"Final Boarding Call for My Safety Harnesses Before I Serve the Surrealist Disaster That Is My Heart"

By the time I walk into the sun-drenched clatter of the place, the girls are already in full flight.

Kat's in the corner, barefoot as usual, her socks mismatched (again), working on something suspiciously robotic in her lap while sipping tea like she's not halfway to building Skynet. Elly is halfway through a high-speed recap of a date with a silver-haired man who quoted Jung twice before the bread arrived. Sam's already three sips into a mimosa and aggressively critiquing the latest playlist, I sent her, like it personally offends her.

Rick doesn't say a word as he sets down a mimosa in front of me. It's in the heavy glass I love—the chipped one with the weird weight distribution. Lucky glass. Loud table. My whole heart.

I sink into the booth, and it hits me all at once: the warmth, the noise, the ease. Elly's laughing so hard she snorts. Kat's humming with concentration. Sam's voice is sharp, surgical, but I can see the corners of her mouth tugging upward.

Here, I'm not managing anything. I'm just... here. Present. Beige and still breathing.

The food arrives like magic: eggs, roasted mushrooms, creamy feta something, and warm bread we all grab at without manners.

Halfway through buttering toast, I drop it casually.

"So. I went on a blind date this week."

They freeze like I've thrown a grenade.

Sam lowers her glass. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Bo set it up. His friend. Kasper."

Elly slaps the table. "Kasper? Are we serious with that name?"

"He owns a carabiner," Kat says solemnly. "I feel it in my soul."

I laugh. "It was going okay until he casually said people with mental health issues are a burden on society."

Three jaws drop.

Sam's already pulling out her phone. "Spell his last name. I want to see what his LinkedIn says under 'values.'"

"So," I continue, tearing into a piece of bread, "I told him I'm bipolar."

Elly gasps like I just revealed I'm secretly royalty. "You told him? At the table?!"

"Diagnosed. Medicated. Managing it for ten years."

Sam whoops and clinks her glass against mine. "God, I love when you go full mic drop."

"He deserved it," I shrug. "I didn't even raise my voice."

Kat blinks at me, wide-eyed. "You're my hero. For real."

"He sputtered, tried to backpedal. I stood up, took my wine, went to the bar. Sat by the canal with the bottle. Ten out of ten exit."

"Elly," Sam says, "tell me you're imagining her in one of those dramatic black coats with a scarf and wind machine."

"She is the wind machine," Elly mutters.

I grin into my glass. "Nick found me."

More gasps.

"Nick knows?" Kat asks, her voice softening.

I nod. "He does."

"And he was okay?" Sam presses.

"He was perfect," I say simply. "No weirdness. No parenting. No pity. Just... Nick."

Kat sighs like she's watching a movie she already loves. The way they look at me. Like, I'm actually good crazy. I am proud of what I did, but sometimes when I do I get told I shouldn't. Like a few times before, I know this picture will be burned into my memory.

Beige and all, there might just be a crack of something that feels like me - just a piece of the real one that actually qualifies to be let out.

Then, like she's taking in some grand milestone, Elly goes, ""So, the second one at work to know."

"Mhmm."

Kat raises her glass. "Weirdly proud of you."

"Wait," Sam leans in, narrowing her eyes. "What did you actually tell August?"

"Uhm," I say, slicing into my toast like it wronged me. "In Amsterdam. In his hotel room. He was spiraling over Lea being missing and I... I just told him. About me."

Elly blinks. "You just handed over the holy grail of personal information as emotional support?"

"I didn't plan to you know. It just felt—right. I wanted to comfort him. And the weird part? It didn't feel scary. Not in that moment. It felt like the most obvious thing in the world."

Kat cocks her head. "Okay, so let's just say it—Frederika trusts August."

I roll my eyes. "Don't make it a whole thing."

Sam grins. "Too late. You trust him."

"I do," I admit. "I didn't even realize how much until I said it out loud just now. I never once thought he'd use it against me or twist it or even flinch. Even after what I did, either."

Elly presses a hand to her heart. "That's the most romantic platonic thing I've ever heard."

I shake my head. "It's not like that. It's like I'd miss a really good friend. The kind who saw me clearly, didn't run, didn't flinch. That's rare."

Sam sobers a bit. "So why not reach out?"

"Because I messed it up," I say quietly. "I told him we should be strangers, and honestly... I meant it. He deserves clean, someone he can trust. Someone calm. And I know that'll be impossible for me to guarantee."

"You weren't the only person in Amsterdam," Kat says. "Everything he did—how he was, how he acted around you—none of that was delusion. That was him."

"I just don't want to risk hurting him again."

"Newsflash," Sam says, leaning back. "That's what caring looks like. Not wanting to cause harm doesn't mean you're the villain. It means you're not a narcissist."

"I'm not going to ask to be forgiven," I say. "I just... want to be the version of myself that doesn't burn everything down, and then maybe.. I'll see."

