Archive of Our Own

“Bea,” Camila calls out softly from the doorway.

Beatrice sits, unmoving, on Ava’s bed in the Warrior Nun’s room. Ava had barely even had the chance to touch the bed, but Beatrice is sure there’s a faint scent so distinctly Ava wafting from the pillow in her lap. She’s convinced she can feel a bit of Ava in the sheets. If she closes her eyes and basks in the warmth of the sunlight streaming in through the window in front of her, she can almost pretend she’s at their apartment in the Alps, and Ava is still asleep on the other half of the bed behind her.

“Bea?” Camila tries again, leaning against the doorway.

Beatrice isn’t very ready to let go of her fantasy yet. She hasn’t cried, not once, because crying means Ava is dead. But Ava isn’t dead. Ava is just gone, and she will return. But Beatrice wants to pretend that Ava isn’t gone, that Ava is right here, for just a moment more, before she has to talk to anyone else.

But this is Camila. She doesn’t believe Ava is dead either, but she’s devastated enough that Ava is simply gone, whisked away into another realm. Beatrice can’t find it in herself to keep ignoring her, and she knows Camila needs the company just as much as she does (but refuses to admit), so she turns and gives a small smile.

Camila smiles back and walks in, standing at the foot of the bed. “How are you doing?”

Beatrice thinks about lying, but it occurs to her that Camila may find solace in having someone to relate to, so she settles for a truth. “I miss her.”

It’s only a truth, because it’s not the entire truth. Beatrice doesn’t just miss Ava, and leaving it at that would be the greatest understatement of the century; Beatrice feels an intense sense of yearning and an odd mix of something that doesn’t sit right in her stomach, and as literate as she is, there are no words she knows of to describe it.

(It feels a little like she’s lost a part of herself, and now she’s hollowed out, with no way to fill the someone-shaped hole in her heart.)

Camila looks down at the bedpost and says, “I miss her too.”

“She’ll be back,” Beatrice assures, and the confidence in her voice as she glances at Camila shocks herself. “She’s allergic to dying. What’s another chance to her?”

At this, Camila grins. “You’re right. She’ll be back before we know it.” She plops down onto the bed beside Beatrice, and a comfortable silence settles between them.

A few beats later, Camila clears her throat. “Bea… Ava wanted me to give you this.” She holds out a piece of paper that’s been folded into eighths.

Beatrice accepts the proffered note, pondering its implications. “Did you always know Ava was going to sacrifice herself?” She can’t help but ask with a hint of accusation in her tone, the betrayal prodding through her carefully-trained filter.

“No,” Camila responds earnestly, and Beatrice immediately knows it’s the truth. “She just said to give you this if she doesn’t come back with us. I tried to tell her to give it to you herself. I didn’t know about her plan.”

“I see,” Beatrice says, pressing down on the tightly folded edge of the paper. “Thank you,” she adds a brief moment later.

Camila presses her lips together and nods in acknowledgement, before she stands and leaves the room.

Gently, Beatrice unfolds the piece of paper. She handles it with measured touches, treating it with the same reverence as she would Ava herself. It’s from Ava; it’s one of the limited remembrances of her, and therefore it’s precious, and it’s to be handled with care.

As she smooths out the creases on the paper from being folded for so long, she realises it’s a letter. She’d been the one to teach Ava how to write, back in Switzerland. Ever since then, Ava had developed an obsession with leaving notes for Beatrice everywhere — but never a full-blown letter like this.

She holds the pillow upright, pressed against her torso as her eyes scan the letter.

Dear Beatrice,

If you’re reading this, thanks Camila! Camila, if you’re reading this, re-read that first sentence and fold this up. I mean it Camila. Stop.

So, this is my 7th draft of this letter. I know I usually goof around, but I hope that tells you how seriously I’m taking this. Bea, if you’re reading this, then I’m probably not with you right now. I’m probably dead, I don’t know. If I’m not, you’ve probably found this letter by yourself and you’re about to come yell my ear off for writing this.

Anyway, yeah, so I was actually gonna do that all along. Sorry I didn’t tell you. But I’m not really sorry, because it was necessary, and I know you wouldn’t have let it happen if you knew. I’m sorry if that makes me selfish. (That last one was a legit sorry.) Remember when I put on the Crown of Thorns? I saw Reya. She showed me parts of the future — what my actions could lead to. And Bea, I really wouldn’t have chosen to do this if there were another way, but there wasn’t. I saw terrible things that you don’t need to hear of, but trust me when I say, little Ava is a small price to pay to prevent those things from happening.

“Shut up, Ava,” you’re going to say. I know you, Bea. I think I know you too well for someone I’ve known for less than a year. But who could blame me? You’re so guarded all the time, and when you finally let your hair down for once, it’s so addictive. The first time I made you laugh, I knew I had to do it again. When I convinced you to buy that button-up shirt, I knew I had to persuade you to get blonde highlights too. That night at the bar, when we were dancing… no, when you were dancing, because I was too busy staring at you — gayly, may I point out. How oblivious were you? Anyway, you looked so happy and carefree for once, and Bea, it made me so happy to see you happy. You were so beautiful, Bea. Bea-utiful. LOL! Is it weird to write “LOL” if it isn’t a text message? I’m going offtrack here. The point is, Bea, I realised something that night. You were so happy, and I wanted to see you happy every day. I wanted to be the one to make you happy every day.

Bea, don’t you see it? I love you. And I hope this isn’t the first time you’re hearing this (reading this?). I hope I had the courage to tell you before everything went to shit. “Language, Ava!” Actually, maybe this is too sombre for you to say that. It’s okay, I’m filling in for you. Just imagine me rolling my eyes. Anyway, I know you feel the same way. At least, I think you do. I hope I’m not that self-absorbed. Damn, this draft is getting out of hand and I think I should start another one because Bea deserves better than this and I’m rambling even in writing. But I’ll have no time left and no letter to show for it, so this will do.

I didn’t know if you’d be ready for us to act on anything. I meant what I said, Bea. What you are is beautiful. But I know you don’t really believe that, and I know it takes time, and that’s okay. I’m sorry I won’t be here to remind you of that myself. And I’m sorry I didn’t do anything about my feelings sooner, because then maybe, maybe I’m being selfish here but maybe, we’d have had more time. I’m sorry, Bea. For everything.

Have I already said “for what it’s worth”? No? Thank goodness. For what it’s worth, Bea, I’m really sorry I had to leave. I knew it would come eventually — I was living on borrowed time anyway. That’s my theme by now, isn’t it? But I’m sorry I had to leave you. And Bea, I know you’re going to start blaming yourself and thinking about the ways you could’ve prevented this, but it’s really, really not your fault. This was a decision I made by myself, for myself. And I’m sorry for being selfish, and I’m sorry that it affects you too. But it’s not your fault, Bea, and if there’s one last thing you can do for me, it’s to not blame yourself for any of this, okay?

I have so many more things to say, Bea. I loved every moment we spent in the Alps together. Even the smallest things, like you letting me sleep in for 5 minutes when I was tired, the smell of you brewing tea in the kitchenette, and the kind of twinkly sound the keys made when you came home. So many. It’s just like you said, there’s always more. I don’t think all the paper in the world would be enough for me to write down everything I love about our time together. Hell, I don’t think there are even enough words in the English language to tell you how much I love you, Bea.

I love you so much, and all I want for you is to be happy and carefree, just like that night in the bar. I did this so you can live your life. So live it, Bea. I’ll come back to you one day, in this life or the next, or any of the ones after that.

Love,

Your Ava

Clutching the note to the pillow, Beatrice finally allows herself to let out the sob building in her chest.

The same night, Beatrice makes up her mind. She can’t stay in the Order — and not because of Ava, but because of herself. She’d been led to misconstrue her own right to self-expression by equally misguided people, people she should have been able to trust to steer her onto the right path. She’d made her vows for entirely the wrong reason — not to devote herself to a higher being, but to devote herself to the pursuit of an unnecessary and impossible salvation.

(But does there even exist a right path? In the context of destiny, are “right” and “wrong” not merely arbitrary measures of suitability and likelihood? Are they not simply proof of the lack of objectivity of their proclaimers, proof of the omnipresent bias in one’s perspective?)

So she packs up. She doesn’t have much, in the way of tangible possessions. A tin can full of Ava’s post-it notes from the Alps sits among her most valued belongings. She has a few sets of civilian clothing and a stack of books to her name, but that’s all she owns. She easily fits all of these into a duffel bag, along with Ava’s beloved baseball cap.

She asks Camila to book her a ticket to the Alps.

She leaves the very next day.

When Beatrice arrives at the same little town, it’s 2am. The familiar streets ignite something in her — a slurry of distant memories fill her with warmth despite the chill of twilight.

(She just wishes Ava were skipping along beside her, chattering endlessly about the spots she’d like to revisit, the people she’d like to talk to.

But there’s nobody to fill the silence. She trudges along the road, seeming peaceful under even the most watchful eyes, but under the veil, the soundlessness is all too loud.)

She doesn’t go straight to her apartment — their apartment, that they share, she thinks — and makes for the bar instead.

