STEPHANIE
...

"I don't think you should be doing anything with that knee," I mutter, tossing a box onto the back of the truck.

Mel's sitting on the truck bed, looking like she’s about to doze off. She tried to manipulate me into helping out but I can tell her knee's bothering her more than she lets on, but she’s trying to be cool about it. Typical Mel.

Amber was supposed to be here helping me pack, but of course, she bailed out.

"I’ve got plans with Paul," she said, like I couldn’t see right through that. She didn’t want to get caught up in all the emotional stuff this move would stir up.

So here I am, alone, stuck with my ‘patient’ and a rental truck. And I’m finally moving into my new apartment. Finally.

"I’ll just grab a few things today and finish up later, after I buy some furniture and all," I say, not really sure how much of it I believe.

Mel looks at me, eyes barely open, but she gives a small nod. "How does it feel?"

I shrug, trying not to get too emotional.

"I've always wanted this, sooo..." I trail off, feeling a little guilty for not saying more.

Moving out, getting my own place—it’s been a long time coming. But still, something about it doesn’t feel as freeing as I thought it would. Maybe it’s just because Mel’s hurt, or maybe because I imagined moving out would be more exciting. Either way, I’m here now.

"You're really going through with it, huh?" Mel asks, voice barely above a whisper. "No turning back now?"

I glance at her, a slight grin tugging at my lips. "No turning back," I echo, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "I’m doing it for me this time."

There’s a beat of silence before Mel asks, "You never talk about your parents. Are they still in the picture?"

I freeze, holding onto the edge of a box as if it might keep me from saying anything I’m not ready to. My fingers tighten around the cardboard, but I don’t pull away from the question. I don’t want to be the type of person who runs away from things anymore.

This is a new chapter in my life. New apartment. New vibes.

"Mom’s late," I say, my voice tight. "And Dad’s not around. It’s just Amber and me." I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat, but the words just keep coming. "It’s been like that for a while."

Mel looks at me, her eyes soft but understanding. "I’m sorry," she says quietly.

It’s one of those things that I’ve tried so hard to bury, but hearing her say it out loud somehow makes it real. My family’s a mess. Always has been. I’ve learned how to deal with it, how to act like I don’t care—but in this moment, with Mel just sitting there, not judging, I’m not so sure I want to keep pretending anymore.

"We’re good, though," I add quickly, almost to reassure myself. "I’m good."

Mel just nods, then she does that thing where she pulls her phone out and starts scrolling through it without saying anything more.

I can’t tell if it’s to give me space or if she’s just tired of listening to me drone on. Either way, I’m grateful.

But then she speaks up again, and it's so random.

"My dad passed too," she says, voice quiet but firm. She's still looking at her phone. "Lung cancer. Smoking... It was too late by the time he got diagnosed."

She doesn’t look at me when she says it, and I don’t press her for more details. I can see the sadness written all over her face. The sadness she tries to hide behind that sarcastic, tough exterior.

"I'm sorry," I say, not really knowing what else to add. It feels so inadequate, like I could say a thousand things and still not get it right.

Mel shrugs, like it’s no big deal. "It’s been a few years now. I’ve learned how to move on?" Her lips twitch into a half-smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though."

I nod, even though I’m not sure what to say to that. I'm a way, Mel and I are alike.

We've both lost people. And we've both been through grief. And just like her, I also have my own way of hiding the vulnerable sadness in my life.

The truck’s been idling for a few minutes now, and I finally pull myself out of my thoughts and focus on the task at hand.

I start loading the stuff.

"You sure you’re up for this?" I ask, looking over at Mel. She’s leaning back, eyes closed, probably pretending she’s fine, but I’m not buying it.

"I’m good," she replies, grinning. "Besides, someone’s gotta supervise you, right?"

I raise an eyebrow. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Mel leans forward, her hands on her knees. "You know, just making sure you don’t make any bad decisions on the way.  Like packing a lamp that’s way too bright or a book that’s totally trashy." She pauses, then adds, "But I guess you could use a little trash in your life."

I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at my lips. "You’re mad"

She just shrugs. "Someone’s gotta be, right?" She reaches for her camera, holding it up like she’s about to take a picture of me or something.

"This is a remarkable moment in history. You will look back and think: this is the day I was moving into my own place, and a pretty girl took my photo."

I roll my eyes but I manage a ridiculous pause that throws her into a fit of laughter.

When we finally get on the road, she's the one who connects her phone to the stereo on the vehicle.

Taylor Swift booms on the speakers. Mel leans her head back against the window, her eyes drifting shut, but I can’t help but sing along to the words, even if I’m off-key.

When I glance at her, she’s grinning, tapping her fingers to the beat like she’s pretending to be too cool for it.

"You know every word to this song," she raises an eyebrow as she  joins in on the chorus.

I laugh. "What can I say? I’m a closet Swiftie. Don’t tell anyone."

She chuckles, pulling out her phone again and starts recording us.

"This is for leverage," she says with a wink. But I know it’s for memories.

She shoots me a quick look, then snaps a picture of me without warning. "Instagram's gonna love this."

"Don’t post it," I warn her, but she just laughs.

"Too late."

"You're killing me," I say with a laugh at home off-key we both are.

But there's something about the way she’s smiling that makes everything feel less... serious.

We finally arrive at my new apartment, and I can’t help but stare at the building for a moment, feeling this rush of emotions I didn’t expect. It’s small, but it’s mine. After everything that’s happened, this is the first thing I’ve done that feels like it’s all on me, all because of me.

Mel limps around the apartment as we start unpacking, her usual commentary filling the air.

"This lamp," she says, holding it up like it's a crime. "Really? It looks like something you'd find at a yard sale. I warned you about stuff like this."

I roll my eyes. "It’s fine. Just leave it alone."

She picks up a book from the pile of stuff, scanning the cover. A hot cowboy with a glistening six pack.

"This is... definitely not your usual taste," she teases.

I understand what she means. She finally picked up on my gay.

I want to smack her, but there’s something about her nagging that makes it feel wholesome.

I stop for a second, taking it all in. I’ve got this place. It’s mine. And Mel’s still here. She’s annoying, she’s loud, and she doesn’t always know when to shut up—but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Okay, I’ll admit it," I say, giving her a sideways glance. "I’m really glad you’re here."

Mel's smile is smug. "Yeah, I know."