Elly raises her glass. "To missing people platonically."

"And catastrophically," Sam adds.

I snort. "That's us."

Kat grins. "Soft landing, remember?"

I smile. Small. Real. "Yeah. You are."

Rick drops off more food like clockwork—lemon chicken, something couscous-y, a fresh plate of the dill bread that Elly will absolutely hoard by the end.

We eat and laugh louder now. Kat's telling a story about how Tom tried to get her to watch The Phantom Menace as foreplay. Sam snorts mimosa out of her nose. Elly texts a man named Claude mid-toast.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. Not for show. Just because I can.

Later, after we've cleared every plate and stolen every bite from each other's forks, I catch Elly watching me.

"What."

"You love him."

I groan.

"I didn't say in love," she says, hands up. "Just—love. You care."

"I don't," I insist, even as my ears go warm.

Kat smiles knowingly. "Okay. But if you ever stop denying it, we'll be here."

"Soft landing," Sam adds, raising a brow. "That's us."

I grin. "You're also monsters."

"Correct," Elly says. "But sexy ones."

When we finally leave, the sun is golden and high. The table's a mess—crumbs, napkins, laughter baked into the wood. We walk out full—of food, yes, but also of each other.

And I think - maybe beige isn't dull with these people in my life. I just wish that the sting of ripping up stories about him and me, wouldn't hurt as much. How I really do trust him, and how I am the last person in the world he should trust.

I miss him, and I know I need to stop. For his sake. For my sake.

***

On my way to work Monday morning, I let myself believe, briefly, that beige might be feasible.

Not good. Not joy. But sustainable. Something like what I felt yesterday at Rick's—ease, rhythm, the buzz of three loud women keeping me upright without even trying. If I could borrow one percent of that lightness and stretch it across the week, maybe I wouldn't fall apart.

I plug in Life with Picasso. Gilot's voice isn't quite soothing, but it works. I read the book years ago, barely remembering the details, except the part about him being a misogynist. I'm trying not to focus on the part where I'm giving him a second chance—maybe just because I know someone who loves Cubism, and I don't want to hate one of its founders for his sake.

It's pathetic.

When I arrive at the office, there's the faintest flicker of hope. Maybe my projects will be enough. Maybe if I keep myself moving, thinking, building, revising, I won't slip. Maybe I'll be too tired to reach for his hoodie at the end of the day.

The morning planning meeting starts like it always does—low stakes, muted screens, Marty sipping coffee from a mug that says No, you calm down. And then he slides in one new update like it's a bullet point on a spreadsheet:
"Nick and Frederika are on limited availability next week—Thursday onward—for the talent programme. Off projects. Homework time."

Nick lights up like someone just promised him negronis and foot rubs in the same sentence. He's already mapping out how to coast through Barcelona like it's a vacation.

I drag him outside the moment the meeting ends.

"I'll take something off your plate," I say. "Spillover, one of the small projects, maybe just —whatever's annoying you."

He blinks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just want to help."

"You never want to help."

"I do when I'm underutilized."

"You are not underutilized. You are stretched thin and emotionally constipated."

"Nick."

"No, I'm serious. What is going on? You've been crying into your screen for weeks, and I know this isn't about a deck that needs formatting. You're hiding. Is this about August?"

I cross my arms. "No."

"Try again."

"Don't."

"I've let you avoid this for weeks. I've watched you pretend everything's fine—watched you turn yourself inside out trying to make beige feel like enough. And I've let you. I didn't say a word after Amsterdam. Even when you came back and didn't look like yourself."

"Nick. No, if I was hiding I'd be under a blanket fort with a bottle of whiskey. But apparently, that's unhealthy"

He doesn't flinch, before he goes,

"You think I didn't notice how you were with him?"

My stomach tightens.

"I saw it in Copenhagen. Post-museum tour. When you went to Stockholm. When you came back from Stockholm. Then waaay before Amsterdam, you were staring at your phone like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground."

I stare past him, into nothing.

"I've never seen you look at anyone like that." he says, "You just don't smile like that,"

I flinch.

"And don't say it's want," he continues. "I know what that looks like on you. This wasn't that. You weren't just trying to fuck him."

I whisper, "I never even fucked him."

He pauses. "So what happened?"

I shake my head. "That's why I need the distraction."

Nick doesn't blink. "You can't distract yourself anymore than you already are - have been. Next week, you're going to see him, and I swear to god if you pretend it's not going to break you a little—"

"I'm handling it."

"No, you're running. In heels. Through quicksand."

"This is beige," I say, quieter.

Nick narrows his eyes. "No, Freddie. This is grief in business casual."

I look away.

"I thought the blind date would help," he says. "You were unraveling. Quietly. Elegantly, even. But falling apart all the same."

"It was a hypermania, Amsterdam. You don't know what happened."

"No," he says. "But I'll tell you what it looked like. You were happy. You smiled like a fucking idiot just staring at him. And then, you look like the personification of heartbreak. And that's what I've been watching since you came home."