As she expects for the time, the last of the patrons are trickling drunkenly out of the bar, and the interior is softly illuminated by the lamps Hans had installed behind the counter, a soft yellow glow spilling out onto the pavement in front of the bar.

(The colour and nature of the light remind her a bit too much of Ava.)

As she enters, the chime hanging on the door tinkles melodically, and Hans looks up from his seat behind the counter. At the sight, his jaw slackens, causing his mouth to hang in an ‘o’. “Beatrice?” he asks in disbelief.

“Hallo, Hans,” she greets, a soft grin winding its way onto her features.

“Beatrice!” he exclaims excitedly, not unlike how Ava would. She can see why they’d hit it off so well in their brief two-month stint here. He rushes over and scans her from head to toe, as if verifying her presence. “I saw- all the clips from television, the rumours online, and- what- how?” he stutters in rapid German.

“I’ll explain, if you want to know. I can’t guarantee you’ll believe me, but I can explain,” she responds much more calmly, and she momentarily delights in the fact that her German hadn’t grown rusty.

“Yes, of course, please sit! A drink? Your usual?” (By ‘usual’, Hans means a glass of water, because the only time he’d seen Beatrice consume alcohol was that night in the bar, when he’d been the one lining up the shots for Ava and her.)

Beatrice’s smile falters as she recalls, vividly, one of Ava’s attempts at getting her to approve of her drinks.

( “Bea! You have to try my piña colada. Hans said it’s not bad!”

In spite of herself, she smiled out of endearment. “Ava, I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t have any benchmark. Why do you need my stamp of approval?”

“But Bea,” Ava protested, pouting in a deadly, critical move. “You’ll love it. Just try it. Please?”

“Fine,” she replied, fondness sneaking into her tone. Ava pumped her fist in victory as Beatrice lifted the glass to her lips. Ava was right — the tang of pineapple and the milkiness of the coconut cream sat pleasantly on her tongue. )

She averts her gaze, drawing her attention to the crevices along the well-worn surface of the countertop. “I’ll have a piña colada,” she says, so softly that she’s only heard because of Hans’s proximity and the emptiness of the closed bar.

“Coming right up,” he says, swiftly pulling glasses and bottles from the shelf in a routine sequence of movements. It’s mesmerising, how trained and experienced he is, and the flurry of motion looks almost like a dance. She wonders if that same fluidity is present in her punches and kicks and slices.

“Beatrice,” Hans pipes up as he slides two glasses of piña colada over the counter. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but… where’s Ava?” He knows that given a choice, Beatrice would never be here — or anywhere, for that matter — without Ava by her side.

Beatrice props her chin up on her hand, elbow pressing on the countertop. “She’s… away,” she responds wistfully. “On a trip, of sorts. Indefinitely. But she’ll be back.”

And now Hans understands the significance of her choice of drink. Beatrice hadn’t wanted the tangy sweetness of the alcoholic beverage sitting in front of her; she’d craved the taste of a moment — a memory of someone dear.

“I see,” Hans says, aware that there’s more she isn’t up for sharing. “Well… would you like to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

Beatrice is grateful for the change in subject, and she’d grab at any chance to think of anything other than the prospect swirling in her mind, the thought that Ava might be lost to her forever. “We left because it would have been dangerous to stay.”

Hans nods along as she tells their story, and they sit there, revelling in each other’s company and sipping the skillfully concocted piña coladas into dawn.

When they’re done, Hans walks her to her apartment. The apartment, which she will always share with Ava, even in spirit. Hans tells her he believes her. She laughs, because it must all sound so ridiculous, but he affirms her in her insanity anyway. But she doesn’t know that Hans does believe her, and indeed realises she’s much more than he’d been aware of.

He also believes Ava will come back to her. He knows Beatrice will wait for Ava, and he wants her to wait here, where he can wait with her. So just before he sets off back down the hallway, he offers kindly, “You could always come back to work at the bar. We’re still hiring, and I’d be glad for someone other than me to do the manager’s job. What with the calculations and all.”

Beatrice simply nods, a smile ghosting her lips, but not quite solidifying. “I think I’d like that,” she replies thoughtfully. “See you tomorrow, Hans.”

“See you.” They exchange knowing glances before Beatrice shuts the door, full of temporary relief and whittling promises, because Beatrice is lost without her hyperactive anchor. She has no plans, and they both know it.

It takes nearly no time at all for Beatrice’s manager application to be approved, despite her abrupt disappearance. It helps that she’d nearly doubled profit in the short time she’d been manager previously, and that she’s — for lack of a more apt word — inhumanely capable, equipped with a slew of skills that one would have thought impossible to fit into the short twenty-four years she’s lived.

She settles right back into the job like a home. Like a home, in the sense that it’s familiar, in the sense that it’s comforting, in the sense of everything that a home has, but not what makes a home. Because what makes a home is something unique, and home to Beatrice is something only one person could ever hold the key to, because she is Beatrice’s home.

Beatrice does her job, and she does it perfectly. The bar’s operations are the smoothest they’ve been since the last time she’d been here. They’ve become a tourist hotspot once more — how Beatrice does it, Hans will never know.

They spend their breaks together. They have their lunches together. The only days they don’t share the same shift, Hans works the morning shift and Beatrice the afternoon, and those are the days when Hans cooks a hearty stew and brings it to the apartment for dinner.

Hans, Beatrice thinks, is her best friend. She can have two, and it’s not a betrayal. He fills a little of the emptiness within her with warmth from his hearth of friendship. Hans, with his bright smiles, his prided-on moustache, and his loud, boisterous demeanour, gingerly and unknowingly scoops up the remnants of Beatrice’s shattered heart, and begins to mend it, sealing the pieces back together one at a time.

But Hans is Hans, no matter how much he reminds her of Ava. Hans is not Ava, and Hans cannot fix a jigsaw that’s missing a piece.

Every day that passes is another day without Ava, and it grows increasingly painful to stay in the Alps, a place where the ghost of Ava follows her incessantly, where her essence lingers in the form of a futon with a broken spring, a bed once shared, and everything Ava had touched or even simply laid her eyes upon.

She can’t stay, and she says the same to Hans. He’s known, deep down, that Beatrice wouldn’t stay — not because she wouldn’t want to, but because she wouldn’t be able to. He understands, but it saddens him nonetheless.

He helps her decide on Paris. She borrows his laptop and books her ticket. Before she leaves, at the train station, Hans pulls her into a bear hug, which she gladly returns. He presses a gift into her hand — a smartphone, and a slip of paper with his number on it.

“I cannot believe you’ve gone this long without a phone,” he huffs, holding back his tears. They must wait, he thinks. “Promise me you’ll text me.”

She doesn’t promise, because she’s been moved to the verge of tears, and she’s having a surreal rush of emotions from venturing into the unknown once more, which makes it significantly harder to focus and think her responses through. But “ live a little, Bea, ” Ava had once teased, and Beatrice thinks that maybe, a thought-through response might not do justice to its most authentic, unsifted version anyway.

“Danke sehr, Hans,” she replies, and the pure, genuine gratitude in her cracking voice compels Hans to pull her in for another hug. They hold each other while they cry — Beatrice crying for fear and love and premature yearning for something that will soon become a ‘once was’, Hans crying for something gained, lost, gained back then lost once again.

Reluctantly, they pull apart. Beatrice gathers her belongings and turns to leave, but not before waving farewell to her best friend.

Beatrice sets up her phone on the way to Paris. It’s been years since she’s used one, but it’s simple enough — within minutes, she’s sending off a text to Hans.

13:48 [Beatrice]: Hi! I’ve got it all figured out.

13:49 [Beatrice]: I think.

Hans replies almost immediately. She would’ve been surprised, if she hadn’t already known that he would most definitely have been staring at his phone, waiting for her text.

13:49 [hansup]: u’re a genius and it’s just a phone

13:49 [hansup]: u better update me every day.

13:50 [Beatrice]: Yes. I will.

13:50 [hansup]: girl stop with the autocaps and full stops pls u text like my grandma

Beatrice barely restrains herself from snickering, exhaling sharply from her nostrils instead.

She doesn’t know what awaits her, but at least she’s got someone here with her in spirit.

A few days later, she’s already landed a job as a translator at a museum. She’s currently staying in a one-bedroom rental apartment. Her landlord is nice enough, and the place is spacious for her, considering that it’s already slightly bigger than the apartment in the Alps. This place has a double bed too, which stings a little, but she’s not arguing against the relatively dirt cheap rental fee.

With her job, she’ll soon be able to buy her own place, a bigger and more well-furnished one at that, but she decides that she doesn’t need it.

She thinks no amount of furniture will fill the hollowness inside.

She purchases a laptop for her job using the last of the money Camila had given her before her departure from the Order. It doesn’t matter — she’ll be more than able to survive on her whopping salary. She remembers the email Camila had set up for her, and logs in to find an email already sitting in her inbox.

HOLAAA!!!

from: <[email protected]>

to: <[email protected]>

dear beatrice,

i see you have a laptop now!! sorry for the email address, by the way. i did ask ava what to name it a long time ago, and i think her suggestion would have been more embarrassing. anyway, please video call me on google meet. i’ll give you my phone number and then we can text!!!

best regards,

camila

Beatrice smiles at the month-old email. It’s heartening to know that her sisters will always be looking out for her, regardless of whether she’s still among their ranks. She spends some time exploring the Google applications, before sending a Meet link to Camila.

