The house is quiet, too quiet now that Mom's gone. She left half an hour ago, after tucking me in like I'm still five—plumping pillows, smoothing blankets, and piling medicine on my nightstand with strict instructions to rest.

The way she hovered, you'd think I had the plague instead of just another round of chronic fatigue that's become my unwanted companion these past few years.

I couldn't rest. Not with my mind spinning like a broken compass, pointing everywhere and nowhere at once.

Now I'm perched on the windowsill, knees pulled to my chest, staring out into the gray afternoon sky. The clouds hang low and heavy, promising rain that never quite arrives.

I'm supposed to be focusing on calming my mind—that's what the doctor keeps telling me, it's good for my upcoming surgery he says—but all I can focus on is the house next door.

Rowan is out in the front yard. Her motorcycle is leaned up against the fence, a sleek black beast that seems to mock my current house-bound status.

She's nowhere near it though. Instead, she's stretched out on the lawn, propped up on her elbows as she scrolls through her phone. Her hair's pulled into a messy bun, with  purple streaks standing out like defiance written in ink. I haven't noticed them until now which is weird. They're so fucking visible.

Even from here, I can see the demin jumpsuit she's wearing.

I try to tell myself I'm not watching her. But then I notice the way her mouth quirks up like she's laughing at something on the screen, the way her nose scrunches slightly, and I realize I've been cataloging her expressions like some creepy anthropologist.

My chest tightens—not with jealousy exactly, but something close to it. Something that tastes like longing and feels like regret for all the normal teenage moments I've missed while being stuck in this medical maze.

Rowan's been here one day. Just one day, and already, she feels like this wild, unpredictable gravity pulling me out of the orbit I've been stuck in for years.

She's everything I'm not right now—free, energetic, apparently immune to the concept of "taking it easy."

She looks up. Catches me staring.

Fuck!

I freeze like a deer in headlights, my heart doing a synchronized gymnastics routine in my chest.

Maybe if I stay completely still, she'll think I'm just part of the window frame. It's worked with T-rexes in movies, right? Though I'm pretty sure Rowan's vision isn't based on movement, and I'm definitely not fooling anyone.

No such luck. Rowan's grin widens, transforming her whole face into something mischievous and bright.

Before I can even duck behind the curtain—which would definitely be the sensible thing to do—she springs to her feet with an energy that makes me tired just watching.

"You're not very subtle, Jamie!" she calls, hands cupped around her mouth. Her voice carries across the yard, probably alerting the entire neighborhood to my embarrassment.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, painting them what I'm sure is a spectacular shade of red.

"I wasn't—" I start to protest, but even I can hear how weak it sounds.

"Oh, please. You were totally spying." She marches toward the window, stopping just short of the flowerbed that separates our houses.

Mom's prized dahlias seem to lean away from her presence, as if sensing a threat to their perfectly maintained existence. "Do I need to worry about a secret admirer?"

My mouth opens, but no words come out. The girl is impossible. We've had exactly one hang out session —if you can call it that and she thinks I'd fall for her.

Rowan plants her hands on her hips, striking a pose that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and confident.

"Well? Are you gonna invite me up to hang out, or are you just gonna keep being mysterious? Because I gotta tell you, the whole 'watching from the window' thing is giving major Gothic novel vibes."

"Neither." I manage to find my voice, even if it comes out slightly squeaky. "I'm supposed to be resting."

"Fine." She points a finger at me, and I swear I can feel the force of her personality from here. "Give me your phone number."

"What?"

"You heard me. I'm not leaving until you give me your number. I'll stand here all day if I have to. My schedule is completely clear, unless you count unpacking, which I definitely don't."

"This is blackmail."

Rowan grins, and there's something almost gentle behind her bravado. "I prefer to call it persistence. Besides, you look like you could use a friend who isn't a pillow."

I huff, glancing at the pile of pillows Mom left me with. She's not wrong, which just makes it more annoying. The last few months have been a parade of doctors' appointments and concerned faces, but not much in the way of actual conversation with people my age.

"Fine." I grab my phone from the windowsill and shout, "Ready?"

"Ready!" She pulls out her phone with a flourish that nearly sends it flying.

"Five-five-five, six-one—"

"Wait!" She waves her arms like she's directing air traffic. "I can't type that fast! Some of us don't have your years of practice at window communication!"

I roll my eyes and slow down, trying not to smile. "Five-five-five, six-one-two..."

Once she's got it, Rowan flashes me a triumphant thumbs-up that somehow contains more energy than most people's entire body language vocabulary.

"See? That wasn't so hard. The power of friendship prevails!"

"I could've just blocked you."

"But you won't." She winks, then adds, "Text me whenever. Especially if you're bored out of your mind, which I'm guessing is all the time. I'm an excellent distraction. Just ask my friends—they'll confirm it with varying degrees of exasperation."

Before I can respond, she saunters back to her spot on the lawn and drops down with her phone. But now she's not scrolling—she's watching me with this knowing look that makes me wonder if she sees more than I want her to.

I should go back inside. I should listen to Mom and rest. That's what the doctors keep saying: rest, pace yourself, don't push too hard.

Instead, I stay by the window, letting Rowan's presence fill the silence. She starts humming something that sounds vaguely like a pop song being murdered slowly, and I find myself fighting back another smile.

And somehow, for the first time all day, I feel just a little less alone.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Unknown Number: Now you have my number too. No takebacks! 🏍️✨

I save the contact, realizing that I'm actually looking forward to whatever confusion Rowan brings.

Sometimes the best things in life are the ones you never see coming—even if they arrive on a motorcycle and refuse to leave you alone.

∆∆∆

To my secret admirer, please do what Jamie is doing!