I let the silence settle. Let it weigh.

He softens, just a little. "You're allowed to hurt. Even if it's complicated. Even if it's your fault. My kitchen floor is always in need of a deep clean with tears"

I blink. The words sting more than they should.

"I didn't say it was," he adds. "But I know you. So if you broke something—fine. But don't pretend you didn't feel it."

"I can't talk about it."

"Then don't. But stop trying to outwork it. It's not going anywhere."

***

I try anyway. Tuesday, Wednesday, I fill every hour I can. Projects. Deadlines. Homework for Barcelona. I finish things that don't need finishing, polish documents no one will read twice. I work late, eat at my desk, almost - just almost - get to forget what day it is.

And still—he's there. In my head, silently debating with me if Picasso really was or wasn't a misogynist, telling me he thinks Van Gogh is a religious fanatic, telling me that I'm slowly starting to lose it altogether.

Thursday, I unravel quietly in the form of productivity.

I hover just outside Andy's office, pretending to check my email while shooting him the occasional hope-filled glance. My entire plan hinges on the fact that he finds my mere presence annoying enough to throw a task at me just to get me out of his line of sight.

He finally looks up, dead-eyed. "What."

"That's the thing," I say, inching forward. "I was wondering if I could maybe jump in on something. Anything."

His brows lift half a millimeter. "Marty said you were out. He vetoed it. Why are you here?"

"Agneta's project is massive. Can't you just—"

"Are you deaf?."

I blink.

"You want the account, then you don't want the account, then you want it. I've already given up on your high school drama, you really should too"

That stings harder than I expect.

"Oh, thank you," I snap, voice low and sharp. "Thank you for giving up on me. That's really affirming."

As the words leave my mouth I realize I've never said anything as stern back to Andy - well, outside my head.

Andy blinks. "Look at us. Having a conversation I actively don't want to have."

"Goodbye, Frederika."

I would slam the door behind me harder than I should. Let the echo say the things I'm still too proud to. But he doesn't have a door, and I feel this is exactly why.

I head for the courtyard to fume, except this time it's not really about what Andy said, it's about me, how this weird beige-sort of self-destructiveness is just a level above anything I've done before.

When Friday comes around, I really am out of tasks. I've talked myself out of actually cleaning the coffee machine in the kitchen seven times.

As people begin to slowly drift to our Friday bar, I feel like scratching out my eyeballs. I'm not even an alcoholic, I'm just beige, and just now it seems impossible to keep any conversation going without being three drinks in. People are interested in the talent programme, and detailing the upcoming trip would make it impossible to push August's face out of my mind.

"I need more work," I say, as I enter and without further instruction, plop down on his couch.

Marty looks up slowly from behind his desk. "What kind of more."

"Projects. Overflow. Anything."

"You're already pushing sixty hours with your current load and the talent programme."

"I know you might not think I deserved it quite yet, but I really need the promotion." I lie.

"You got it."

I blink. "What?"

"It's already being processed. Talent programme or not. It's not public yet, but you and Nick are both getting a promotion."

I just sit there.

"Tell me what's really going on." he says in a tone just a notch lower than before.

"I just—have a lot of energy. I'm restless. I want to work. When has that ever been an issue?"

He gives me a look I can't dodge.

"But you don't - not more than usual - You haven't really been energetic since sometime after Stockholm" he says, brows furrowed.

"Uhm. Actually right after I came back from Amsterdam I was like.." I pause to refocus "But that doesn't matter - why can't you just give me another project?"

"You didn't hear me when I said you're pushing 60+ hours?"

My eyes just stay focused on him, letting him know I don't care.

"Well then, since you told me you have bipolar."

I freeze. "I never—"

He cuts me off - "You did. My place. At our team dinner last year. You were probably too drunk. I didn't want to push you if you wanted to leave it unsaid."

I sit down slowly. "You remembered."

I did actually wake up after that dinner—barely able to remember anything but my own name and the sharp knot in my abdomen. At the time, I deliberately logged it as heartburn or a hangover. Something physical. Not the faint memory shoved deep down, of me knowing I outed myself.

A terror stings down my spine and up my neck, as it feels this conversation could set off in a million unpredictable directions.

"I looked it up. Just enough to keep an extra eye. Let you steer it. But this ask? This pace? that's too much, even for you."

I press my lips together. Still unsure where the hell he's going with this. A part of my brain is already packing up my desk in a brown box.

"How about this," he says. "You don't take more on. You're exhausted as is - ever since coming back from Stockholm I've been looking at solutions. When you come back from Barcelona, we need to find a way for you to use your vacation days.. and overtime compensation..."

The way he says those last words, with disgust almost - is when I know this is something he didn't come up with himself - it basically screams HR memo.

"I don't want special treatment." I say even-toned.

"Good, as you're not getting it. It's part of our retention strategy for talents. Nick's getting it too."