To her surprise, Camila enters the virtual meeting within 10 minutes, and Beatrice switches tabs to look at her. Camila is waving enthusiastically, like she hasn’t seen Beatrice in years. “Beatrice!” she practically yells, and Beatrice startles, turning down the volume immediately.

“Hello, Camila.” Beatrice smiles, affection brimming in her chest.

Once Camila is sure that Beatrice can hear her, she starts firing off rapid Spanish. Through the patchy reception and the muffled sound quality, all Beatrice can really catch is “ te echo de menos” and that’s enough for her smile to stretch into a beam, because she’s missed Camila too, and it’s a relief to see a familiar face.

“Camila, I can barely hear you,” Beatrice interrupts, chuckling.

“Ay, lo siento,” Camila apologises, propping her head up on her hands. Her palms press her cheeks upwards, and Beatrice finds it absolutely adorable. “I miss you!”

“I miss you too, Camila. All of you.”

Camila grins. She’d fully expected the response, but it’s heartwarming to hear nonetheless. “Where are you now? Your apartment looks different. And what are you doing now? Have you visited anywhere new? Tell me everything!”

Beatrice smiles so much that by the end of their conversation, her face muscles are sore. Before Camila logs off to train the new recruits, they exchange numbers, and Camila immediately sends her a message.

16:48 [camila<3]: hi!!! <33

16:49 [Beatrice]: Hello (:

16:49 [camila<3]: bea ily but it’s “:)”, not “(:”

16:49 [camila<3]: “(:” is creepy!

16:49 [camila<3]: gtg ttyl <3

Beatrice lets out an indignant huff. Why is everyone picking on her texting etiquette?

Over the next few weeks, Camila and Hans text her daily, without fail.

She mostly leaves them on read.

She has a video call with each of them at least once a week, just so they both know she’s still alive.

She keeps up her stoic façade, and makes sure that she looks to be faring well.

It’s all a bit of a lie.

She is doing well, materialistically speaking — she’s already earned a promotion, which means even more money, more than she knows what to do with. She’d encounter no problem at all should she wish to indulge in a meal at a fancy restaurant, or an aged bottle of wine straight from a French vineyard.

But she doesn’t grant herself such luxuries, because to her, money is better spent on experiences. And what kind of experience would it be, if she were to go through it without anyone, without someone by her side?

She’d thought she’d be able to escape the prison that is her mind if she got away from the Alps. But just like its master, Ava’s shadow doesn’t stay put.

It follows Beatrice, wherever she goes.

( Beatrice walks into a coffee shop. She peruses the selection of caffeinated drinks, examining the variety of flavoured syrups and toppings.

And she thinks Ava, ever excitable, would love to try them all. )

She sees Ava in everything, anywhere and everywhere.

( Beatrice walks down the street on the way back to the apartment she’s staying in. Not her apartment, she thinks, and most definitely not her home. Just the place she works from and sleeps in.

She can’t help but feel the phantom of Ava’s palm, lingering on her fingertips as they walked down the street in front of their apartment in the Alps.

She tries to reconcile the memory imprinted in her skin with the stark lack of warmth, and the dichotomy confounds her. )

She’s spent years and years hiding from her truth, and now reminders haunt her at every corner.

A kiss she’d shared with a girl in her bedroom was her first downfall. She’d been cast aside and sent away. But it was also the foundation upon which she’d built the staunch fortifications around her being.

How ironic it must be, then, that a kiss she shared with a woman would be their undoing.

She keeps up the act. She is indomitable; she is unassuming. To everyone, she’s living the life in the City of Love.

To everyone else; everyone but herself.

She deals well enough with the reflexive need to relate everything to Ava, until the evening when she passes by a small new store on the corner. It’s a gelato shop, she discovers.

There’s a magnetic pull, a thread of some invisible force. Her feet bring her towards it seemingly of their own volition, and suddenly, her arm is pushing the door open, and her ears register the unostentatious “ding!” of the bell resting against the wood.

Her eyes are greeted with five pozzettis, each with a label explaining the flavour beneath the lid.

This time, she’s assaulted by another memory.

( “Bea, look!” Ava gasps, tugging at Beatrice’s hand. “Gelato!”

Ava is small, and in the comically oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing which definitely belongs not to her but to Beatrice, she’s dwarfed further. But despite the lopsidedness of the clothing hanging from her shoulders and the overextending sleeves swallowing her entire arms, Beatrice thinks it looks better on Ava. Beatrice thinks Ava would look endearing in anything.

The humongous sweatshirt and the bucket hat can’t hide the wondrous twinkle in her eyes, as she grins at Beatrice with pure, childlike joy.

“Can we get gelato?” Ava asks with such hope that Beatrice has to fight the urge to beam in affection and say “of course” without a modicum of deliberation.

Instead, Beatrice points out, “Ava, it’s a little cold today.” Beatrice realises it’s a futile protest — with the Halo in her back, Ava is practically a sentient space heater. The extra layers are simply for show, a deterrence against raised eyebrows and unnecessary questions.

Unexpectedly, Ava’s eyes widen in realisation. “Holy shit, I forgot! I’m so sorry,” she apologises hurriedly, moving to take off the sweatshirt. “Are you cold? Do you want the–”

“Ava, I’m alright,” Beatrice reassures, gently pulling down the hem of the sweatshirt. Ava is still staring at her, brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you sure? You’re not cold?” Ava asks, turning to take both of Beatrice’s hands in hers.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Beatrice confirms, fondness sneaking its way into her voice. “You can get gelato for yourself if you want.”

At this, Ava perks up. “Hell yeah!” she whoops, pulling Beatrice in the direction of the store. Beatrice allows herself to be dragged along, because she’d give just about anything to see the ethereal glow of a delighted and content Ava.

“Gelato gelato gelato… hey, that sounds like ‘helado’!” Ava exclaims, thrilled by this revelation. “Are Italian and Spanish similar? They sound similar, right? I bet you know Italian. Bea, will you teach me Italian someday?” )

Before the man in the kitchen makes it to the counter to greet her, Beatrice is out of the store. She stares straight ahead as her legs carry her to her apartment. She keeps her jaw clenched the whole way, because she knows it would be trembling otherwise.

The moment the door latches behind her, she collapses onto the floor, folding in on herself. Her sobs wrack her frame, the catharsis from an incurable longing for what once was.

(That night, two people text her. That night, she doesn’t open their messages.)

At some point in the middle of the night, Beatrice awakes and realises she’d cried herself to sleep on the floor. Her back will hate her for this, but that’s a problem to be tackled in the future. Pathetic, she thinks, as she pushes herself off the floor.

Her eyes are raw and she feels disgusting, but she has neither the energy nor the willpower to take a shower. She lets herself fall onto the bed and shuts her eyes. But sleep doesn’t return, because the bed is much too big.

(It’s the perfect size — the true issue with it is that it’s empty and cold.

It’s just missing another body.)

She sniffles and a strained whimper escapes her mouth as she tries to restrain the tears. She gets off the bed and shuffles towards the couch.

Her back will hate her for this. But this is not a pressing concern, haplessly overshadowed by the hollowness of the apartment, of her. Her loneliness is a black hole, eating away at her from the inside.

She allows a few tears to slip past her eyelids as she lies down on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest.

When Beatrice wakes up in the morning, it’s already nearing noon. It’s the longest she’s slept in years, and yet, she feels the exhaustion deep in her bones, weighing her down. The urge to cry arises again and tears resurface in her eyes before she reins them in, taking big, gulping, greedy breaths. She exhales shakily, listening to the sounds of revving car engines from the road near her apartment.

She thinks it’s unfair, the way she’d been filled with a deep, clawing darkness in the dead of night, only to be surrounded by the light and liveliness of the Parisian bustle. She thinks it’s unfair that she’s had her floorboards ripped right out from under her feet over and over. She thinks it’s unfair that despite the silent, all-consuming numbness that mutes her senses now, time isn’t kind or generous enough to pause.

A sense of despair overcomes her, because time waits for no one and she has an obligation to move along and catch up, but all she wants is for everything to just fucking stop.

She doesn’t realise she’s crying again until she’s shaking so hard that her shoulder bumps against the armrest of the couch.

She doesn’t stop herself this time. She allows herself to mourn — mourn the childhood she’d lost to the weight of expectations on her much too young shoulders, mourn the adolescence she’d lost to the prioritisation of appearances over her, mourn the guilty love she’d finally allowed herself to indulge in that she’d lost to a brave, noble girl’s self-sacrificial tendencies.

She sits up and hugs her knees to her chest, rocking gently back and forth in a self-soothe she hasn’t used in years.

When she manages to find it in herself to get off the couch, she drags herself to her phone, haphazardly thrown onto the floor near the door in the aftermath of her breakdown the previous night. She tucks herself into the tiny space between the foot of the couch and the coffee table as she unlocks her phone. Unsurprisingly, she finds upwards of 10 messages from Camila.

20:32 [camila<3]: how was ur day!! <3

22:14 [camila<3]: bea? r u there?

