Isabelle
Ingrid tries to fight it.
She doesn’t fall asleep in places that aren’t her own bed. She doesn’t let herself. It’s not safe, not comfortable. But…
She’s so tired.
So, so tired.
Her limbs feel heavy, her mind foggy, her eyelids drooping before she even realises it. The second movie plays on, but it’s all just background noise, blending into something soft and indistinct. She shifts, curling in on herself instinctively, knees pulled up, arms tucked close. A subconscious attempt to make herself small, to keep herself safe as her eyes finally drift shut.
Mapi doesn’t notice at first. She’s too focused on the screen, brow furrowed, completely engaged in whatever is happening. But then, after about twenty minutes, she glances over and see’s the way Ingrid is curled tight, breathing slow and even. The way the tension she constantly carries seems to have bled away, just slightly. She softens, a gentle smile pulling at her lips.
Carefully, delicately, she reaches over, adjusting the blanket so that it covers more of Ingrid, tucking it in around her shoulders. She’s known Ingrid isn’t sleeping well. She’s seen the evidence -the heavy eyes, the dark circles that no amount of makeup can fully conceal, the way she sometimes looks dazed at training, as if exhaustion is weighing her down like a physical force.
She doesn’t know why. Doesn’t want to ask. Not yet. Not when she’s still earning Ingrid’s trust, still trying to understand her.
But if Ingrid feels safe enough to sleep around her, then Mapi will let her for as long as she needs. Even if it means missing the movie she spent ages picking out. Even if it means sitting here, completely still, just in case any sudden movement disturbs her.
It’s fine.
Really.
But it wasn’t long until Ingrid startles herself awake anyway. She jolts, body tense, breath coming fast and uneven as she scrambles out of the blanket. Her eyes are wide, wet, filled with something close to panic. Her hands are visibly trembling.
Mapi frowns, concern flickering across her face. “Ingrid?”
Ingrid jumps again, as if she’d forgotten where she was, who she was with. She looks seconds away from bolting, and Mapi hesitates for a second before carefully scooting a little closer.
Ingrid tenses further, wariness flashing in her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. Mapi reaches out, takes one of her trembling hands in her own. It’s clammy, fingers curled slightly inward, but Mapi doesn’t let go.
She just squeezes gently. “Hey,” she says, voice soft. “It’s okay.”
Ingrid stares down at their joined hands. She sniffs, then wipes at her face with her free hand, swallowing hard. She wants to leave. This is embarrassing. Acting like this in front of someone she barely knows. She wants to get out of here, break somewhere private, where there are no witnesses. No one to judge her.
But she can’t move. She’s frozen. Her legs won’t work, her body won’t cooperate, and-
Apparently, Mapi’s hand in hers is the only thing keeping her grounded. Mapi doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask, doesn’t pry. She just sits beside her, quiet and steady, trailing the pad of her thumb over the back of Ingrid’s hand. Slow. Soothing.
Ingrid stares into space, mind still reeling, but she doesn’t let go.
She doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring blankly at the wall, Mapi’s touch still lingering like a ghost against her skin. Long enough that her breath evens out, that the tightness in her chest eases just enough for her to move. All she could think about was, she needs to go. She can’t stay here. She needs to get back to her own space, where she can break in peace.
So, she forces herself up, legs shaky beneath her as she clears her throat and mutters out an excuse -some barely coherent, rambling explanation that even she knows doesn’t make sense.
Mapi doesn’t believe her. It’s clear in the way her eyebrows lift slightly, in the way her lips press together like she’s fighting the urge to call Ingrid out on it. But she doesn’t. She just nods, watching carefully as Ingrid takes a step toward the door.
And Ingrid-
She’s grateful. Deep down, in a place that isn’t currently being overwhelmed by the impending weight of her emotions, she appreciates it. Right now, though, all she can focus on is the need to get out of here. Because she can feel it.
The build-up. Slow. Gradual. Her chest feels tight, her throat closes up, her eyes sting even though she’s forcing them to stay dry.
