Pik's new apartment is downtown, only a few minutes from campus. Link and I walk up to the door with the number 49, each carrying a box. Pik follows shortly after, keys in hand.

"Do you want me to unlock the door for you?" I ask Pik.

He shakes his head. "I'll have to be able to do it by myself. Like a big boy," he chuckles, his fingers searching the door for the lock. Once found, he inserts the key and twists the lock.

"Home, sweet home," he says, stepping inside the new apartment.

Walking into the apartment, I'm taken aback by the rustic charm of the brick walls and open kitchen area. The wooden floors create a cozy feel, and the high ceilings give it an open, airy atmosphere. It's got that loft style, and I'm surprisingly loving it.

There's no furniture yet, and honestly, it's perfect. It's like a blank canvas, ready for Pik's artistic touch. The big windows, framed in black, flood the place with light.

"Where do you want these boxes?" Link asks Pik.

"Maybe somewhere in a corner so I don't trip over them."

Link and I place the boxes near the wall. A fire escape connects to the window, almost serving as a little balcony space, and the view is just something else! We are surrounded by other tall buildings, so you can't see the Hollywood sign like you can from my Father's house, or the Pacific ocean like you can from our new townhome, but Pik's view is like a snapshot of the city nightlife waking up. With the street lights turning on one by one, the sinking sun becomes a beautiful backdrop. It's a bit urban and oddly peaceful all at once. Too bad Pik can't take in this view. I'm sure it would inspire him.

"Come on," Link nudges me, "let's get the rest of the boxes."

I nod, barely able to take my eyes off the view.

Watching me admire the apartment so much, Link remarks, "Geez, maybe we should've signed the lease for this place instead of the townhome."

I aim my eyes away from the window, meeting Link's gaze. "I like our townhouse just as much," I assure him. "Besides, this is a studio apartment. You really think you, me, Revali, Mipha, Impa, and Malice would all fit in this one room?"

"I think if we tried, at least one of us would end up dead," Link says with a smirk. I don't guess who.

We head back to the car to get the rest of Pik's stuff. Since he is moving from a crowded dorm room into a large loft, there aren't too many boxes to carry, and after two more back-and-forths, everything Pik owns is now standing in his new living room.

"Thanks so much, guys," Pik says, still getting familiar with the space. The loft style suits him—creative, open, a bit unconventional. I can already see this becoming his own little studio in the heart of the city.

"We can help you unpack some stuff," I say, gently placing his keyboard on the kitchen counter. Looking at the piano makes me want to play some music, but even more than that, I long to hear Pik play his songs.

He kindly declines, "You've done more than enough. It's getting late anyway and I'm sure you have better things to do on a Saturday night."

"Pik..." I try again, only for Link to step in.

"No offense, dude," he says to Pik, "but you can't even read the labels on these boxes. Let us help you unpack, it's really no big deal."

Taken aback by Link's assertiveness, Pik relents and accepts our help with a silent nod and a murmured, "Thank you."

It's nice to see them getting along. To some degree at least. For a long time, they couldn't really stand each other, and although I don't see them becoming best friends anytime soon, it's good to know that they can put their differences aside to help and support each other.

While Link unpacks the box with the label 'Kitchen,' I pick one that says 'Literature.'

I open the box and find stacks of books, papers, and scribbled drawings inside. I take a seat on the wooden floor to sort through these things one by one. It's like "A Journey into the Mind of Pik." This Pynchon reference makes me chuckle out loud, too bad Link wouldn't get the reference.

I find a lot of novels; fiction for the most part. Among them, a few poetry and philosophy books. An article by Traysi, and a whole collection of journals by a man named Penn. It's signed too. Beneath the signature, the author has written something in blue ink: "In your art and in your life, may love be the masterpiece that colors every canvas with joy and meaning."

That's so sweet! I've never heard of the author but I treat the book with extra care as I place it on the floor next to the other books. It must mean a lot to Pik if it's signed.

The last two books in the box are a Bildungsroman and a black notebook titled, 'Nyctinasty: the Eventide of Sight."

I place the Bildungsroman with the other books and take a closer look at the notebook, intrigued by its title. As I go through the pages of Pik's notes and scribbles, I discover melodies, lyrics, and poetry that he has composed. Some unfinished, some finessed.

Pik joins me on the floor, eager to help me organize the many works of art. But I am distracted by this notebook and its title.

"Nyctinasty," I say under my breath.

"You found my journal," Pik says. There is something bittersweet in the tone of his voice.

"Yes, I really like the title."

Nyctinasty is a term that denotes the phototropic-independent movement of specific plant structures in response to the approaching darkness. This, in combination with 'the Eventide of Sight' likely hints at Pik's loss of eyesight.

"When I was first diagnosed with Exudative Retinal Detachment," Pik begins as he organizes the stacks of books, "I started writing down all my thoughts, and drawing all the things I saw. It became a diary of my last thoughts and sights while I could still see."

"Oh..." Book in hand, I dare ask, "May I read it?"

"You can keep it if you'd like."

"What?"