22:14 [camila<3]: ik u aren’t asleep yet. tmr is ur off day

23:32 [camila<3]: bea!!

23:32 [camila<3]: hello??

23:32 [camila<3]: u haven’t been online since last nite

23:33 [camila<3]: pls reply me

23:32 [camila<3]: r u ok??

23:33 [camila<3]: hellooooo

23:34 [camila<3]: bea i’m worried pls reply me like actually

23:36 [camila<3]: ok i will assume that u went to sleep

23:36 [camila<3]: but ik u wake up at 6am so i will need a reply by 7am

07:00 [camila<3]: BEA?????

07:00 [camila<3]: I WILL SEND A SEARCH PARTY! I’M VERY SERIOUS!!!

Beatrice sniffles and rubs the knuckles of her left hand over the corner of her eye as she types out a reply.

12:13 [Beatrice]: Camila, I’m fine. I just decided to get off the phone.

12:13 [camila<3]: u scared me!! pls nvr do that again

Beatrice sighs, closing the chat and opening the one with Hans, where a similar slew of messages awaits her. She responds to him in the same way she did to Camila.

12:16 [hansup]: took u long enough

12:16 [hansup]: thought u disappeared again

She leaves him on read too.

She’s about to power off the device and resume her brooding when a notification comes from Camila.

12:18 [camila<3]: oh btw… u should check ur email :P

Lips thinly set in a frown, Beatrice pulls the laptop on the coffee table onto her lap and opens her inbox.

please don’t be mad

from: <[email protected]>

to: <[email protected]>

dear beatrice,

i could not send this to you over text because i do not trust whatsapp to be fully encrypted. not that google is much safer, but it gives me a false sense of security.

anyway, i may or may not have found a way into your workplace’s administrative system, and you haven’t applied for leave yet?? that’s just unacceptable, and on impulse, i may or may not have applied, on your behalf, to take the rest of the year off.

it’s not even that long, christmas is in 2 days! take a break, beatrice. please. it’s what ava would have wanted.

with a forearm touch because you “dislike hugs”,

camila

Beatrice’s eyes widen as she scans the email repeatedly in incredulity. She’d thrown herself into her work — it was fascinating enough for her to get lost in it, and it proved an excellent distraction from the memories that plagued her and had her running away from a gelato shop.

What is she going to do with so many days’ worth of free time?

And two days to Christmas? Since when?

Reeling, she texts Camila.

12:34 [Beatrice]: You hacked my leave application system?

12:35 [camila<3]: …maybe?

12:36 [Beatrice]: Camila, what would I possibly do with all this free time?

And it hits Beatrice that all she’d wanted just half an hour ago was for time to pause for her. So why is she so upset to have a few days off?

(Without work to fill her days, she knows the empty space beside her will be all the more glaring.)

12:36 [camila<3]: go sightseeing! eat nice food! take some photos! video call me!

12:37 [camila<3]: literally anything, bea

Another notification beckons her attention, and this time, it’s a message from her boss. Her heart skips a beat as she taps it, only to be greeted with:

Beatrice, I see that you’ve taken the rest of the year off. While I must admit that this is quite unexpected, it is also an extremely well-deserved break. Happy holidays, and see you next year!

She thinks it may be rude to leave her boss on read, so she replies with a Thank you, you too! and leaves it at that.

Finally, she shuts down her phone without further disruptions and contemplates her situation. Her conclusion is extremely out of character for her — she decides that she will think about it the next day. Now, her eyes are tired and sore, her head hurts from crying, and she feels nothing but the numbness that’s swallowed her whole.

So she trudges to the bathroom, brushes her teeth; trudges to the bedroom, brings a blanket out; trudges to the kitchen, fills a glass with water and takes a few sips; trudges back to the couch, buries herself under the blanket, closes her eyes, and stays there the whole day.

Beatrice gets up once, when the clock strikes eight, to grab her phone and reply Camila and Hans, preventing a repeat of that morning’s incident.

On Christmas Eve, Beatrice wakes up to “Merry Christmas Eve!” texts from the two people who message her daily to make sure she hasn’t rotten to a lonely death in a ditch. Briefly, it crosses her mind that it might be rude to leave them on read, but she decides that she doesn’t have the willpower to be polite at the moment.

She sits up sluggishly and everything aches, and she remembers that she hasn’t eaten anything since before yesterday. She considers leaving food as a concern for tomorrow, but realises that tomorrow is Christmas Day, and almost nothing will be open. So she brushes her teeth and puts on a few layers, and with a grumble, she sets off towards a café on the corner.

She orders a panini and skips the coffee, not wanting the caffeine to detract her from her plans to sleep through the rest of the day. She sits alone and indulges herself in spacing out. She’s done so many things unlike herself in the past few days, and what’s another addition to the list?

A kindly old lady approaches her with a disarming smile, pulling her wandering mind back to reality. “Is this seat taken?”

Beatrice shakes her head, reluctantly returning the smile as the lady sits opposite her at the same table.

“Are you excited for Christmas, young lady?”

No, Beatrice thinks. Not at all. But she plasters a grin on her face, and desperately hopes it reaches her eyes. “Of course.”

She’s a shockingly capable liar despite the fact that nuns aren’t supposed to lie and she had been one until recent times — but then again, she’d been deceiving herself for years.

“That’s good!” the lady replies, nodding as she leans forward. “It’s a good time to reconnect. Family should be together.”

Before Beatrice has a chance to respond, her order’s being called. “Well… that’s my order,” she says, gesturing towards the collection counter as she stands.

“Happy holidays, young lady.”

“You too.”

She claims her panini in a takeaway box and leaves.

It’s a good time to reconnect.

She thinks about the people back in London whom she hasn’t spoken to since the day she was sent off to Catholic boarding school. There’s just about no hope there.

Family should be together.

She thinks about Yasmine, who will probably return home for Christmas. She thinks about Camila, who will probably propose a Christmas movie marathon for the sisters staying at the Cat’s Cradle for the holiday.

She thinks about Mary and Lilith, and her smile falters.

She thinks about Ava, and her features still entirely, a tear making its way down her cheek.

She keeps her head down as she makes the rest of the way back to her apartment.

When Beatrice gets home, she gets through the panini in nibbles. She isn’t that hungry, despite going without food for over a day. Once she’s done with it, she stares into space for close to half an hour, until she musters the energy to dispose of the takeaway packaging. She brushes her teeth, takes a few sips of water, lays herself down on her couch under her blanket, and closes her eyes.

She doesn’t get up to reply anyone today. It’s not worth the effort, she decides.

Beatrice wakes up to a “Merry Christmas!” from Hans, which she wants to leave on read, but she discovers that she can react to messages with an emoji, so she reacts with a thumbs up and hopes it comes off as slightly less unfeeling.

She then opens Camila’s chat, the fourth message onwards from which she is, annoyingly, unable to view from her notifications.

00:00 [camila<3]: merry christmas bea!

00:00 [camila<3]: ik it isn’t ur favourite holiday

00:00 [camila<3]: and that’s ok

00:01 [camila<3]: just take care of urself today ok?

00:01 [camila<3]: stay hydrated and make sure u eat!!!

00:02 [camila<3]: also if u want to join our movie nite later i can send u a gmeet link <3

Beatrice thinks about taking Camila up on the offer. She knows Camila would try her best not to allow Beatrice to feel left out, but Beatrice doesn’t see how that would be possible given that she’d be the only one not there in person. Besides, she figures she’d be a dampener on their festive spirit, and just because she doesn’t enjoy the holiday doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.

So she settles on:

08:05 [Beatrice]: I will take care of myself. Thank you, Camila. I will not partake in movie night. Have a happy Christmas.

08:06 [camila<3]: aww ok! i will check in on u later <33

Beatrice contemplates getting up, but remembers she has nothing to do for the rest of the day. She wants to avoid sitting alone with her thoughts for as long as possible, so she goes straight back to sleep.

When Beatrice wakes up again, it’s nearing two in the afternoon, and she has a new message from Camila.

10:39 [camila<3]: have u eaten breakfast?

11:24 [camila<3]: i can’t tell if u read my text from ur notifs and ignored me

11:24 [camila<3]: u don’t have to reply me if u don’t want to! but go eat something

She sighs and drags herself to the kitchen. She can’t cook to save her life, so all she has are fresh fruits. She slices an avocado and forces it down her throat along with half a glass of water. She’s thankful for Camila’s incessant reminders, because this is difficult enough as it is and if left to her own devices, she would probably have stayed on the couch without so much as a sip of water.

She pulls out her phone and replies, just so Camila would maybe stop worrying about her and enjoy the festivities.

14:13 [Beatrice]: I slept through the morning. I just ate.

14:14 [Beatrice]: You can stop fretting over me. I will be fine for one day, I promise.

She cleans the plate and turns on the radio, looking for a station that isn’t playing Christmas music. When she can’t find a single one, she settles on the quietest one, classical and bare of vocals.

As she sits on the couch, she pulls up the keypad on her phone, wondering if she should call her parents.

It’s a good time to reconnect.

Her thumb hovers over the screen for three whole minutes, before she shakes her head and puts her phone down on the coffee table.

She burrows into the blanket and closes her eyes.