A sense of relief shoots through me. I'm not the bad kind of special - weak - I'm just a talent - like the others - just like Nick. There's just a little voice in the back of my mind screaming good cop - bad cop gaslighting. How Andy tells me I'm shit, then signs of promotion and have Marty pump up my self-esteem.

"Could one solution be a four-day work week until the end of the year?" I ask, I don't think Marty's ever heard this soft tone from me.

It's like it's the best compromise, afraid he'll send me off for three whole weeks. Three weeks where I don't have work to keep my mind busy sounds terrifying. But I do know somewhere deep down I should want it for myself, want it for my parents.

"Yes, but let's make plans when you're back" He says, with an undertone of annoyance I attribute to the impending dread of having to plan any of my projects around it.

'I let out a breath. "Okay. So I'm not being detained by HR —I'm being... rewarded publically?" A beat, before I continue, "That's somehow more suspicious."

He smiles. "Actually, I want you to consider doing HR counseling for you and Andy."

I groan. "I don't think I'll have the time."

"You literally just sai-"

"I see my mistake. So, promotion, can't have more projects, might get four-day week, all for the price of shrinking it with Andy - congrats to me - the talented bipolar"

He just gives me a look. The kind that says he thinks I'm anything but a "talent," no matter what the title says. Then he glances down, nods. Silent agreement. Or maybe surrender.

As I exit Marty's office, I'm... excited. I think. It's not quite joy, not relief either—just this strange, buzzing weightlessness. Like I'm not sure I even understand what just happened, but I know it matters.

I go to the courtyard, and at some point I realize I forgot to light my cigarette. It's like it plugs my brain back in. All power goes to wrapping the bipolar and promotion in the same sentence. I try to find the glitch somewhere. Can't fathom the impossible version of the world where he's basically blue-stamping bipolar. Actively tells me he wants it around. That it's not a warning label in his book.

I can't believe he didn't use it against me. No special treatment either. It was just.. Me.

I let out a laugh, half disbelief, half at the absurdity of the situation. The hardest thing to believe is that Marty knew, kept it hidden for my sake, and still decided to reward me - and look out for me. I give up trying to make sense of it, and go upstairs.

In a show of good faith—or obedience—I shut down my laptop and actually leave the office. At 15:42 on a Friday. It feels downright wrong. Like I'm stealing time that isn't mine. Like someone's going to stop me and tell me I misheard the entire meeting.

But no one does. And maybe they do believe I deserve to walk away. Maybe I'm the one who doesn't.

I call my mom while I'm still walking. She picks up before the first ring is even done, like she was waiting. I was just about to tell her, but instead I asked if it's okay to come a day early to our lunch tomorrow. Say that I'm on my way home to pick my things and catch a train.

I can hear the happiness in her tone. How this small change of plans has smiles beaming through the glass pressed to my cheek.

Then there's a short stab as I feel the urge to call August. To tell him, but it's not for me to do. I've told myself a million times I can't. I need to stay away from him, make sure I stick to beige.

By then, I know arriving early to my parents house is not really about telling them, it's just as much as a way to occupy my head from spiraling now that I don't even have work.

***

Forty-three minutes into Life with Picasso, the train rolls to a stop.

I already know this is the end of the line. I knew when I boarded. Still, it feels almost impossible to peel myself off the seat.

I pause the audiobook—can't focus anyway. I've spent the entire ride barely hearing Françoise Gilot over the voice in my own head. August's voice.

What he'd say about Picasso's cruelty, his genius, his twisted love. He'd call him a product of his time and then argue with himself mid-sentence. He'd hate how much he loves Cubism. I'd argue with him about all of it just to watch the lines between his brows shift.

I press the train doors open, put on Bikini Kill for nostalgia. The air smells like fertilizer and self-restraint.

I know why I left this town at 18. It's just too neat. Surgically neat. Still. Smug. It belongs to people who peak at 22 and marry someone they met in drivers ed.

For a second, I just look down at the concrete beneath my feet. I remember standing in this exact spot a lifetime ago—in beat-up heels, a T-shirt masquerading as a dress, no panties. Changing clothes in the bushes two houses from my parents' house.

I look up, half-expecting the same judgmental stares. But no one looks. They just nod politely—not at me, but at the work-uniform I've wrapped myself in.

As I walk toward my parents' house, the ghosts line up like old friends.

There's the side street where I let the guy with the neck tattoo go down on me in the backseat of a Volkswagen. He told people I cried after. I probably did.

The path behind the gym, down to the beach—where I ran barefoot and mascara-smeared after gala night, drunk on rain and rage, desperate to scrub off the picture-perfect blonde I'd pretended to be for three hours too long.

The playground fence I climbed to lose my virginity to a human Ken doll with zero articulation and even less memory retention. I don't remember his name, but I'm 90% sure he didn't either.

By the time I reach the house, the past is clinging to me like humidity.