She needs to let go, and she can’t do that here. Not in front of Mapi. Not in front of the first person who, for some insane reason, actually seems to like her.
So, she bolts.
Sprints out of Mapi’s apartment on trembling legs that threaten to collapse beneath her, down the stairs to her own door, fumbling with the key like her hands don’t work properly. The second she’s inside, she chokes on the first sob that rips out of her chest.
It’s loud.
Violent.
She barely gets the door locked before she’s sliding down against it, knees to her chest, gasping, sobbing, unable to stop. She tries to stifle the noise, bites down on her knuckles so hard she swears she’ll draw blood-
But then no air gets in, and he panics more.
Outside, Mapi, who had followed her, freezes. She’d lifted a hand to knock, to offer some kind of comfort, but the sounds coming from inside -the raw, broken anguish in them- make her entire body go still.
Her throat tightens, and chest aches in a way she wasn’t expecting. Slowly, she lowers her hand, resting her forehead against the wood instead. She wants to knock. Wants to invite herself inside. Wants to hold Ingrid, to tell her she’s not alone, to do something other than just stand here.
But, it feels wrong. Like she’d be intruding on something deeply private.
She knows the right thing to do is wait. To let Ingrid come to her. To earn her trust, rather than forcing herself in. But Ingrid-
She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would ever ask for comfort. Who would willingly reach out which just makes Mapi want to go in even more. Still, she doesn’t. She just waits. Right there, on the other side of the door. Listening. Helpless. Until, eventually, the crying stops. Until there’s nothing but silence.
Only then does she push herself away, swallowing past the lump in her throat as she reluctantly heads back upstairs. But as she crosses the threshold of her own apartment, she makes a promise to herself.
She’s going to try.
She’s going to keep inviting Ingrid around.
Because until she’d fallen asleep tonight, she’d seemed…okay. Relaxed, sort of. She’d even laughed, and Mapi doesn’t think she’s ever heard that sound before. If she wants Ingrid to trust her, she has to be consistent. She has to be there.
Meanwhile, in her own apartment, completely oblivious to Mapi’s prior presence, Ingrid finally lifts herself off the floor.
Her cheeks are soaked. Her eyes sting, and her throat feels raw, sore, like she’s been screaming instead of crying. Her nose is running, and she knows she must look an absolute sight. A reluctant glance in the bathroom mirror as she starts the shower confirms it.
God.
She looks awful.
Her reflection stares back at her. Pale. Blotchy. A mess of damp hair sticking to her temples. She swallows thickly, gripping the edge of the sink, blinking hard at herself. Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, she looks away and steps into the shower.
The hot water runs cold before Ingrid even realizes how long she’s been standing under the stream. She blinks, dazed, as the once-soothing warmth turns icy against her skin. A violent shiver racks her frame, and she finally forces herself to shut the water off.
She feels exhausted. Heavy. Like her limbs are made of lead as she steps out, barely drying herself before throwing on the first clothes she sees -an old hoodie and a pair of shorts she doesn’t even remember packing when she moved here.
She doesn’t bother with her hair. Doesn’t bother with anything other than climbing into bed and-
Knock knock knock.
Ingrid freezes, her heart lurching into her throat. She listens. Still. Silent.
Then, another knock -softer this time, like whoever it is had realised they’d startled her and doesn’t want to do it again. Slowly, Ingrid pushes herself up, padding to the door as quietly as she can, like she’s afraid of being heard.
She hesitates, then peeks through the peephole.
No one.
But…
Something was there. She unlocks the door carefully, the click of the deadbolt too loud in the silence, and cracks it open just enough to see-
A pastry.
Again.
Sitting on the welcome mat, wrapped neatly in plastic, a yellow post-it note stuck to the top. Ingrid exhales softly, shaking her head just a little as she picks it up. She already knows who it’s from, but she reads the note anyway.
“Same time tomorrow? -Your friend, Mapi.”
Ingrid stares at it. The word friend makes something tighten in her chest, something that she doesn’t quite know how to deal with, Because…she’d had a good time.