The following days pass in a similar fashion. Beatrice is on leave, Beatrice does not have a purpose, and all Beatrice knows is routine. So every day, she wakes up, replies (or, more often, ignores) texts from the two people who bother with her, goes back to sleep, wakes up, eats something and drinks some water, and goes back to sleep. Surely, her fluid and nutritional intakes are wildly insufficient, but she doesn’t have the strength to do more than the bare minimum to keep herself alive.

The first disruption to her new routine comes on the day before New Year’s Eve, when Camila voice calls her. Beatrice knows better than to decline the call and face Camila’s wrath in the form of spam messages, so she picks it up with a heavy sigh.

“Camila, could you not have texted me?”

“ No, I could not have texted you, Beatrice.”

“What is this regarding?”

“‘What is this regarding’?” Camila parrots, outraged. “Beatrice, have you even left your apartment?”

“I have– whether or not I– I do not see how this–” Beatrice sputters, before the puzzle pieces click into place. “Camila, did you hack my phone?”

“Obviously!” Camila responds, in a tone befitting an explanation to a child, but not so much a confession to an illegal act. “It wasn’t that hard. I have your– that isn’t the point! I knew you were being suspicious. Have you even bought any food? I know you can’t cook, so how have you been feeding yourself? Have you even eaten anything? How are you even–”

“Camila, please slow down,” Beatrice interrupts as she feels the beginning of a headache pinching at her brow.

“Okay,” Camila huffs. “I can be calm.”

A distant memory resurfaces, bringing the briefest yet most endearing of smiles to Beatrice’s face.

“Okay, one thing at a time,” Camila declares, and Beatrice can almost picture Camila standing before her, chin tilted upwards in an attempt at a show of defiance. “Have you drunk any water today?”

Beatrice gets up as silently as possible, hurrying to pour herself a glass of water. She’s stayed silent for far too long in the face of a simple yes or no question, however, because Camila hears the truth in the lack of response. “Beatrice, drink. Now.”

“I am.”

“Good. And I will assume you have not eaten anything either. Which brings me to this question: did you eat anything yesterday?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And the day before yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And the day before that?”

“Yes, Camila,” Beatrice says, exasperated. “I have not gone a day without eating since before Christmas.”

She realises her mistake, a subtle, unintentional confession that Camila will most definitely pick up on. “So you have gone a day without eating before Christmas? Beatrice!”

Beatrice winces and decreases the volume. “I may have,” she admits softly.

Camila sighs audibly over the line. “Okay, we will come back to that.”

“We will not.”

“I assume you bring your phone along with you when you go out. According to your phone’s location, you have not left your apartment for five days. And you have not visited any food delivery sites. What have you been eating if you haven’t gone out?”

Beatrice takes a deep breath, bracing herself for Camila’s inevitable onslaught. “I have fruit in my refrigerator. I have been eating fruit.”

“First of all, Beatrice, cannibalism. Second of all, I am astonished that you are still standing.” A brief pause, followed by a palpably anxious “wait, are you standing? Can you stand? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am fine.”

“You are not fine, Beatrice. You are the opposite of that.”

Beatrice sets her jaw and leans heavily on the counter as vertigo overcomes her. Perhaps Camila has a point. In spite of this, she grumbles in response. “I am perfectly well and managing just fine.”

“Beatrice.”

“Camila.”

Camila exhales audibly, and Beatrice knows that Camila is going to change her approach.

“Bea, I know you won’t admit it,” Camila begins, and her tone is nothing but kind. Beatrice is astounded by Camila’s infinite patience, considering how insufferable Beatrice has probably been. But then again, this is Camila — the closest thing to an angel on Earth, besides the Halo-Bearer.

“There is nothing to admit.” Beatrice is stubborn, and she’s painfully aware of it, but she can’t restrain the part of herself that still thinks she doesn’t deserve Camila’s concern, and wants to push her away and block her out.

“It’s okay not to be okay. And you don’t have to keep things to yourself. I cannot promise that I will understand, but I will be here to listen if you want to talk to someone.”

Beatrice remains silent. She hopes Camila will forget she exists and hang up.

“You can talk to me when you’re ready. In the meantime, I am begging you to get food.”

“I do have food.”

“A proper meal, Bea. A proper meal.”

“Fine.”

“And don’t forget, I can track your location and order history. Do not lie to me.”

“Duly noted.”

“And go out tomorrow. I promise it will be good for you. Go relax on New Year’s Eve! Go sightseeing!”

“Alright.”

“And I want photos as proof.”

Beatrice does not reply before she promptly hangs up. She pulls up a food delivery site, and orders the same panini from the same café.

Beatrice mulls over Camila’s advice. She’d thought it’d be pointless to go sightseeing without Ava by her side. But what if she documented her experiences? At this point, she thinks, she’d grab any chance to feel closer to Ava.

That evening, she makes a trip to the bookstore and turns it into a run. She doesn’t know why she hasn’t done this sooner — focussing on putting one leg ahead of the other, the slight jolt of her feet pounding on the pavement, the cool air whipping past her. It clears her mind, and by the time she reaches the bookstore, she feels like a considerable amount of weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

She buys an empty notebook, and runs back to her apartment.

Before she turns in for the night, she does the unimaginable — she initiates a text conversation with Camila.

22:57 [Beatrice]: Thank you for the advice, Camila.

22:57 [Beatrice]: I will go sightseeing tomorrow.

22:58 [Beatrice]: And I will take photos, provided that I figure out how to use the camera application.

Beatrice’s first stop for the day is Le Marais. She walks around aimlessly, and tries to absorb the details of the shops and architecture instead of instinctively mapping the entire place out. She listens to the ceaseless chatter surrounding her as she roams. She wonders if this is the world as Ava sees it — full of curiosities waiting to be discovered, if only she would let go for a moment.

She gets brunch at a small, quiet restaurant. As she scans the menu, she briefly wonders if she’s sick of fruit, but decides that she could never be sick of avocado and orders avocado toast. After her place is cleared, she fishes out her notebook and a pen, and begins writing.

Dear Ava,

It’s New Year’s Eve. Camila has been pestering me to stop holing up in my apartment and go sightseeing, so here I am, at Le Marais.

I walked around for a while. I didn’t have anywhere particular in mind. At first, I thought you might find that boring, but it occurred to me that you always find ways to entertain — both yourself and others. There wasn’t ever a dull day with you, and honestly, not having you here with me has felt extremely strange. I still expect to hear your voice every time I see something remotely fascinating, because I know you’d love to point it out.

Le Marais has an old-world charm to it. I feel quite at peace here, despite the bustle. Did you know that this place hosts one of Paris’s main Jewish communities, and is a centre of LGBT culture? I think you would know that, actually. You were always more intelligent and knowledgeable than you let on.

I think you would love it here. I’d love to visit this place again, with you by my side.

I miss you, Ava.

Love,

Your Bea

Beatrice smiles fondly as she puts the notebook and pen back in her backpack. She leaves a tip and leaves the restaurant.

Before she leaves Le Marais, she takes a photo of the restaurant from across the street.

Beatrice’s next destination is the Louvre Museum. She’d known it was huge, but to experience it for herself was surreal. She doesn’t consider herself an ardent connoisseur of art, but given her upbringing, she knows more than the average person. Besides, she thinks, art can be interpreted and appreciated by anyone.

She takes her time — because “live a little, Bea,” Ava had once teased — and marvels at the masterpieces she’d only ever seen photographs of. Before she knows it, she’s spent upwards of three hours there. She exits the museum reluctantly, because she’s already overrun on her itinerary and she has to visit all the places she’d planned for the day, for her own sanity. She can’t uproot all her organisational habits in a single day, she finds.

She finds a seat, and begins another letter in her notebook.

Dear Ava,

I’m at the Louvre. I went in, and suddenly, three hours have come and gone. It truly is a marvellous place.

I’d never been very passionate about art. I was always more invested in martial arts and sports, much to my parents’ chagrin. But come to think of it, perhaps my distaste for art stemmed from it being forced upon me. Because there’s such a wide range of terminology and techniques that I’ll never master in a single lifetime, but at its core, art is beautiful, and it’s meant to be seen and felt. I don’t need terminology to feel, and that’s what I did today — let go and simply feel. I think that’s something you got down much earlier than me.

I’m not going to try to sound quirky or special by saying that Mona Lisa is overrated. But I will say, it wasn’t the highlight of my trip here. In fact, I couldn’t name you a piece that was my favourite. They were all spectacular, in their own way.

I think I like the Louvre more than el Museo del Prado. But maybe that’s because I don’t have a mission to worry about today.

I loved the Louvre, and there’s so much of it left to explore. I think I’d love it even more with you. I’ll come back here someday, and it will be with you, if you’d like that.

Love,

Your Bea

She takes a customary photo of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel before leaving.

Beatrice arrives at the Seine, just in time to witness the sunset. Despite the crowd, she somehow manages to find a relatively quiet spot on the gilded bridge. The sky is a mix of blue, red and orange hues, and the fading sunlight reflects off the water, accentuating the shadows of the buildings crowding the banks. It’s breathtaking, and she whips out her phone to snap a quick photo for Camila. She then immediately tucks her phone back into her pocket, wanting to be present in the moment.

