We pack dinner up together. I wasn’t going to let Inari do all the work and at the same time, they refuse to leave me to it either. I end up washing the dishes and wiping the table and benches, and Inari dries the dishes and puts them away. The exchange is all far too quiet for my liking because we both hate small talk.

  When I’m back in my room, I plug my camera in to charge. The sun is beginning to set and the deep golden light streaming into my room mixes with the twinkling rainbow of the glass sculpture. I haven’t had a proper view from the balcony, so I answer its call and slide the door open. The warmth of the outside wraps around me and I breathe in the seasalt-tinged air. Distant crashing waves calm me and I take hold of the balcony railing, shutting my eyes and inhaling deeply.

  Here I am. My first day at Sunlit is coming to an end and even if I didn’t get much done, there was so much more to be done in the days to come.

  “Hey, Perrin.”

  My eyes fly open. It takes me a moment to realise their voice had come from below. From up here, I get a good view of the outdoor lounge and the entire stretch of pool. Inari is resting on a sunlounger with a notebook and pen.

  They watch me as I find the words to say. I get distracted by their change of clothes—a slightly faded graphic t-shirt and cargo shorts. My gaze flickers to their face to find them frowning again. It’s an unsettling reminder of how much they frowned during our last days together.

  “Oh, sorry. I told you about the privacy thing and I just— yeah…” Inari holds a hand to the back of their neck.

  “No— don’t worry.” I shift to the left side of the balcony to make sure my words reach them. “I was just looking at the sunset.”

  They give me a small nod and then go back to writing, their pen furiously moving across the page. They say that pictures say a thousand words but if a writer had that many, what wondrous things could they come up with?

  “What’s your project for the residency?” I shout down, just in case they can’t hear me.

  They immediately look back up at me and I crouch down to get a somewhat better view. The bannisters are obstructive, though.

  “I’m going to write a novel this week,” they say with very mild confidence. They tap their pen on the edge of their notebook. “And you?”

  “I’m going to snap a collection inspired by the experience,” I share, wiggling my fingers in the air at those last two words.

  “The experience?”

  “The villa, the meals, the pool, the beach, the doing of the art…”

  They nod again and scribble down some notes before replying. “Is there anything I can help with? Do you need a model for your photos?”

  My excitement makes itself known far too quickly because I lean forward and hit my head against a metal bannister. “Ow…” I rub my forehead and Inari is snickering from below. “Hey! You don’t get to laugh. I’m dealing with the horrors of heights to have this conversation.”

  That only keeps them laughing and even when they look away, they still steal a peek at me as if acting like they aren’t looking fixes anything. Heat rushes to my cheeks which seems impossible when it’s already over thirty degrees out. How embarrassing.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry, again,” they say. They compose themself with an exhale and pick up their pen after they’ve seemed to drop it. “And you don’t have to stay up there. You can come sit with me.”

  I purse my lips and survey the seating options. They do look quite comfortable, but on the other side of things, I want to avoid getting into their space too much. We’ll be living in the same house for the week, after all, and it wasn’t going to be easy… shouldn’t be easy when I had no idea what they were thinking about all this. I was grateful for their kindness so far and had no doubt it was all part of their naturally kind demeanour.

  “I’ll just stay here. I like the view.”

  “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

  I’m half tempted to grab one of the bed’s many pillows to throw at them. “Very funny and very original.” It felt like making tall jokes to a tall person.

  “Hey, I was the first one to make that joke to you so it’s mine.”

  I raise a brow and hold a hand to the bars as I lean forward. “Really? How do you know that?”

  “I remember when I made the joke. It was on our first school camp. You were treating your phone like a top-of-the-line camera.”

  “Well it was the best I had at the time,” I protest. It was my first smartphone.

  “I know,” they say. “But then we were going to do flying fox. You gave your phone to the teacher to look after because you didn’t want to drop it.”

  I remember too. Smaller versions of our old friends and classmates come to mind. For most of us, it was our first time seeing each other in something other than the school uniform. There was a long line for the flying fox with a small group standing by one of the teachers—those who didn’t want to do the activity or didn’t get a parent to sign-off on it.

  I was terrified of the heights, but adored the view of the mountains from the platform, so I decided to be part of the majority.

  “I told you that the view was so beautiful,” I say. We were standing in line together.

  “And I said, you should take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And you laughed! Because it was the first time you’d heard the joke. So officially, it’s mine.”

  It doesn’t help my case when I laugh this time, either, and they seem pleased with themself as they continue writing with a cheeky smile.

  Warmth swirls in my chest, like a cat finding a comfortable spot to sit. Nostalgia and comfort in the present moment join together. Inside, though, sits a tightly wound knot that hasn’t budged, tied not only during today’s fiasco but years ago when Inari walked away from me, calling our friendship to an end.

  “Hey,” I call down, resting my head on the bannisters as I watch Inari look up at me again.