He gives me a faint smile and continues to unpack the next box. My eyes are drawn to the notebook, and after a moment of hesitancy, I begin to skim through the fragments of his thoughts as he documented his remaining days of sight.

The first page begins with one simple sentence written in large, bold letters: 'Today, I found out I'm going to be blind.' The text that follows is small and delicate. I read on.

'When the doctor, at long last, seized the circuitous dance of euphemisms and revealed the verdict of my diagnosis, I maintained a composed countenance, betraying no tumult within. Absorbing each of his words, like an idiot, I kept nodding my head in understanding. I did not understand half of the medical terms he used, but I did understand that–yes–I am going to be blind.'

The text continues onto the next page.

'Despite the weight of a million sentiments pressing on my mind, I remained silent until the doctor finished. The words I finally spoke in response resulted in nothing more than a courteous expression of gratitude. "

Thank you," I said, "Have a good day."

The gravity of the prognosis lingered as I walked out of the office. It lingered as I headed for the elevator. It lingered as I waited for the doors to open, as I stepped inside, as I waited for the doors to close, and as I waited once more for them to open. I continued thinking about the prognosis on the way to my car, as I got in, as I started the engine, as I drove off. All the way home. Curiously, the most expected response to such disheartening tidings proved absent:

I did not cry, there were no tears.'

He didn't cry? I would've been a wreck if I was told such horrible news.

'This choice (you may deem nonsensical) is a conscious defense; a preservation of sight. For if I cry, tears will mar my vision, blurring what precious sight remains for me. Thus, I will not tolerate tears in the face of impending darkness. Instead, I will inadvertently continue thinking about the prognosis. In fact, I believe I might continue thinking about it for the rest of my life.'

This is heartbreaking. I wish I could have been there for him when he found out... But even if we had known each other back then, he wouldn't have told me. He didn't tell anyone until recently.

I skip a couple of pages to look at some of Pik's doodles. I stop at a page with a comic titled "Dark humor." It's a two-panel pun of a person asking a blind man "Why do you refuse to learn Braille?" And the blind man answering, "I don't see the point."

I chuckle quietly and flip to the next page. It reads,  'Lately, I've been trying to memorize all these pretty faces around me. It pisses me off that they are always looking down at their phones. They're missing out on everything going on around them. Two soulmates could pass by each other unnoticed.'

I continue to skim the notebook. 'Down to 60% on the right eye. Sounds are becoming more crystallized. Laughter is more beautiful than ever.'

Half way through the notebook, he wrote,  'It's getting darker every day. Vision is blurring slightly. Still haven't cried.'

The next page only has one sentence written in cursive at its center: 'It'll never be the same again.'

The rest of the notebook is filled with poems and unfinished drafts of songs. Each page ends with a daily observation. I read a few:

'Today, I saw an elderly couple holding hands on the bus. Polka dot dress, brown checkered blazer.'

'Today, I saw a stray kitten curled up on a doorstep. Green mat, red door. Chipped paint.'

'Today, I saw a street vendor setting up a colorful display of handmade jewelry.'

'Today I saw a girl reading a book while walking across campus. She almost bumped into me.'

'Today, I saw a withered bouquet in a trash can next to the bus station.'

'Today, I saw a hot air balloon in the sky.'

'Today, I saw a squirrel scampering up a tree with an acorn in its mouth. Another one followed.'

'Today, I saw that book girl again. I think I stared too much–it made her uncomfortable. I wish I could explain myself and tell her that I'm simply trying to remember her face. But my diagnosis isn't something I should spring on people. I should keep it to myself.'

'Today, I saw a bus driver waving at a child on their way to school.'

'Today, I saw a jogger enjoying a morning run with his dog. The rising sun made its fur look on fire.'

'Today, I saw Vilia for the first time in months. Told him I couldn't see him anymore. He didn't understand why I was ending things. It's better this way.'

'Today, I saw a seal with a bow. It was raining.'

'Today, I saw mom at the art gallery. She looked happy. I kept my distance. She didn't notice me. The thought of it being the last time I'll ever see her face almost made me cry.'

'Today, I saw Book-Girl's hand reach up high in class–she hates the attention but she loves Wuthering Heights.'

'Today, I saw a rainbow. I used to hate rainbows. But in the crescendo of sight, they're pretty amazing.'

On the next page, Pik describes how his eyesight has decreased to 75% and 25%. 'Been trying to memorize how many steps it takes to get from my dorm room to the staircase. Twenty-three. I'll have to move into my own apartment soon.'

Getting closer to the end of his notes, he begins to color each page with black ink. Just a little at first, but then it gets increasingly darker as the days go on. '10% left. Counting down my time, holding my breath. Suffocating ← Potential song idea?'

'5% left.' This page is almost completely colored in black.

I flip to the final page. 'Today I played piano in the dark just to see what it's going to be like from now on. Finally broke down crying.'

The page that follows this one is fully colored in black ink, and what follows are loose papers he stuffed into the back of the notebook. I find a poem and, having read the first stanza, recognize its content!

"Pik," I say, getting his attention. "I just found the poem you presented at the Scholars Symposium last year."

"Melpomene and Thalia?" He asks, a smile unfolding on his face.