Despite it being winter, she doesn’t feel very cold as a constant breeze caresses her face. She thinks of Ava, and how she would probably shrug off all her winter clothing without a care in the world, and try to capture as much of the feeling of the wind on her bare skin as possible.

She admires the view for a while more, before writing another letter, right there on the bridge.

Dear Ava,

I’m at the Seine. The sunset is gorgeous from here. I’d show you a photo, but I’d much rather bring you here to see it in person.

Writing these letters feels cathartic. It feels like I’m talking to you. I can almost hear you and see you everywhere I go. I’m not sure if I truly do know you that well, or if I miss you so much that it’s pure delirium. Whichever the case, I hope you had a pleasant day, just as I did.

I never did understand your desire to go sightseeing in Madrid. I was too focussed on the mission, and frankly, it seemed to me a frivolous and childish desire. But I think I understand now — the world is a wondrous place, and there’s so much it has to offer. I’ve been too short-sighted to see that, but Ava, you always have. It’s admirable, the way you remembered that despite the literal weight of the world between your shoulder blades.

Ava, I cannot keep this to myself any longer. I miss you so much I can’t even put it into words. You’ve carved a space for yourself in my life, imprinted yourself in my skin with every touch, every handhold, every hug, every kiss on the cheek. I miss the way you clung to me in your sleep. I miss the way you would hug my arm and say, “Nobody wakes up this early.” I miss the way you hugged me from behind while I brewed tea for me, and coffee for you. I miss the way you sat up and made space for me on the couch every time I came home after work, even though I never sat with you until I got through my post-work routine. I miss the way you would tell me to “chill” and that “nobody has a ‘post-work routine’”, even if I acted annoyed at the time.

Ava, I love you, and I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. It felt too much like a goodbye. Please come back to me, Ava. I know it’s likely not up to you, but I still hope.

Love,

Your Bea

A tear rolls down her cheek and falls on the page, staining the word “hope”. She gently swipes at the tear tracks and puts the notebook and pen away, staring at the waterway like it might hold the key to the gateway between Ava and her.

Beatrice gets a quick dinner of French onion soup at a bistro. As night falls, she finds herself in front of the Eiffel Tower in all its latticed glory. It’s pretty, and it’s the essential monument to visit for tourists, but she doesn’t have much else to say about it. She thinks it’s a representation of the glorified Parisian lifestyle. Once upon a time, she might’ve scoffed at the idea, what with her cynical take on the world, but now, she thinks, is it very necessary to think about it so deeply?

She thinks Ava would just find it pretty, and leave it at that.

The soft yellow lighting from the rest of the buildings makes the metal structure glint, and it’s almost golden-brown. Beatrice tries taking a selfie. What she ends up with is a partly out-of-frame Eiffel Tower and an unflattering angle, but she figures it’s a decent first attempt. She takes another photo, and from where she stands, the Eiffel Tower is magnificent in its height and grandeur.

She’s about to take out the notebook and pen for another letter, when the air goes still around her. The bustle and chatter gradually cease, and the world seems to stop moving.

A blue flash appears behind her, so large and bright it paints the ground neon within a ten metre radius. She turns, shielding her eyes from the light.

Then, suddenly, it disappears, and everything resumes around her. She might’ve thought it was merely a hallucination if the last remaining evidence of it weren’t right in front of her.

Standing before her is Ava.

“Hi,” Ava greets, grinning dopily.

Beatrice feels her jaw slacken, and her eyes go wide. “Ava?” she asks, unwilling to accept the sight before her, lest it turn out to be a figment of her imagination and ruin her all over again.

“That’s me,” Ava says, stepping towards her.

“Ava,” Beatrice repeats, dumbfounded, reaching out for the girl who had occupied her every thought for the past few months.

Within arm’s reach, Ava’s legs give out, and she all but stumbles into Beatrice. Sturdy arms wrap around her waist and hold her upright. “Are you alright? Are you… are you real?” Beatrice asks, concerned and anxious, but the last word emerges as a whisper.

Ava laughs shakily. “I’m real,” she confirms, returning the embrace and burying her head in Beatrice’s shoulder. “I’m okay, just tired. Interdimensional travel is super fucking exhausting.”

The arms around Ava’s waist squeeze even tighter. “I can’t believe you’re real,” Beatrice breathes, still in a state of disbelief. She’s already tearing up in joy and relief, but she can’t help chiding herself into thinking it’s a premature reaction.

“I am very real. So real,” Ava slurs, leaning more heavily into Beatrice. At this point. Beatrice is holding up nearly her entire weight. She lets out a sound somewhere in between a sigh and a groan as she fights the urge to pass out. “Please tell me you have a bed somewhere.”

“Yes, I do. Let’s go home,” Beatrice whispers, as if anything louder would cause the illusion to dissipate, and leave her with nothing, without Ava once more.

Home, Beatrice thinks, because home is whatever space she cohabits with Ava. Home, Beatrice thinks, because an old axiom rings true and tells her that home is where the heart is.

Home, Beatrice says, because hers is back with her.

The people around them seem to have paid no mind to Ava, who’s appeared out of thin air in a bloodied outfit, or even any part of the bizarre scenario, so she doesn’t hesitate to scoop Ava up in her arms as they leave to hire a taxi.

After they arrive at the apartment, Beatrice deposits Ava on the couch. Despite her lethargy, Ava notices the blanket and pillow on the couch and her brow furrows. “Have you been sleeping on the couch?”

Beatrice sits, gently shifting Ava so that her head is resting in Beatrice’s lap. “Yes,” she answers softly, brushing stray strands of hair away from Ava’s face, where they frame her pale cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes.

Ava frowns, but doesn’t find it in herself to enquire further. She closes her eyes and tilts her head, burying her face in Beatrice’s jacket that she hadn’t bothered to take off in her haste to enter the apartment. The hairs loosely tucked behind her ear cascade back down over her cheekbone, and even though she looks worse for wear, Beatrice can’t help finding her beautiful all the same.

“Will you feel better after a shower?” Beatrice offers, slowly combing her fingers through Ava’s matted hair. Despite the time that’s elapsed, Ava’s hair hasn’t grown at all — it’s retained the bob that she’d practically begged Beatrice to cut for her back in the Alps.

Ava lets out a whine, muffled by the fabric of Beatrice’s clothes. “Yes,” she admits reluctantly, fiddling with the hem of Beatrice’s sweater underneath the jacket. “But don’t wanna move.”

Her words come out slurred, just like they used to when Ava woke up grumpy and much earlier than desired for training in the Alps. It’s unbearably endearing, and it tugs at Beatrice’s heartstrings. She can feel herself wanting to relent and her discipline is the only thing keeping her from letting Ava go to sleep right here and now.

“You can change into something more comfortable,” Beatrice appeals, with a lilt to her voice. “And you can sleep on the bed.”

“Mm.” Beatrice feels, more than hears, Ava’s half-teasing hum of consideration. “‘M sold,” Ava says, staring up at Beatrice with a drowsy grin and half-closed eyes.

Beatrice’s heart almost bursts out of her chest cavity and she feels the corners of her lips quirk upwards. “Alright then,” she says as she stands, pulling Ava up and off the couch. Ava sways on her feet for a moment and slumps into Beatrice briefly, before righting herself.

She waves in dismissal as Beatrice watches her with worried eyes and wraps her arm more securely around Ava’s back. “Too fast. ‘M okay,” she reassures, grin momentarily wavering yet unfaltering. Her legs feel unsteady, but she manages to carry herself to the bathroom, with Beatrice following close behind her, an arm ghosting her waist to offer support if needed.

“Will you be okay by yourself?” Beatrice asks, leaning against the door jamb.

“Yeah,” Ava calls back, experimentally turning on the showerhead. Much to her dismay, owing to the winter, there’s no warm water.

“I’ll get you a towel and clothes,” Beatrice says, stepping out. Before she can close the door behind her, Ava grabs her hand. Beatrice turns back to look at her inquiringly, and finds Ava wearing a sheepish expression.

“Do you still have that green sweater? The one from the Alps?”

Beatrice smiles — Ava isn’t in the least bit subtle in her line of questioning. “Yes. I’ll take it out for you.”

Ava lights up, only figuratively, though Beatrice would swear she could see a brief flash of golden light pouring from Ava’s back. “Thanks!” Ava gets on her tiptoes and pecks Beatrice on the cheek, before letting go of her hand and allowing her to exit and close the door.

She feels the flush of heat at her cheeks as she reaches up to touch the spot Ava had kissed, feeling a deep sense of déjà vu.

As she takes off her dirty clothes, Ava dreads the moment she has to step into the shower and be assaulted by tendrils of cold water. But she decides to take that over the oppressive feeling of filth that seems to have coated her skin, so she braces herself and hops in.

The second the water hits her bare skin, her nerve endings scream at her to run out and seek the nearest heat source, but she grits her teeth to stop them from chattering and begins to roughly scrub her hair, in a bid to make the shower as quick as possible. She grimaces as she notes how her hair has become a sticky, knotted mess.

“If you’re so all-powerful, why can’t you have a few showers in your damn kingdom,” she seethes at Reya under her breath.