The villa still looks immaculate. Obviously. White-rendered walls, black-glazed roof, flower beds lined with military precision. You'd never know this place was a total wreck when they bought it. It was all they could afford after selling the farm. No one ever said it out loud, but we all knew what it meant to let it go.

They never hired help. Couldn't afford it then, wouldn't dream of it now. Every floorboard, every coat of paint, every brick in the driveway—they did it themselves. Not out of some noble DIY ethic, but because doing is their default. Fixing is the family dialect.

When I was younger, I was expected to help. Not asked—expected. It wasn't framed as bonding or "learning responsibility." It was just: here's your paintbrush, do the work. Like cleaning the house, or smiling for school pictures.

They started letting me off the hook after the diagnosis. Quietly. No discussion. One day I was handed a paint scraper, the next I was told "They've got it covered." I didn't argue.

Now, the house gleams like it's never been touched by chaos. I round the hedge, and there they are on the stone patio—already seated, wine open, my mom in sandals, my dad in his faded polo, both of them squinting into the sun like they're admiring their own handiwork.

They don't get up.

"Hi, sweetheart," my mom says, lifting her glass.

"Train was late," I lie.

"Of course it was."

We exchange air kisses. My dad nods like he's punching a clock.

"I put clean sheets on your bed," my mom adds, almost proud. "Go drop your bag."

Upstairs, the air still smells like lavender detergent and some vanilla candle from 2008. My room is clean. Too clean. I look it over and instantly clock every hollow where I used to hide myself.

The old wooden dresser—where I'd stash contraband like black nail polish I wasn't allowed to wear, scrawled poems, vodka, burned CDs, and that purple lighter I swore I never used—is gone. In its place, a sterile white chest of drawers with nothing to say.

My bed is new. Boxy, silent. The old one had a bottom drawer that never closed right, always sagged a little from years of hoarding: notebooks, old SIM cards, Polaroids, and one very ill-fated diary I tried to burn in the sink.

The big armchair by the window, where I used to wedge my journal behind the cushion like the wall might keep it safer than I could—gone. Replaced by some bench that looks like it belongs in a dentist's office. Gray. Wipeable. Emotionally inert.

The mirror's new, too. The old one had a hairline crack I refused to fix. I used to wedge photos into the frame—me and Liv at that lake party, half-drunk and sunburnt, the night she kissed me behind the woodshed. The new one is sleek and frameless, refusing to hold any memory at all.

I open the wardrobe out of instinct, and there they are—still glued to the inside of the doors: Avril, The Killers, Sum 41, Bullet in a Bible. Sun-faded and curling at the edges, but still there. Hidden like a secret. Still mine.

And the trophies... I hated them. All of them. Shiny soccer players on top of most of them, and some from debate, science fairs, model UN—victories I never wanted, polished and lined up like proof of a child worth displaying. I used to practice rage stares at them, then dust them anyway so my parents would never know. Always making sure the dents they got from trying to smash them were turned so it wouldn't be seen. They're still lined up above the bookshelf like they've won something eternal.

It's been scrubbed of chaos. Sanitized. Like the room tried to forget I ever lived here, but couldn't quite erase the echo. A museum of who I was supposed to be, with small, defiant remnants of who I actually was tucked into the cracks.

I unzip my bag.

And there it is.

His hoodie.

I didn't even mean to pack it, but now it's in my hands—soft, faded, still faintly smelling like Amsterdam and everything I haven't been able to forget for a single second. I stare at it for a moment, heart clenched. Then I stuff it under the pillow like when I used to have cigarettes I wasn't supposed to smoke.

There's a knock. My mom appears in the doorway.

"Miss her?" I ask, nodding to the trophies. My voice comes out dry.

She leans against the frame. "We always miss you," she says. "Wish you'd come home more."

I don't reply. The ache's already there.

We head back down. Settle into the chairs. I compliment the new white cushions, and she smiles. Pour me a glass of wine. I shake my head. She frowns slightly, tops off her own with mine, then brings me a soda without a word.

We talk about the neighbor's new deck. Which flowers are blooming in the garden. I almost ask if they would consider planting rapeseeds - then bite it down as I know what memory I'll bring back for both of them. Then, someone's roof repairs. Nothing that matters.
Until I say, "I wanted to tell you something."

My mom straightens instantly. "Oh god—you're not pregnant, are you?"

"What? No."

She exhales hard, like she's been holding her breath for a decade.

"Okay. Just hoping maybe someday we'd meet someone before hearing about the grandchild."

I let out a single flat laugh. "Yeah, that's not really my department."

She smiles—tight, quick—but her eyes flick, just for a second. Like something cracked behind them.

My dad doesn't say a word. He just waits, calm and still like he knows the real news is coming.

"I got the promotion."

My mom gasps, then claps, full volume. The dog next door starts barking. "I knew it. I knew it. They finally see what we've always seen."

"And we're talking about a four-day work week."