  “Hey,” they respond with raised eyebrows.

  I fiddle with the amethyst point hanging from my necklace. “I’m sorry for… earlier.” I desperately hope they know what I was talking about because recollecting the moment again would be far too embarrassing. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  They blink at me. “Oh, yeah. That’s alright.” Their words are far too short for my liking.

  “Are you sure?” If I could read their mind, this would be much easier. Reaching out to them again like this… I never imagined I’d get the chance. “You can tell me if it wasn’t alright.”

  They’re quiet for a moment, thinking. They’re tapping their pen again, this time on the back of their hand. A thread between us is pulled taut in the lack of response.

  Then, finally, they say, “Look, I know this was… not what either of us expected.”

  I shake my head. “I kinda thought this was the pinnacle of meeting strangers and leaving as friends.”

  They chuckle as they put their pen down and run a hand through their hair. It lifts in awkward places and leaves itself messy, but I suppose wolf cuts did messy best.

  “I think that I know too much about you to treat you like a stranger,” Inari says. It’s almost too quiet to hear from where I am. “But it’s been a while since we’ve known each other like friends.”

  “Do you still want to try?” I blurt out, holding the bannisters in both hands and leaning forward, not hitting my head this time.

  “Try…?” Hesitance and curiosity linger in their voice. “To be friends, you mean?”

  I nod with furious enthusiasm.

  They toss their head back and laugh. I wonder, is this what the residency is all about instead? Not only new experiences, but old experiences revisited?

  “Does that mean you want to?” I ask with tentative hope. I know it’s been years. I know we didn’t end on great terms. But if this was the universe’s way of saying that it was time to mend things, then I couldn’t refuse the chance.

  They hold a hand to their chest and look up at me. Their eyes shine in the last light of today’s sun. I hope they are tears of joy more than anything.

  “Perrin, let us try to have a good time here together.”

  That knot within loosens and grants me a sigh of relief. “I’d like that.”

  Chapter 4

  Inari

  Perrin has a special way of making me open up. It means I can blame her for how readily I surrender to our circumstances.

  It would’ve been easy to have meals separately. Easy to stay in my room because my craft just needs a laptop, some paper and a pen. Or if I wanted, I could use the living room, or the outdoor space. There is no scarcity of places to work when there’s just the two of us.

  Somehow she makes it easier to just agree to be friends again than to exist as professional acquaintances. Getting along with my residency partner is a good idea. But in practice, it means succeeding in what I failed at for six years of high school: seeing Perrin as just a friend.

  Tell me how I’m supposed to think and act when Perrin cooks us brekkie the next morning and brings it to my desk. When Perrin slides her chair opposite mine and asks me all about my book. When she goes on about what uni was like for her, including the annoying commute, group projects, and how weird it was to see our old classmates doing courses we never expected them to pursue. The jumping conversation doesn’t surprise me when it’s Perrin.

  It’s endearing that her desire to catch me up with what’s been happening for her still exists because so little words have left my mouth about my time between before and now. I can’t bring myself to tell her about the experiences that I retroactively excluded her from. I also didn’t want to remember my attempts at getting over her—trying to pursue another romance, losing myself to studies, stacking hobbies and work so I wouldn’t have time to think. Perhaps getting over her coincided with running away from real life.

  Was it possible to get it right this time? When Perrin seems even kinder now than she used to be?

  We take a break to have a light lunch, which I prepare since Perrin did breakfast. After that, Perrin goes off to take some pictures.

  My old habits remain. I escape reality by immersing myself in my novel, playing each scene in my mind as I scribe dialogue and description. A wind of motivation flies through me as I write something more literary than genre for the first time ever. I wonder to myself if my character’s perspective is too pretentious. If their thoughts are not as profound as I think they are. The scene goes on and I begin to question if I’ve written enough context or if the world building spread throughout the book will be enough.

  As I approach the end of a chapter, my phone chimes and I’m pulled away from my laptop. I didn’t realise that a couple hours had passed. It’s both exhilarating and concerning how much writing a story can pull me in.

  I flip my phone into my hand and check the messages.

  Leila Chen

  when will I see you for crimmy btw xx

  I forgot to ask before you left lol

  What?

  Why are you calling it that

  Leila Chen

  you know what I mean

  And you’re lucky for that.

  I’ll come visit next tuesday.

  Leila Chen

  omg yes for new years eve! party party!! bring a dish yeah!! :)

  also maybe bring Perrin or something lol

  I stare at the message in disbelief. Perrin and I certainly weren’t close enough anymore to just casually invite her to Christmas with friends. I knew I would do my best to remain friendly and malleable in the spirit of the summer holidays but even I had my limits—I had a manuscript to finish and a level head to maintain.

  Maybe not. We’re just doing this residency together. I don’t think much will happen after this.

  Leila Chen

  okayyy but you are spending christmas together ooooh!!!