Once she’s done, she turns off the water and immediately starts shivering. She steps out to find a neatly folded towel beside a stack of fresh clothes waiting for her on the rack. She dries herself off and pulls on the baggy, comforting ensemble Beatrice had picked out for her. She can’t help but press the loose, dangling ends of the sweater sleeves to her nose, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent.

She’s ecstatic to discover that it smells like Beatrice — coupled with a mix of her detergent and cheap shower foam that are identical to the ones she’d used in Switzerland, because of course, Beatrice would be averse to switching brands once she’d made a habit out of one.

Now that she’s clean with years’ worth of blood, sweat and grime washed out of her hair and off her now slightly raw skin, she finally notices the slight headache and unnatural warmth in her cheeks.

She rubs her eyes as she walks towards the bedroom, where Beatrice has been sitting on the bed and staring at the bathroom door.

“Hi,” she greets stupidly, because she’s too absorbed in the fact that Beatrice had been waiting for her for as long as she took and had refused to focus on any task other than silently willing the door to open and for her to emerge from her shower.

“Come here,” Beatrice instructs, gently pulling Ava down to sit beside her. Ava’s brow pinches in confusion when Beatrice touches her forehead with the back of her fingers.

“I knew it,” Beatrice mutters, frowning.

“Knew what?”

“You’re burning hot.”

“Thanks,” Ava jokes, beaming with mock pride.

“Ava,” Beatrice sighs, exasperated.

“Sorry.”

“Lie down,” Beatrice encourages, tenderly brushing the pad of her thumb over Ava’s knuckles. “I’ll get a thermometer and medicine.”

“No,” Ava protests immediately, shaking her head. “No medicine. Please.” She’d sworn off medicine ever since she had the choice. She doesn’t think she’d ever forget how Sister Frances used to give her diluted sedatives when she fell sick, turning her bouts of ailment into hazy messes of slipping in and out of unconsciousness and being berated for burdening her caregivers every time she awoke. Her grip on Beatrice’s hand tightens as she looks at Beatrice with desperate, pleading eyes.

The panicked reaction takes Beatrice by surprise, but she obliges. “Alright, no medicine,” she reassures. “Lie down,” she repeats softly. Ava is still for a moment before she nods, gaze not meeting Beatrice’s as Beatrice pulls the blanket over her body.

In the relief from the warmth of the blanket, tension slips away from Ava’s body and she closes her eyes. Beatrice leaves and reenters with a thermometer, a wet cloth and a bowl of water. She takes Ava’s temperature and her frown deepens, wrinkles etching themselves onto her brow as she sees the reading of 39.1°C.

“I thought I couldn’t get sick,” Ava mumbles, cracking an eye open to peer at Beatrice.

“The Halo heals injury, but not illness,” Beatrice responds, wringing out the cloth and folding it into a neat rectangle before placing it on Ava’s forehead.

Ava shudders slightly, before relaxing again. “Feels nice.”

“How are you feeling?” Beatrice asks, sitting beside Ava.

“Head hurts. Sleepy.” Ava punctuates the statement with a yawn, much to Beatrice’s amusement.

“You don’t want painkillers?”

Ava shakes her head and winces slightly when it aggravates the dull throb at her temples. “No.”

“Okay. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Lie down with me?” Ava suggests, tugging on Beatrice’s arm. Her pout elicits a soft smile from Beatrice, and she relents. She slips herself under the blanket on the other half of the bed and lays her head on the pillow beside Ava’s.

Ava’s whine and tugging make it clear that lacing their fingers together isn’t enough, so Beatrice gradually manoeuvres herself closer until Ava can curl into Beatrice’s side. She can feel the quickly warming wet cloth through her shirt, but she doesn’t stop Ava from tilting her head even closer and clutching her shirt.

After a while, Beatrice is almost entirely sure that Ava has fallen asleep, until she breaks the silence. “Bea, is it New Year’s Eve?”

Beatrice, taken aback by the question, turns her head to look at Ava. “Yes. Why?”

Suddenly, energy seems to have surged up in Ava as she lifts her head up. The wet cloth falls off her forehead and plops down onto the mattress, and she picks it up with an “oops” and slaps it back onto her forehead, holding it there. “Can we watch the fireworks?”

Beatrice narrows her eyes. “We’re not going out. You’re sick and exhausted. You need to rest.”

“On TV then?” Ava asks hopefully. When Beatrice doesn’t respond immediately, she forges on nervously. “It’s just, I’ve never seen fireworks. I would hear them every year, on New Year’s Day at the orphanage, but I couldn’t go outside to watch them — I mean, obviously — and Sister Frances kind of just left me inside while–”

“Ava.” Beatrice interrupts the rambling, running her thumb over the inside of Ava’s wrist in a calming gesture proven effective after multiples nights in the Alps plagued by nightmares. “The TV is fine.”

“Oh,” Ava manages, sinking back into the mattress and pressing her mouth firmly shut to keep herself from disintegrating into another mess of words.

“It’s only 10.30. Go to sleep, I’ll wake you up before the fireworks begin.”

“Promise?” Ava asks, eyes already drooping as the short-lived adrenaline wears off.

“Promise.”

Ava shifts impossibly closer, perching her head atop Beatrice’s shoulder and twisting her body as she splays a leg over Beatrice’s and wraps an arm around Beatrice’s middle.

“That can’t be a comfortable position to sleep in.”

“It is,” Ava says drowsily, breath fanning out somewhere dangerously close to Beatrice’s collarbone. “You’re comfy.”

Ava thinks about the years she’d spent in Reya’s realm — whatever little time she had outside of training was spent in eerie silence, and the whole place seemed to be cloaked with an oppressive cold, even with the hunk of metal in her back that usually kept her warm.

She thinks the constant chill had more to do with the lack of physical contact. She’d spent twelve long years starved from touch and regained the ability to feel it for just a short while, before having her access to it ripped away from her again.

She shudders at the memories, of the endless nights hugging and crying herself to sleep on the freezing, unforgivingly hard floor of her cramped quarters, of nursing her own injuries sustained from training without anyone to help her, hold her through the pain, of the loneliness and melancholy that pervaded her mind and consumed her that made thinking of anything else impossible, making her go through her days like clockwork, feeling not so much as a speck of joy.

She shivers and exhales shakily, because the memories are so fresh she may as well have relived years of desolation in a few brief moments.

Beatrice pulls the blanket more snugly over Ava (and herself, given that Ava was half on top of her) and wraps an arm around her. Beatrice thinks Ava is just feverish and feels cold. Beatrice doesn’t know how Ava’s experience in the other realm has been. And Beatrice doesn’t need to know, at least not yet, Ava thinks, because it would only make her sad and guilty, and that’s not at all desirable.

But Beatrice is also not incorrect — Ava is feverish, and she does feel cold. But she’s now tightly sandwiched between two layers of warmth. So she allows herself to tune out, focussing on the rhythmic rise and dip of Beatrice’s torso under her arm and the gentle tickle of Beatrice’s exhaled puffs of air on the crown of her head, and drifts off into sleep.

When Ava wakes up, she doesn’t feel any less tired, but on the bright side, she doesn’t feel any worse. She’s greeted by the sight of Beatrice laying next to her, reading a novel held above her head by her free hand, the other still resting around Ava’s back. Apparently, laying on her back isn’t enough to stop her from devouring a book.

“Morning, nerd,” Ava mumbles groggily, a lazy grin stretching across her face.

“You’re awake,” Beatrice notes, setting the book on the bedside table and immediately turning to face her. “I was a few minutes away from waking you up. How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Ava lies, tightening her arm around Beatrice’s waist as Beatrice tries to get up.

“Ava, let me get the thermometer,” Beatrice says, patting Ava’s arm. With a reluctant grunt, she lets go.

Beatrice removes the now warm cloth from Ava’s forehead, and frowns as she takes Ava’s temperature and finds that it hasn’t gone down. “So how’s it going, Doc?” Ava asks teasingly.

“You’re still running a high fever.”

Ava groans, rolling onto her side to tap her back. “Do something about this, bitch.”

The Halo flashes a faint gold before going dark again. “Ugh, seriously?”

In spite of herself, Beatrice’s lips quirk upwards in amusement. “Ava,” she says, drawing Ava’s attention back to her.

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you want to stay up?” Beatrice’s brow pinches in concern as she brushes the back of her fingers over pallid skin, hot to the touch.

“Yes.” Ava nods in confirmation, tugging Beatrice’s arm towards herself and hugging it in what Beatrice understands as a necessary course of action to maintain physical contact. “I’m over 20. I don’t want to wait another year.”

She tries to make it sound light-hearted, but Beatrice catches the weight of the tone that she can’t seem to shake off. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Beatrice prods gently.

Ava considers playing it off. She’s kept everything to herself for years now, when she had no one to really talk to in Reya’s realm, and there’s no need to unload on Beatrice now the moment she’s returned. But she also considers that she’d like to know Beatrice inside out, including her darkest, most vigilantly guarded and buried secrets. She wants to know her every quirk, her every fear. And she thinks, it would only be right to respond in kind.

“You know I’ve died before,” she starts, but grimaces when she sees Beatrice flinch almost imperceptibly. “I’m living on borrowed time, literally.”

