Her mom left her with her. What else was she supposed to do? To. Feel?
Callie isn't supposed to feel like this.
She isn't supposed to feel like the ground beneath her feet is shifting every time Lottie looks at her, every time their hands accidentally brush while they’re standing in the kitchen together, knives and spoons clicking against the counter, the air heavy with the hum of the refrigerator, the scent of garlic and fresh herbs hanging in the space between them.
"Need help?" Lottie asks, the question light, casual—like everything she says carries some gravity, even the smallest things. Her skin is too smooth, too perfect. The way the light catches it—golden, flawless—feels wrong. But Callie can’t look away.
Callie smiles, fingers trembling slightly as she passes Lottie the bowl of chopped onions. “No, I got it.” She’s in the middle of something she doesn't fully understand, trying to keep her voice even, but it cracks at the edges. She’s a mess, and Lottie is the calm at the center of it, unbothered, unknowing. Lottie doesn’t feel the same pull, doesn’t notice how every glance, every soft smile from her feels like an ocean Callie is slowly sinking into. It’s quiet, but it’s there, this thing, this magnetism, and it makes her chest tighten.
Callie doesn’t know what it means. She doesn’t know if she can even say it out loud.
Lottie stirs the pot on the stove, her back to Callie. There’s something about the way she stands, so sure of herself, as if the world is hers to take. Callie wonders if Lottie knows what she does to people, what she does to her. But no. Lottie’s too far gone in her own orbit, too removed. Callie is just one of the background pieces, another shadow behind her.
“What do you think about all this?” Callie blurts, before she can stop herself. She feels the heat rise to her face, but she pushes forward anyway. Lottie’s too perfect, too quiet, like she’s hiding something that could burn everyone in her path.
Lottie glances over her shoulder, her eyes catching Callie’s. There’s a soft, knowing look in them, and for a second, it feels like everything has stopped. But then Lottie turns back to the stove, focusing on stirring. “About what?”
"About all of it. About this place," Callie says. She wants to say more, but the words keep falling away, slipping through her fingers. Lottie isn’t like everyone else. She’s something more. Something unspoken, something dangerous.
Lottie doesn’t answer right away. The kitchen feels thick with something Callie can’t name. She keeps watching Lottie, and she hates herself for it, for wanting something she knows she’ll never have.
Lottie’s voice is quiet but strong. "It’s... it’s your mother’s. It always has been, its breath calls out Shipman! Shipman!. It’s a cocoon of your mother”
Callie doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t answer. Her eyes wander down to the counter, where the chopping board lies empty now, the knife beside it. She feels the way Lottie moves in and out of her space like an endless tide. Every time Callie thinks she’s standing on solid ground, she’s pulled further under.
There’s a strange comfort in the silence between them, the kitchen bathed in warm yellow light, Lottie’s figure like something out of a dream—soft, glowing, almost too perfect. And then, just as she finishes, Lottie looks at her again, meeting her eyes.
“Do you think it’s weird?” Lottie asks, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. The way she says it—like she knows Callie is drowning in the question, but won’t ask it aloud—has a sharp edge to it, like she’s playing a game Callie doesn’t understand.
“Do I think what’s weird?” Callie’s throat is tight. She wants to say something else, something real. But the words don't come. Lottie is standing too close, her presence filling the space, and it feels impossible to think straight.
“The way people... follow me.” Lottie’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s something unreadable in her eyes now. “Do you think that’s weird?”
Callie swallows hard, unable to say the truth: I think it’s beautiful. I think I’d follow you too, even if I didn’t want to.
She shakes her head. “No,” she says softly, a whisper that she hopes Lottie won’t hear. “No, I don’t think it’s weird.”
And then there’s this silence again, heavy and thick. Callie is waiting for something. She doesn’t know what. Maybe for Lottie to look at her again, maybe for the moment to stretch longer, so she doesn’t have to leave, so she doesn’t have to face the fact that she’s in too deep.
But Lottie doesn’t look at her. She just picks up the knife from the counter, focused on the task in front of her. “Good,” she says. “I’m glad.”
Callie watches her, eyes tracing every line of her body, every effortless motion, and wishes she could erase this part of herself, this part that wants so badly. Lottie is someone who lives in the light. Callie is just a shadow, too afraid to stand in it.
They finish cleaning up together, the kitchen now quiet but for the sound of water running, the soft clinking of dishes being placed in the drying rack. It’s like they’re back to normal, like nothing happened, like Callie’s heart hasn’t been beating louder than it ever has.
But it’s not normal. Not really.
When Callie leaves, she feels something shift inside her—something heavy, something she doesn’t know how to carry.
And Lottie, as always, remains a distant star. So beautiful. So unreachable.