"Yes, that one."

"Read it out loud," he bids, setting down the art supplies that he was unboxing.

I clear my throat and read to him:

"I stand on stage and laugh and cry,
but secretly it's all a lie.
I sing these songs of girls I've known,
but truthfully I'm all alone.
No matter what they think I feel,
it's just an act and never real.

And I could search and search, but never find,
why joy and laughter turn me blind.
Why darkness makes me see it clear
that I'm consumed by fear.

So I write more poems and paint more scenes
to understand what this life means.
But what if nothing's meant to be?
What if that smiling, dancing, poet boy is all they'll ever see?

That I am numb and cold,
that side they'll never know.
That I am bitterly afraid,
that side I'll never show.

Feeling dead, my hope relies on art
until this girl walks in, so beautiful, awakening my heart.
The mask falls off, I feel alive, and I don't think she has a clue,
that when she gives her heart to him, she breaks my heart in two.

Kiss him, chase him, turn me down,
Crush my soul and watch me drown,
No longer numb, I feel the pain,
I feel the hopelessness and shame.

But everything I feel feels real, I know I will survive.
It may not sound ideal but I love to feel alive."

My voice breaks at the last line, feeling emotional. Reading these lines after a whole year has passed, I think to myself, perhaps the loss of his sight was never fully hidden. He told the whole world in this poem. 'Why joy and laughter turn me blind, Why darkness makes me see it clear.' If I had paid more attention to his words and feelings, I could have seen that something was going on with him... 

Wait a second...

I go back to the fifth stanza. 'When she gives her heart to him, she breaks my heart in two.'

A realization hits me and I am embarrassed to address it, but I can't help myself. "The girl in the poem," I say, "It's Malice, isn't it?"

Pik's reaction gives it all away. I always thought the poem was about me and how my relationship with Link bothered Pik. But I see now that I was all wrong... Prejudice once again. This poem is telling the story of Pik and Malice. How he fell in love with her and how she left him for Ganon.

Pik reminisces, "We used to be really close. Even before we dated. We could tell each other anything. She was the first person to find out that I'm pan, and I was the only person she ever opened up to about her issues at home. She had gone through a lot as a child and I think I was able to help her through some trauma."

"Like what?" I ask. Maybe knowing more about her could help me understand her and build a better relationship with her at home.

"She faced some physical and sexual abuse growing up," Pik explains. "I'm not sure what exactly happened or if it was still going on when we started dating, but she said it was the reason she didn't want to have sex and I respected that, no questions asked."

"You never slept with her?" I ask with big eyes.

"Why does that surprise you?"

"Malice is the girl you told me about, right? The one with whom you had a long distance relationship for some time until you came to HU only to find her with another man... I remember you telling me that you can recognize her nude body."

"So? Nudity doesn't equal sex," he answers. "We used to paint each other's bodies sometimes. Art is known to be therapeutic, and this helped us heal. I'd paint over her scars, she's paint over mine. We just did it for fun, you know?"

"Oh."

"And her name is Mía Alicia. Not Malice."

"Sorry," I say, but he shrugs it off. "Why do people call her Malice?"

Pik ponders for a moment and then answers thoughtfully, "When I left the state to go to college on the east coast, she felt abandoned and started dating Ganon. Ever since she's been with him, she changed her hair, her name, and her personality. I think it's because she wanted to keep Mía a happy memory, and created Malice for all the bad ones. Like drugs. That's my best guess  at least."

I'm rendered speechless. The connection between the two seems deeper than I imagined. The layers of their relationships and the pain that came with it becomes clearer now. This is a reminder that the stories we tell ourselves might not always be the whole truth. The shift in Mía's identity and the choices she made after Pik left for college paint a vivid picture of coping mechanisms and the desire for a fresh start. Perhaps I can help her find her a way back to those happy memories. Back to Mía Alicia.

"Guys," Link suddenly intervenes, having unpacked all the kitchen items. Pik and I turn our attention to him. He's holding up his phone, showing us the time. "I don't mean to interrupt," he says, looking at me, "But don't you have that charity auction thing with your dad at six?"

"Shoot!" I curse to myself. "I'm going to be late!"

"What time is it?" Pik asks as I hastily get up from the floor.

"It's 5:45!" I say, grabbing my keys. "I'm SO going to be late!"

"Where is it? Maybe you can make it in time," Pik suggests.

"It's a 15 min drive from here."

Dang it! I spent too much time looking at all the art and poetry. I got so invested that I completely forgot about the time.

"I'm sorry," I say to both of them, "But I have to leave right now."

"No worries," Pik says.

Link nods. "I'll stay and help Pik unpack the rest of the boxes."

"Really?" I beam with admiration and gratitude.  

"Yeah," Link shrugs nonchalantly.

"You're amazing!" I praise him. I hurry across the echoing room to give him a quick kiss goodbye.

"Text me when you're done? Maybe we can grab a bite after," he says.

"Sounds good, I will text you."

With keys and purse in hand, I quickly head out the door to rush to the event. Hopefully Father is distracted by talking business with fellow wealthy guests–per usual–and doesn't notice that I'm running late.