Layla
Later, in the hospital, Jess’s agent informed him that people were talking about their friend group, which he was a little confused about. Almost everyone who was there the night before was photographed, including K-pop idol Nabi, who tried to hide her identity as she left, and Elio. It got people talking online because what could possibly bring all these people together if they weren’t friends?
Two days later, they were in Mateo’s apartment. It was a luxury apartment in a fancy building that had every amenity that you could think of. It could not have been clearer that a single man lived there. Mateo wasn’t the biggest fan of accessories; the place was a bit bland, a little too white—white furniture, white walls, white marble kitchen counter.
Layla hated it. She was many things: opinionated, bitter, but most importantly, a minimalist hater.
Her cat, Salem, seemed to hate the space just as much, but that wasn’t really out of the ordinary. Salem hated anyone other than her. The cat was very displeased at the change of scenery, but Layla couldn’t just leave him alone in her apartment.
Layla also felt sort of lost outside her small apartment. She had spent months decorating it. She’d always wanted to decorate her space with a ‘whimsigoth’ aesthetic, yet at the same time she couldn’t help but find comfort in the idea of having roommates.
She’d rented a small apartment and filled it with so many things to make up for the emptiness of human company.
She’d left. She was so grateful she left that house. It held nothing but anger and hate, but sometimes it felt like the universe was punishing her for it, making her more lonely on her own than when she was living with the very people who had crushed her soul to pieces.
Her first month in the city was just a huge moment of realization that she hadn’t been living at all, that she was lying to herself every time she thought it could be worse.
Layla had lost the feeling of being alive. The loss of it was so gradual, it was barely noticeable. At first it was the big things like birthdays, gatherings, weddings and accomplishments. She had thought herself simply indifferent; it wasn’t rare for people to be indifferent, but it affected small things. The only things she was allowed to enjoy, the smell of rain and a calm cloudy day, the feeling of pure bliss after she finished screaming out the lyrics to her favorite sad songs and the feeling of contempt when she listened to Samira’s laugh.
She realized that years had passed since she registered any feelings at all. She was filled with thoughts and analysis; she knew the whys and hows of the feelings, but it never made its way from her brain to her heart.
The world had become so grey in her eyes. It used to be red most of time, and then when it faded, when she couldn’t hold on to it anymore, there was an emptiness that she didn’t know how to explain. Layla never liked it, but its absence was very unsettling.
The sound of furniture moving in Mateo’s room jolted her thoughts. He spent most of the time in his room to avoid talking. Something was going on with him, and it sat heavily with both Jess and Layla. They could only wait for him to feel ready to talk or ask for help if he needed it.
Layla and Jess were essentially strangers. She didn’t know what to say to him, but she thought he felt familiar sometimes; perhaps it was because he was friends with her friends. They didn’t really talk to each other, but she knew he itched to break the barrier so that it was not awkward.
⸻
Jess
On the second day, Jess sat in the kitchen and watched her for a little bit while she painted in the living room. There was a good amount of space between them, but she still looked annoyed. When she started huffing, Jess decided to cease fire and head to his room.
On the third day, he stayed for a little longer. She glared at him for a few seconds, and it sent a strange thrill down his spine. He ran away before she saw the huge smirk on his face.
She was just so easy to rile up. He didn’t usually get that kind of reaction from people.
On the fourth day, she took a bite out of the food he made for Mateo. He waited for an expression, but her face remained carefully blank.
The itch was growing more intense; he wanted a reaction out of her because what the fuck?
Jess to audience: I am an amazing cook! If she has something to say about my cooking, then she needs to say it.
Out of spite, when she started to paint again, he stared at her for twenty minutes, just to see an expression other than that annoyingly blank stare. He did not like it. He might even prefer the glare.
She was smart, though; she didn’t glare. Instead, there was a spark of amusement in her eyes while she ignored him.
On the fifth day, she didn’t look at him like she wanted to kill him at all.
On the sixth day, there was a disturbance in what he thought to be a forming routine. Layla was on the floor with colors all around her and a painting on her lap. She looked so disoriented; she had multiple coffee mugs around her and a frown on her face.
When she reached to take another cup, he beat her to it.
“That’s mine,” she informed him.
“Can we share? I don’t want to make another batch,” he wrote down and handed it to her.
“Fine,” came her very short, distracted reply.
He took the huge cup of coffee in his hand—there was a lip stain on it—without a second thought. He placed his lips right above it, and he drank.
Layla wasn’t sketching anymore. She was looking at the shades of colors that she had mixed.
She was painting an iris; they were hazel, and Jess could vaguely recognize them.
“Are those Matty’s?” He asked her. He was aware that he might be bothering her, but she looked so peaceful when she painted that it was hard to look away.
“Yes. I’ve always wanted eyes like his. Mine are—”
“Pretty. You’re pretty.” He scratched the back of his head. “Your eyes, I mean. Pretty like Claude Monet lilies, you know?”
Jess didn’t know Claude was one of her favorite artists. He didn’t know that she thought his lilies were so soft and pretty.
Layla’s heart gave a violent thud; it felt like a warning.
“I can help clean those brushes,” he wrote, and, before she could protest, he took them. He couldn’t think of another way to get her to stop painting, but she had bags under her eyes, and he couldn’t let her stay like that. He pointed at the coffee and then nodded towards the sink. She grabbed the coffee and went to follow, cup in one hand, notebook and pen in the other.
Layla didn’t speak sign language, but it didn’t escape his notice that she bought so many notebooks and put them at every corner in the apartment while also carrying one with her whenever he was around.
“I made a rule for us,” he wrote. She was cleaning the brushes with water and he was drying them.
“Why do we need rules?” she asked, pushing the coffee mug towards him.
“We don’t. But don’t you think it’s better we know a little more about each other? Just so that we don’t step on each other’s toes while we’re here?”
“That makes sense.” She nodded after reading. “My rule is: don’t bother me.”
He grinned. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
She took the pen and scratched out the word ‘sweetheart’.
“Don’t use pet names on me,” she scolded.
“The rule is, we each ask one question a day, and we have to answer honestly.”
“How does that keep you from bothering me?”
“It does. For example, if I ask you what allergies you have, I can avoid killing you.”
He couldn’t help but notice that Layla was very patient while he wrote down his replies. He was worried that he took too much time to write down a single reply, but she never made him feel rushed, and he appreciated that more than he could express. Sometimes, when Mateo and Jess signed, she watched carefully. It made him a little nervous, but he didn’t hate the attention.
“I would never let you be the cause of my death,” she said.
“Wow, I’m already learning so much about you.”
“Shut up, love,” she said, mockingly using a pet name on him.
He liked it.
“And you’re already giving me a pet name; I feel closer to you.”
He wished they were close enough for him to be able to ask if she was okay and have her answer honestly. She huffed and took the coffee.
They heard Mateo’s footsteps, but he didn’t come out. She stared daggers at his closed door.
On the seventh day, Layla looked at him nine times, but she didn’t glare, not once.
