Layla
Celia and Layla spent days looking at apartments. It made it easier to spend less time with Jess. By the time she got back home, she had time just for a quick, fun little panic attack before she fell asleep. She had been getting them every night for the past couple of days.
She was freaking out. She absolutely could not tolerate this feeling in her stomach; it felt too much like something she couldn’t control. That night, they came back, and she ended up panting on the bathroom floor; sometimes it was too easy to trigger her anxiety.
I don’t have room in me to want him, she thought, but I want. I want to touch him just to find out what it feels like; I want to talk to him. I want, and I want, and I want.
She got the urge to call her grandparents, just to vent, to talk about anything, but she didn’t get to leave and go back into their lives whenever she felt like it. It was unfair to them.
Sometimes when her brain was acting too harsh on her, she liked to pretend that the idea of love was going to be her downfall; that it was going to be hell incarnate. However, at the end of the day when was alone, and the bed was too cold, she dreamed about a love so desperate, so breathtaking, it made her breathless. She dreamed of a partner, and she wished. She was not religious, but she prayed to whoever was listening for a love that felt like it was opening the gates of paradise.
Perhaps she only liked Jess because she was kind of lonely.
It doesn’t mean anything. It’ll go away, eventually.
“Are you okay?” Celia snaps her finger at her.
“Yeah, why?”
“We parked ten minutes ago and you haven’t been answering me.”
“Oh. I’m fine,” she said as she stepped out of the car.
She knew as soon as they walked in that it was the one. She couldn’t find anything she disliked about it. Mudejar architecture, inspired by Al-Andalus, combining Islamic aesthetics with Iberian structures. Stained glass, tons of natural light, beautiful arches. It was cozy, with two rooms downstairs and one upstairs, along with a beautiful backyard.
“You like this one,” Celia stated.
“How’d you know?”
“You got all quiet, like you were picturing a life here,” she said. “Also, it’s the only one you didn’t tear down with your words.”
“The other ones were terrible! They deserved it.” A pause. “I know I’ve been a pain in the ass about this and I know the others were okay, but I just wanted something I love, something that clicked. I wanted-”
“A home,” she guessed, a warm soft smile on her face. Layla loved that smile; everyone did.
“My sister and my grandparents would love this,” Layla told her, hoping someday she would get to show it to them.
Rent was a little pricy, but it was worth every penny.
⸻
Mateo was helping her pack her clothes. Most of her things were at her studio. They were going to head there the next day to empty everything out.
“Jess and I also decided that he would move here and we would stay roommates,” he said.
Relief coursed through her body in waves. She let out a breath, thankful for Jess.
“I think that’s a great idea.” She smiled.
“I’m fine, you know.” He didn’t sound very convincing. “I know I made you worry, and I know I have to talk about it, but I need a little more time,” he said quickly. He always spoke so quickly when something was bothering him.
“Whenever you’re ready, then?”
He dropped the clothes in his hand and his arms came around her. She hugged him back.
“I’ll miss having you here all the time,” he mumbled, his voice muffled.
“I think I’ll be fine; Celia is my favorite, anyway.”
“I hate you,” he said, tightening his arms around her.
“Oh, by the way, I got more lavender tea for you guys when I went grocery shopping, so don’t buy more.”
“Why? We won’t need it anymore if you’re not here.”
“It’s for Jess,” she said, folding more of her clothes.
“Why would you do that? Jess hates lavender tea.”
She dropped the shirt and turned to face him again. “No, he doesn’t.”
“I think I would know. I tried to give it to him a while ago and he said he couldn’t even stand the smell.”
Oh.
Layla to the audience: That’s interesting, I guess. Is it hot in here?
⸻
Layla took out the three notebooks filled with conversations she and Jess had when they first moved in. She flipped through pages for a while; Jess found it so fascinating that she was an artist. It always felt like something he was an awe of, so sometimes he would write down stuff like:
Draw some Halloween doodles here, you’re only allowed one color.
Who’s your favorite marvel hero? Draw it here.
Draw my favorite Disney princess (Tiana) here.
For some reason, she always did what he asked. It was silly and fun.
A knock at the door pulled her back. She kept staring at the notebooks and then she felt the bed dip. She hadn’t looked at him all day. Her eyes scanned him like they couldn’t help but seek him out.
“I liked it when we wrote to each other,” she signed.
She enjoyed their conversations too much. Avoiding him the whole day had an effect she couldn’t deny; she didn’t like avoiding him.
“Really?”
“Yes. I used to be obsessed with historical romance when I was younger and I loved it when they wrote each other letters. When we wrote to each other, it felt like we were writing letters. I’ve always wanted someone to write me letters.”
“We can write letters if you want.” He smiled. It was smug and horrifying; she’d never been more annoyed with anyone in her whole life.
She wanted to taste it.
Later, the guys helped move the heavy stuff from her apartment. When they came the first day, Layla had looked out of the window when Mateo’s car arrived. Jess had felt eyes on him and looked up. Somehow, she knew he would, and she felt her mouth tug slightly upward.
He stumbled at the sight of it, almost falling because of her smile.
“Since when are you so clumsy?” Mateo asked Jess loudly.
“He’s not clumsy; he’s the most well-balanced person I know,” Kione said, looking personally offended.
Jess wasn’t paying attention; it was sinking deeper into his skin—her effect on him was not something he could describe with words.
They started writing letters. They got creative with it after she moved out. When Jess was helping her pack, he would leave letters everywhere without telling her about the whereabouts. At night before she went to sleep those last few nights in Mateo’s place, he’d put one in front of her bedroom door like someone delivered them. Sometimes she would leave one under his pillow; sometimes she would put one in his gym bag.
Sometimes the letter would hold single sentence like:
“I can’t wait for the season to start. Will you be coming to watch me?”
Sometimes she wrote prompts for him like:
“Write an intimate scene where the characters don’t say a word to each other.”
Sometimes he would leave them with Amir and he would give it to Layla, and she would write a reply and he would give it to Jess.
One time he wrote:
How did people end their letters before?
To which she replied:
Like this
Yours, Layla.
After that, he started writing things like:
Are you still mine? Or Do I have you still?
Ardently yours, Jess.
It’s a beautiful idea, belonging. I’d love to hear your thoughts about it. Alas, I do not belong to anyone.
Yours, Layla.