Her smile spreads like sunlight.
"See? We told you. I knew you'd come around on slowing down a bit. You've been burning the candle at every possible end."

There it is. The compliment that's really a correction.

I set my soda down a little too firmly.
"You always say that. That I go too hard. That I don't rest enough. That I should be more like—whatever it is you think makes someone functional."

Her smile twitches, falters. "That's not what I meant."

"Except it is. You say you're proud of me, but the second I do anything that looks remotely like your version of normal, you treat it like proof. Like Charlotte finally broke me in. Finally got me to behave."

She blinks. "Frederika..."

"I want you to stop paying for her. I want to stop going. And if I decide I need it again, I'll pay."

The air stills like it's been stunned. All of it just rolls out of me, like I've never even said the words but are still so utterly honest, so they can't be stopped.

"I'm serious," I add, voice steady. "It doesn't feel like support. It feels like surveillance. Like you hired someone to quietly correct me. Nudge me toward the mold—partner, two kids, stable job, sensible brunches, and always, always breakfast before noon."

"You're being unfair," she says, her voice rising. "We only ever—"

"You don't trust me," I cut in. "You trust Charlotte."

My dad clears his throat, calm as ever.
"We trust you. But we're also your parents. Your mom asks your brother the exact same questions every day, you know. He just doesn't take it as a personal attack."

I blink, thrown.

My mom exhales and sits back down, quieter now.
"You've built a life on your own terms—one we're proud of. Genuinely."
She looks at me, not smiling. "We know the girl who was drowning under a new diagnosis is long gone. You own it now. You manage it."

She pauses—out of need, not drama. And in the silence, it hits.
That version of me, after Agneta - frayed, hollow, pathetic - flashes behind my eyes.
And so do their faces. The way they looked at me then: scared, heartbroken, not knowing where their daughter had gone.

She pulls me out of the spiral gently, her voice steady again.

"We're convinced you can live exactly the life you choose. We are. You've proven that."
She looks down for a second, then back at me.
"You stopped asking for help a long time ago, and we just stopped knowing how to. We never went to uni. We don't work in a field like yours. You had to figure all of that out by yourself."

A breath. Then:

"So... we help how we can."

"Charlotte felt like something we could offer," my dad says quietly.

"Not because you're fragile. But because we respect people who are trained to help in ways we never could."

I don't say anything.
Just reach for the wine, pour myself a glass.
It's the only thing that keeps my hands from trembling.
The only thing that stops the tears from spilling over.

I never knew this was how they really felt.

"You're not a problem to be managed," my mom says softly.
"You never were. We don't want you to change into something you don't want for yourself. You being our daughter is enough for us."

My dad cuts in, not disagreeing—just clarifying.
"We do want to make sure you're not settling. Not pouring everything into your job and calling it a life. We want you to be happy - find love - find someone who makes you happy."

I open my mouth, then close it again. It's like the words have always been sitting there, but never been allowed to come out. I try to swallow them, then finally, quietly:
"I just don't think I can put you through that again."

My mom blinks, confused. "Put us through what?"

"That version of me," I say. "The one with the shattered ankle, the one after Agneta. You remember what I was like. It wasn't just heartbreak. It was like... falling into a hole I didn't even see coming."

There's a pause. The garden buzzes with bees and trimmed perfection.

"I fell in love, and it wrecked me," I add. "And I know—technically, that wasn't her fault. But I can't risk doing that to you again. Or to myself."

Her mom's face shifts—something soft, but sharp underneath.
"Frederika... you didn't do anything to us. We were never disappointed. Not then, not ever."

My dad nods. "We were scared. But not of you. For you."

I look down at my wine glass, my voice thinner now. "It just feels like love is something I shouldn't... indulge in, for me to want. Like it's safer to live around it."

My mom tilts her head, almost amused in the saddest way.
"And Agneta?" she asks quietly. "Did you decide to fall for her? Was that part of some plan?"

I don't answer. Because we all know.

"You can't control falling," my dad says gently. "any less than how a break hits you."

My mom leans forward. "You didn't choose that—it happened. That's how love works. You don't get a say in whether it shows up, only in what you do once it's there."

She pauses. "And trying to shut it out... trying to play it safe? That's not strength. That's fear dressed up as responsibility."

The words sink in slowly, and I feel them catch on something inside, a stab something close to my core.

My dad adds, "We don't want you to be afraid of your life."

"And we don't expect you to walk through it untouched," my mom says. "But you can't spend it making sure we don't worry about you. That's not your job."

I laugh a little, brittle. "You say that like it's easy."

She smiles. "It's not. But it's real. Falling in love is terrifying for everyone, Frederika. You're not broken for being scared—it means it matters."

My dad leans back, glancing at her. "Your mom didn't choose to fall for me either, you know. God knows she wouldn't have if she had a say."

"I would not have," she agrees, raising a brow. "But I did. And it turned out to be the best thing I never planned for."

