was against hers. The apartment was dark. The city was bright. The world was gone.
She pulled back. Her face was flushed. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were bright.
"I love you," she said.
He went still. "What?"
"I love you, Alex. I've loved you since you held my hand when I was five years old. I've loved you through every fight. Every distance. Every moment I pretended you were just my best friend."
He stared at her. "Say it again."
She touched his face. "I love you."
He kissed her. She kissed him back.
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Part Five: The Morning
She woke to sunlight and warmth.
His arm was around her. His face was buried in her hair. His chest was against her back. His breathing was slow.
She didn't move. She lay there, watching the light move across the ceiling, listening to him breathe.
His chest rose and fell. His hand was on her waist. His legs were tangled with hers.
She should get up. She should make coffee. She should go to work. She didn't move.
His breathing changed. Slowed. Deepened. He was waking.
"Lyra?"
His voice was rough. Sleepy.
"Morning," she said.
He pulled her closer. "You're still here."
She turned. Faced him. "I'm still here."
He kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes.
"Alex."
"Yeah."
"I love you."
He pulled her closer. "I love you too."
She smiled. He smiled. The sun was rising. The city was waking. The apartment was quiet.
"Best friends?" she asked.
He kissed her nose. "Best friends."
She hit his chest. "You're impossible."
He caught her hand. Kissed her knuckles. "You like it."
She didn't answer. She closed her eyes. His heartbeat was under her ear. His hand was in her hair.
From across the hall, muffled through the walls, Jay's voice: "FINALLY."
Lyra laughed. Alex laughed. The apartment was warm. The city was bright. The world was waiting.
They lay in bed. The sun rose higher. The day began. They didn't move.
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End of Chapter Fifty-One