She had.
And Mapi…
She was relentless, in a way that made Ingrid feel…not so alone.
She exhales again, softer this time, and shuts the door behind her. She shouldn’t eat the pastry. She knows that. Her stomach is still twisted in knots, nausea curling in her gut, but…
Mapi had given it to her, and Ingrid doesn’t want to be rude.
So, she takes a bite. It sticks in her throat a little, but she forces herself to chew, to swallow, to finish it. Then she brushes her teeth, rinses her mouth, and crawls into bed.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. It never does. Ingrid tosses and turns, shifting onto her side, then onto her back, then onto her stomach, trying to find a position that will trick her brain into thinking she’s safe enough to rest.
It never works, but eventually, exhaustion drags her under.
And then, she dreams. She’s back in Lyon. She knows it before she even sees it. She feels it.
The heavy weight in her chest, the tightness in her throat, the creeping, crawling dread beneath her skin. And then-
She’s there. Her old apartment. Dimly lit. Cold. Too quiet. The air is thick, suffocating, but Ingrid can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the argument still clinging to the walls, or if it’s just her.
Her heart pounds in her ears as she looks around, taking in the familiar sight of their shared space. The couch where they’d curled up together so many times. The coffee table where Isabelle had left her textbooks, cluttered with her things like she belonged there. The kitchen where Ingrid had made dinner, over and over again, because she’d wanted to take care of her. Because she’d loved her.
Her gaze catches on the framed photo on the bookshelf.
It’s of them.
Smiling.
Happy.
Ingrid doesn’t move closer, but she knows the date in the corner of the picture. She remembers it well Because that was the day Isabelle had kissed her and told her-
“You’re the only one for me.”
Ingrid swallows, her throat tight, and suddenly the air in the room feels thicker, pressing down on her. Something is wrong. She turns her head, and there-
Isabelle.
Not a memory, not a photograph -she’s there. Standing in the doorway to their bedroom, her arms crossed loosely, watching Ingrid with an unreadable expression.
But it’s not really Isabelle, is it?
Not anymore. Because Ingrid knows now. She knows about the lies. The eight months of deception. The whispered words in the dark that had meant nothing to Isabelle, no matter how much Ingrid had wanted them to. She knows.
But still-
Her chest aches, and when Isabelle tilts her head, giving her that look-
That soft, knowing, devastating look…
Ingrid feels her breath hitch.
“Ingrid,” Isabelle says, voice smooth, warm, familiar.
It makes something sharp twist in Ingrid’s stomach. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be seeing this. But she can’t wake up.
“You miss me,” Isabelle murmurs, stepping forward.
Ingrid flinches. And Isabelle -she laughs.
Soft. Pleased.
“Poor thing,” she coos, reaching out like she’s going to cup Ingrid’s face, like she has the right, and-
No.
No.
Ingrid tries to move.
Tries to step back, run, wake up, but her legs feel like lead, her body frozen in place as Isabelle steps even closer. She smells the same. Like jasmine and something sickly sweet, something that makes Ingrid’s stomach turn.
She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here.
“You’ll never be anything without me, you know,” Isabelle says, her voice still honey-smooth, like she’s comforting Ingrid. Like she’s so sure she’s right. Like Ingrid is still that stupid, naive girl who had believed every single thing she’d said.
And the worst part?
Some part of Ingrid still does.
Her breath stutters. Her throat tighten. Her chest aches.
“You’re nothing,” Isabelle whispers.
And then-
Everything shatters. The walls crack, the air disappears, and Ingrid is-
Gasping.
Awake.
Drenched in sweat, heart racing, lungs struggling to pull in air.
Her hands are gripping the sheets so tightly that her knuckles ache, her entire body tensed, as if expecting something -someone- to still be there. But she’s alone. Her apartment is dark. Silent.
And yet, she swears she can still hear Isabelle’s voice, curling around her ears like a ghost, like something she’ll never be able to escape.
She just wants it all to stop.