There's a silence between us, but it's warm. Almost light.

"You deserve something that surprises you," she says softly. "Something good. And you deserve to let it in. We'll catch you - not that you need us to"

Something softens in me, suddenly and all at once. Not because of what they said, but because—for the first time—I believe they mean it. I've spent so long assuming they were waiting for me to course-correct, to become someone smoother at the edges, easier to explain, someone worthy of catching.

But here they are, not asking me to change, not pushing for anything at all. Just sitting with me. Loving me. And it hits me with a force I wasn't braced for. The quiet steadiness of it. The generosity. The simple fact that they approve—not of some version of me they invented, but of me. As I am.

I feel both pierced and held by it, stupid for ever distrusting their intentions, for building my life like a fortress when maybe all they ever wanted was to be let in. And in this strange stillness, sitting here with them, with their open faces and soft voices and that horrible too-sweet wine, I feel something I didn't expect to feel here. Home. Not in the house, but in how I'm being looked at. Like I don't stick out. Like I never did. And suddenly, I don't want to fight it. I just want to let myself sit in the truth of it—for once—to feel the love I have for them without pulling away. It overwhelms me, but I let it. I stay.

It's still warm out here. The garden's perfect. My wine's a little too sweet. But their faces are open, just enough.

And for once, I actually think I might - just might - take their advice.

***

I wake up to the sound of my mom humming and the smell of something suspiciously gluten-free wafting from downstairs. For a moment, I brace for a fight I'm not even sure we'll have—like I'm still playing out the same defensive loop as always. But it doesn't come. Something's just... different today. Not in them. In me.

I still dread the idea of meeting another Stepford girlfriend. Someone, my brother scraped off some curated app—one of those glossy placeholders he rotates every six months, like he's forcing monogamy on himself out of principle. But I'm no longer walking into it with a sword drawn. Not today.

When Julie shows up, she looks like a magazine cover. One of the aspirational ones—neutral tones, perfect skin, some minimalist handbag I'm probably supposed to recognize. I make a mental note to keep her at arm's length, but she disarms it in thirty seconds flat.

She snorts at my first sarcastic remark. Then fires one back.

It's like verbal ping-pong. My dad's too impressed to hide it. My mom—glowing.

Great.

Over lunch, the table turns chaotic in the best way. My brother and I fall into our usual rhythm—bickering, baiting, trading stories like tennis volleys.

"Remember when you crashed your bike into the neighbor's Audi?" he grins.

"It was a Volvo, and I was being chased."

"By a dog or your own poor decisions?"

Julie laughs into her wine glass. "I'm just glad there's evidence she's always been like this."

"I resent that. I used to be worse."

My brother points his fork at me. "She once tried to climb the roof to impress a guy in eighth grade."

"It was for science."

"It was for a drummer named Nico who played one Nirvana cover badly."

"I was collecting data on poor life choices," I shoot back. "Still am."

The whole table erupts. It's not polite laughter. It's real, contagious, and loud enough to make the neighbor's dog bark.

And then there's Julie. She doesn't blink. Doesn't squirm or overperform. She leans in. Laughs in the right places. Gives it back when challenged.

And my brother—my logical, 9-to-5, Excel-sheet-hearted brother—is looking at her like she built the pyramids and then made him dinner.

I pretend not to notice. I joke. I refill everyone's glass. But when I glance at him later, after dessert, when he thinks no one's looking—I see it.

That look.

Soft. Stunned. The kind of look you don't plan, don't perform. I've only ever seen it once before.

At the museum.

The way August reciprocated mine, before I realized I was doing it.

It stings. Not because he has something I don't. But because—for once—I know exactly what it is.

Later, while we're in the kitchen doing dishes, my brother passes me a towel and bumps me with his elbow. "So. What do you think?"

"She's not a robot."

"That's high praise coming from you."

I shrug. "She laughs at my jokes. Could be Stockholm Syndrome, though. How far is she in the rotation?"

He smiles to himself as he rinses a plate. "I think I'm done with that. I didn't expect it, you know. It just... hit."

"Love at first sight?"

"God, no. But like—this slow weird thing. Where suddenly every song's about her. I started ordering two coffees just in case she shows up. I know the sound of her laugh in every room. It's dumb."

"It's not dumb."

He dries his hands, then looks at me. Really looks. "It's never felt like this before."

And I know exactly what he means.

I don't say August's name. I don't have to. I just nod slowly. "Yeah. I think I know."

He squints at me. "You seeing someone?"

"No."

"But you've got that tone in your voice. That 'I'm-lying-but-maybe-I'll-tell-you-later' tone."

I shove him with the dish towel. "Shut up."

He grins. "You're not subtle, sis. It's like watching a raccoon pretend it's not in the trash."

I laugh. I can't help it. I feel sixteen again, but in a way that doesn't burn.

And when I head back upstairs to pack, I realize this might be the first time I've ever actually wanted what he has.