“ Please don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, thumb dancing over the vein that stands out over the lighter skin on the inside of Beatrice’s elbow. “This next part, I told Michael, when he was–” she halts with a gulp before continuing, “–when he was telling me about the divinium bomb.”

She looks into Beatrice’s eyes to scout out a reaction, but she only finds an expectant gaze, a granting of permission to go on. “After I died, there was… nothing, Bea. It was just, like, an endless expanse of darkness and loneliness.” The last word she rasps, and she fights to swallow the lump in her throat. Beatrice reaches out to place her free hand over Ava’s one on her elbow, and gives it a squeeze. Ava sits up and leans against the headboard without letting go of Beatrice’s arm, forcing her to shift closer to Ava. Ava takes advantage of the proximity, leaning her head on Beatrice’s shoulder.

Ava tries to lighten the tone of the conversation — which is more of a monologue, because Beatrice is silent and non-interrupting. “I think my exact words to him were ‘fuck the enlightenment of death’.” Beatrice exhales audibly at this, and Ava chuckles wryly.

“My point is, there’s no afterlife, no heaven. If there’s a heaven for me, it’s in this life, and it’s with you, Bea. You’re my heaven.”

Beatrice gasps at the admission, silent enough to have been an atypically sharp intake of air. She thinks about the choice of word stressed in Ava’s last sentence and how all three would come with different implications, and Ava has chosen the one that places the importance on her.

Of all people, it’s her Ava wants. Her, and only her.

“I don’t know what comes after, Bea,” Ava admits. She thinks about her years in the orphanage, how every day was the same old, more predictable than the most terrible, trope-filled film; how she may have been bored out of her mind and all she’d craved was the freedom she had now. She’d take her present over her past anytime despite the danger and responsibility, but she’s frightened by the frequent subversions of meticulous plans in the face of life-threatening circumstances, even if she likes to introduce them to Beatrice’s and her own safe, mundane, everyday routines. “And I don’t know if I want to know.”

“After what, though?” Beatrice needs to know, because the way Ava puts it is vague. It’s a sentence without an object, open to a receiver’s interpretation, but Beatrice needs to know the way Ava is referring to.

But Beatrice doesn’t need to know, because it’s sombre and inconsequential to their destinies and regardless of the answer, the conclusion is the same — that this is too deadly a weight to be put on Ava’s shoulders, with few years spent alive, and with even fewer lived.

“Anything,” Ava answers, and it’s a poor answer because it does nothing in the way of clarification.

But it’s a perfect answer, because messy thoughts cannot have anything more than a messy articulation. The sentiment expresses itself in her tone, and it’s enough.

Ava doesn’t realise she has tears running down her face until Beatrice gingerly swipes them away, and she sees that Beatrice’s eyes are welling up too.

“So yes, I want to stay up. I want to watch the fireworks with you.”

Beatrice nods, wiping away her own tears. “Then we need to go to the living room.”

“Okay.”

They remain unmoving for a few seconds until Beatrice asks, “Do you want me to carry you?”

“Is that okay?” The fear in Ava’s voice is evident, now that her mind is swimming in an overwhelming montage of moments when she’d been nothing but a burden to the nuns at the orphanage. Her fever-induced sluggishness certainly isn’t helping. “You don’t have to. I got this, I can–”

“Ava.” Beatrice squeezes her hand. “Of course it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Beatrice stands and scoops Ava up in her arms, and Ava nearly swoons right there and then from how effortless it seems.

Beatrice stops at the doorway and looks down at Ava.

“You’re mine, too, Ava. My heaven.”

They turn on the television and Beatrice steeps tea for the both of them before settling on the couch with Ava. They end up lying on the couch with Ava atop of Beatrice, both holding each other like they’d never let go.

And they just might follow through on that if it were practical. If it were possible, Beatrice would be all Ava knew, knows and will know, and vice versa. If it were possible, they’d hold on to each other forever, breathe in the other, let themselves be consumed in the other, and refuse to loosen their grip.

The music from the live television broadcast plays softly in the background. “How did you get sick? I thought there exists no sickness in Reya’s realm,” Beatrice asks, slowly running her fingers over Ava’s scalp, soothing her headache.

“Oh, it exists. Reya controls it,” Ava replies with a note of levity.

Beatrice pauses. Beatrice has few tells, but Ava knows most of them — a pause means she could be a little angry. She knows this, because after she’d exposed the Halo in the Alps, Beatrice had always paused her actions before coming up with minutely agitated and clipped responses to Ava.

Ava doesn’t have to look at Beatrice to know that there’s a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows, the one that appears when she’s frowning, deep in thought.

Beatrice resumes carding her fingers through Ava’s hair, and Ava rejoices inwardly. “Why did she make you sick, then?”

Ava can hear the protectiveness in her voice, can feel the way her hold becomes ever so slightly more snug. “Punishment, probably. She said there’d be consequences if I tried to come back prematurely. I thought that meant she’d stop me and lock me up or something, but I guess not.”

“She’s authoritarian?”

Ava laughs at the absurd image of Reya as a politician. “Then what’s God? A socialist?”

Beatrice snorts in a very un-Beatrice-like way, and Ava can’t stop the grin that creeps up on her face. “I did it anyway. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

A few beats later, comes a soft: “Will you be okay?”

“Reya doesn’t have control over here, so I’ll just heal, I think.”

Beatrice hums. “Good.”

Ava recalls Beatrice pressing the back of her fingers to her forehead, and the “I knew it” accompanying a frown of concern. “How did you know I was sick, anyway?”

“You were practically ready to collapse. And you told me it was cold on the way back, but you never felt cold in the Alps.”

Ava promptly shivers despite soaking in all of Beatrice’s warmth. Beatrice reaches behind her and grabs the blanket they’d discarded earlier and drapes it over their bodies. Ava thinks about how her offhanded comment was taken so seriously by Beatrice, how Beatrice remembers their time in the Alps. She thinks about how despite her annoying tendency to crack jokes at all the wrong times, stemming from a subconscious self-protective mechanism to make people not take her seriously, Beatrice does, and Beatrice cares — more than anyone else ever has, except perhaps her own mother whom she can barely remember apart from the fact that she loved Ava and Ava loved her.

“I love you,” she says, awestruck.

“I love you too,” Beatrice whispers. Ava clambers off of her to sit back, the blanket hanging off her shoulder, and takes Beatrice’s hands. Beatrice sits up along with her. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it back earlier.” It felt too much like a goodbye.

“It’s okay.” Ava smiles. The countdown has begun, and people are cheering on television, but neither of them can tear their gazes away from each other. “I knew.”

Beatrice exhales shakily. “I didn’t know you knew.”

“I knew, Bea. And I’m so fucking proud of you.” For letting yourself love me. For letting yourself love. For letting yourself be loved.

The music and shouts of excitement on the broadcast reach a crescendo.

“Cinq!”

“Bea,” Ava says, bringing a hand up to Beatrice’s cheek as they look into each other’s eyes expectantly.

“Quatre!”

“Can I kiss you?” Ava whispers the question. She can be brash, reckless, impulsive, but when it comes to Beatrice, she’s nothing but gentle and acquiescent.

“Trois!”

“Yes,” Beatrice breathes, leaning in, and for once, she admits it aloud. And for once, her guilt doesn’t threaten to swallow her whole. It’s there, but she finds herself able to push it aside in favour of her desire. And her desire, in this moment, is Ava. “Please.”

“Deux!”

Ava rests her forehead against Beatrice’s, searching for any hint of regret or fear, and the blanket drops off her shoulder, long forgotten.

“Un!”

She finds none, and flicks her gaze down.

“Bonne année!”

She closes the distance, gently brushing their lips together. Tentative, until Beatrice leans in and deepens the kiss, a hand cradling her jaw. It’s slow, but they’re not in a rush — this time, neither of them is about to go on a suicide mission. This time, they’re not unsure of whether they’ll see each other again. This time, they’re sure they’ll wake up next to each other.

It’s charged with yearning from the time apart, months for one and years for the other. Warmth blossoms in Beatrice’s chest, and she can’t tell if it’s from Ava’s feverish heat or from how this moment with Ava is making her feel.

They pull apart when they can’t stop smiling. The fireworks have long started, but neither of them have so much as glanced at the television. “Ava, the fireworks,” Beatrice points out.

“And what about them?” Ava replies. Suddenly, she frowns. “Wait, what if I make you sick too?”

“I’m fairly certain I’m safe from an otherworldly illness.”

Ava grins. She wants to prolong the moment, but her eyes want to stay closed after every blink, and she struggles to keep them open.

“You, however, are not,” Beatrice adds crisply. At the reminder, Ava’s head feels heavier, and she allows it to loll onto Beatrice’s shoulder.

“If we’re going to sleep, does that mean you’ll carry me to bed?”

Beatrice doesn’t respond. Instead, she turns off the television and picks Ava up off the couch, with Ava already half asleep on her shoulder.

Ava pipes up from where her head is tucked in the crook of Beatrice’s neck. “You know, Bea, you’ve technically kissed a zombie twice now.”

Beatrice groans, but presses a kiss to the crown of Ava’s head. “For the love of all that is good, please go to sleep.”