  I turn off my phone and put it down. Heat rushes to my cheeks and I know it’s only from embarrassment. I am not my younger self. I am not the helpless kid I was back then chasing one-sided love. I am certainly not here to feed into my nostalgic feelings when my entire life is ahead of me.

  Perrin hasn’t come back upstairs since she left. I’m left with my thoughts in a silent studio as I sip from an iced drink. I turn back to my manuscript which is sitting at a few thousand words and I remind myself that I can always edit later to avoid the dreadful urge to delete everything.

  I close my laptop lid and go downstairs to find Perrin. It seems counter-intuitive to my conflicting inner world, but being faced with the reality of Perrin rather than an imaginative future where she’s my plus one to a party would snap me back into a reasonable place.

  It takes me a tour of the downstairs before I find her out the front in the hedge garden. Rows of flowers are planted alongside a well-kept maze of hedges that don’t go much higher than my hip. It seems like the kind of spot that works perfectly for a traditional sketch artist.

  “What are you doing out here?” I call over the bushes. I’m not exactly sure of how her collection is going and now I’m curious about her vision here. She’s crouching at a weird angle on top of a bench. There must be something interesting for her to be doing what I called the ‘photographer’s twist’. It’s enough to bring me to her side as she continues staring into the camera.

  “I knew I wanted a picture of the hedges when I arrived,” she says in a low mumble, her concentration closer to angling the shot than anything else.

  She snaps a couple photos and then leans back slightly, taking a few more. My gaze drops as her back foot slides ever so closer to the edge of the bench and I make the split-second decision to dip behind her, making it just in time for her to step back again and her foot to slip from the wood.

  I fear for the camera as surprise catches up to her—if it might fly out of her hands or be thrown to the ground in panic. Her high-pitched scream could also break the lens if she really tried. But as I hold and steady her so that she gains enough balance to put her foot back in place, she has her camera in a death grip that makes me wonder if the device will shatter from that instead. My hands move down from her sides to her hips. Under my palms, her curves are soft— No. Not the time and never the time. I pull my hands away and behind my back.

  “Inari!” she breathes as she gets down properly, safely. “Shouldn’t you be inside?” She fastens her camera around her neck, returning it to its safe position.

  “You’re really asking me that right after you almost sent yourself or your camera to the hospital?”

  She gives me a sheepish smile. “Okay, but what are you actually doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting those words down?” She starts heading back inside. I’m unsure if she’s actually done out here or if she’s that concerned about my writing progress.

  “I was.” Though admittedly I hit a block. Sometimes starting a new chapter was hard.

  She carries on, skipping as she goes, holding the camera in place with her hands, “I honestly wonder how it’s even possible to write a whole book in a week.” As we approach the front door, she glances back at the garden. Then she looks up at my balcony. Her finger taps idly on the buttons of her camera.

  Oh, was that why she wanted that room?

  “How about you come upstairs and take a photo from my balcony?” I point up as if she wasn’t already looking there.

  She perks up and whips around to face me. There’s a huge smile on her face. “Really? I don’t want to intrude.”

  I raise a brow at her as I lean over to open the front door for the both of us. She ducks in with a small thanks and I follow behind.

  “It’s an invitation. How would you be intruding if I’m asking if you want to come?” I ask.

  She continues up the stairs as she answers, “Just making sure. Sometimes people ask when they don’t really mean it.”

  Right. I forgot about that. I only received my diagnosis for autism earlier this year, but it explains some of the ways I don’t understand communication, no matter how much I try to improve my ability to socialise. I always thought that if I offered something to another person, I would only do it if I really meant it.

  When we make it to my room, I sit on the bed and let Perrin do her thing.

  She floats from side to side, the camera poised in her hand like a delicate flower and mighty weapon in one. I’ve always been amazed at her ability to see a photograph in everyday scenery or objects.

  Once she’s stepped back and is looking through her camera roll, I come up behind her and take a peek over her shoulder. She’s wearing some sort of floral perfume that catches my senses. Just the same as she wore in high school.

  “What do you think?” she asks, tilting the camera so I get a better view.

  Looking between her photos and the garden itself, it’s like a completely different perspective. It’s something about the framing and positioning that is intentional.

  “How do you do that?” I laugh as I gesture at the small rectangular screen. “If I take a picture, it’s always blurry and weird.”

  There were many times Perrin tried to get me into photography but the clumsy way I navigated the camera and my lack of photographic vision was enough to not continue down that path. I’d stick with writing.

  “Wait!” she says so suddenly that I flinch.

  She takes her phone out and taps away, stepping away from me so that I can’t see what she’s doing. “Not always…” she whispers with a cheeky, sing-song tone and I can’t help but raise a brow.

  Then she shoves the screen in my face. “See, this one is pretty great. Not blurry or weird, I hope.” She’s brought up a photo I took back in year ten right in the middle of my embarrassing pining after her.