***

Rick's is buzzing by the time we step in—Sunday afternoon clinks, clatter, and comfort. Elly's still unwrapping a candy she stole from her nephew's not-so-secret stash. Kat's already halfway through a story about someone named "Bench Press Ben," and Sam's refusing to take of her sunglasses indoors, as they're protecting her soul.

By the time we sit, Rick's just there. Four glasses. One ice bucket. A full bottle of champagne.

We blink at him.

"I haven't even told you yet," I say, genuinely bewildered.

Rick just grins. "Didn't need to."

We stare at each other. Then Kat throws her hands in the air. "Is he a witch?!"

"I think he's just very emotionally attuned," Sam deadpans.

We pour. We toast.

"To good news we don't even fully understand yet," Elly says, raising her glass.

"To freaky restaurant warlocks," Kat adds.

And then I say it.

"I got the promotion."

Four shrieks, nearly identical in pitch.

Kat grabs both my hands across the table like I just announced my Nobel Prize. "You starving little daffodil. Look at you."

Sam leans over the booth. "Tell me your new title so I can put it in my phone next to 'Likes Her Coffee In Crisis Mode.'"

"And," I say, grinning now, "I might get a four-day week."

Another scream. The champagne bottle nearly tips.

Rick walks by, drops hash browns and eggs and a suspicious number of tiny jam packets on the table like we're in mourning or celebration—he knows there's no difference.

"Okay, but how did he know?" Elly demands, pointing after Rick like she's about to report him to a very polite psychic council.

"Maybe he's following your manager on LinkedIn," Sam suggests.

Kat nods. "We should all be following Marty."

We laugh. We eat. Kat tells a story about her boyfriend panic-buying three types of oat milk because he thought she was "acting weird." Elly relays a full Tinder conversation in a BBC nature documentary voice. Sam declares she might actually quit her job and become an influencer who only reviews office chairs.

The food is warm, the table chaotic, the feeling heavy in all the right places.

Then I take a breath. A loud one. Shut my eyes and say, "I think I like August."

Silence. For a beat. Just long enough to panic. I open my eyes again, and see Kat point a finger directly at my face.

"YOU THINK?"

"I KNEW IT," Elly yells, loud enough for the next table to turn.

"You've been in love since Copenhagen," Sam adds, smug. "You just didn't have the emotional Wi-Fi to download the update."

"I literally said 'he's just a colleague,'" I mutter.

"You said it like you were lying to the drama gods," Elly fires back.

Kat wipes an invisible tear. "I would like to formally accept your apology for gaslighting all of us."

"But is it—like—is it even okay?" I ask, suddenly unsure, smaller than I expected.

Sam snorts. "If it's okay? You could fall in love with a hedge fund manager who collects vintage Beanie Babies and we'd still cheer."

"Okay, maybe not cheer," Kat adds. "But we'd support you silently and judge you together."

Laughter tumbles over the table.

I press a hand to my mouth. I'm smiling too much. It hurts in the best way.

Then Elly reaches for my hand.

"You don't need permission to fall in love," she says. "Especially not with someone who makes you glow like you've been living off espresso and hope."

Kat leans in, voice gentler now. "We saw it. Every time you talked about him. The way your face did that thing."

"What thing?"

"The one that didn't even exist before August," Sam says. "The one that says: 'I am terrified and lit up like a fucking lantern.'"

I feel it hit. All the way down.

Kat narrows her eyes. "So. You're seeing him in Barcelona, right?"

I nod.

Sam slams her hands on the table. "Good. Because you're going to fix this."

"Wait—what?"

"Fix. It." Elly repeats. "Whatever happened, whatever you said or didn't—fix it."

Kat leans in, eyes sharp. "You were brave enough to accept the fall. Be brave enough to own it."

I snort. "Bravery is just a kind word for stupidity."

"Sure," Sam says, completely unfazed. "But it's also the only thing that's ever gotten anyone anything worth having."

I stare at the rim of my glass, suddenly feeling all the screwed-up things I've done stacked like chairs in a storage room. "I've already messed it up in so many ways."

"Then go all out," Kat says, matter-of-fact. "Talk yourself into doing something stupid-good for once, balance it for all the times you raced into stupid-bad ones."

Elly grabs my hand again. "You don't get a lot of shots like this, Fred. If you don't do it now, you'll regret it every time you don't text him."

"And if it blows up?" I ask.

Sam shrugs. "Then it blows up. But you'll know. You'll know you showed up for it. With your full stupid, messy, stubborn heart."

Kat grins. "And if all else fails, you can blame us for hyping you up."

"And wear the hoodie," Elly adds. "We're emotionally invested in the hoodie."

I laugh. They laugh harder.

And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I'm okay in beige, that beige can help me in getting what I want. Not fearless—but pointed. Like I know what direction I'm walking in, even if the road is still cracked to hell.

I think about Barcelona. About him.

And I know: I've already been brave. Now it's just time to be a little stupid too.