My Willow

Everything is fine.

Ding.

Another email.

Everything is fine.

Ding.

Another one.

I watch the badge beside my inbox climb toward fifty.

Everything is FINE.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I slam my laptop shut.

There.

Inner peace restored.

Technically, the emails still exist, but I can’t see them, which feels close enough.

I don’t hate my job. Hate implies I actually expend emotional energy on it. I just completely do not care.

I work as a virtual assistant, which is a fancy way of saying I delete emails, sit through Zoom calls on mute with my camera off, and nod at my boss once a day. It covers my rent and, more importantly, keeps me inside.

My apartment is safe.

Out there is exhausting.

Which makes my communications degree feel like an incredibly expensive joke. Four years of learning how to talk to people just so I could spend the rest of my life avoiding them.

Good job, Willow.

I glance through the corner windows at the building across from mine. My view is essentially someone else’s living room. It’s so close that if I can see what’s on their TV, they can definitely see me sitting here in my sweatpants.

I slowly slide my chair toward the kitchen, suddenly hyper-aware of my own existence.

I really need to buy curtains.

Wait.

I have curtains.

I should probably just close them.

I don’t.

Honestly, the apartment isn’t bad. It’s small, but it’s mine. The kitchen features generic laminate, a microwave that requires a specific sequence of prayer to work, and a gas stove that is somehow the most reliable thing I own.

The sink has been broken for months.

I know I should call my landlord, but calling means scheduling, and scheduling means a stranger entering my apartment, and a stranger entering my apartment means I’ll have to spend at least forty-five minutes beforehand deciding whether it’s weirder to stay while he fixes it or leave and trust a man I’ve never met alone with everything I own.

So I wash my dishes in the bathroom sink.

Problem solved.

Two green stools sit under the counter, rescued from a dumpster pile last year. People leave perfectly good shit on the street here all the time. It’s a great system, assuming you’re willing to go outside to claim it.

Which is usually where the plan falls apart.

My bed takes up most of the studio, buried under a green comforter, too many pillows, and a crochet blanket from my mom. At the foot of it is my rug. She’s green with white checkerboard squares and tassels, and yes, she is a she.

I bought her from a vintage shop in college. I don’t actually know if she’s vintage because asking the shopkeeper felt like a hostage negotiation.

She’s followed me through three apartments since.

It’s probably weird to be emotionally attached to a rug.

Whatever.

She knows too much now.

Books fill the shelves behind my bed.

They’re the only part of the apartment I don’t criticize.

This year alone, I’ve been to kingdoms, fairy worlds, ancient battlefields. I’ve watched empires collapse and people fall desperately in love. I’ve watched women stab men for considerably less than the contents of my inbox.

I’ve gone everywhere.

Convenient, since I rarely leave the apartment.

Ding.

My laptop lights up again.

I stare at it.

Don’t.

I reopen it.

Apparently closing the laptop doesn’t cure me of the pathological need to check every notification.

There’s a new email from my boss.

Quick question—

No.

Absolutely not.

Nothing good has ever followed the words quick question.

I click it anyway.

It is, infuriatingly, a quick question.

I type a response.

Sounds good!

Delete.

Sure thing!

Delete.

Absolutely, happy to!

Too happy.

Of course!

Psychotic.

I settle on:

Yep, I can take care of that. Thanks!

I read it four times.

Send.

Then immediately open the Sent folder and read it again, as if I can catch a typo retroactively.

Looks normal.

Probably.

Work drains a very specific kind of mental battery. When my boss calls, I rehearse my talking points out loud. On Zoom, I spend most of the meeting staring at my own thumbnail, making sure my face looks like it belongs to a functioning human.

Still, it pays me to never leave my apartment.

Hard to argue with that.

It’s 6:55 PM.

Five minutes.

The plan is simple: log off, take out the trash, read.

Maybe light a candle.

No.

The smoke detector.

What if it goes off and I have to stand outside in my pajamas with all my neighbors?

Bathroom light. Door cracked.

Impeccable atmosphere.

The only real hurdle is the dumpster.

It involves navigating the creaky stairs and stepping into the alley. A high-stakes mission because if I forget my keys, I’ll have to talk to management.

“Keys,” I remind myself aloud.

I look out the window.

It’s pitch black and starting to snow, which means the entire city’s infrastructure is approximately twelve minutes from collapse.

Perfect.

Ping.

My boss texts.

Have a great weekend!

I stare at the words.

Right.

It’s Friday.

No work for two days.

The relief hits me so fast I almost forget about the snow.

I stand, my chair squealing violently against the floor. How did I forget it was Friday? Probably because when your commute is moving three feet from the bed to the desk, the days blur into one endless, lukewarm afternoon.

There’s probably going to be a distinct drag path worn into the flooring from my bed to my desk by the time I move out. My landlord will withhold my security deposit for the crime of literally being alive.

For a second, I consider actually going somewhere this weekend.

Coffee shop, maybe.

Bookstore.

I could be one of those women who reads alone at a bar and looks mysterious instead of deeply uncomfortable.

Then I look at the snow beginning to stick to the windows across the alley.

Absolutely not.

Trash time.

I gather the bags from the kitchen and bathroom. Catching my reflection in the mirror by the door is a mistake.

My dark hair is tied into a bun that looks less effortless chic and more survived a natural disaster. There are shadows under my eyes, and my lips are dry because apparently drinking water is another basic survival instinct my brain considers optional.

I’m wearing an oversized band tee that reaches halfway down my thighs and grey sweatpants that technically belong to my brother.

He is six-foot-five.

I am five-three.

They are objectively not my pants, but they have a drawstring, so they count.

My socks don’t match—one grey, one purple—but they both have cartoon cats on them, so spiritually they’re a pair.

“Trash now. Book later.”

I check the peephole out of habit.

Clear.

I count to three, open the door, and step into the hallway.

The heavy door swings shut behind me.

A cold spike of panic shoots through my chest.

Keys.

I catch the edge just before the latch clicks.

“Oh my God.”

I scramble back inside and grab them from the cat-shaped ceramic tray on the counter.

I hold them up.

“Keys.”

Excellent.

We’re learning.

Reset.

I step into the hallway again—

—and nearly jump out of my skin.

Penn is standing directly across from me.

“Jesus Christ.”

Penn raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Nice to see you too, Willow.”

“Sorry.” I press a hand against my chest. “You materialized.”

“I walked out of my apartment.”

“Same thing.”

Her mouth twitches.

“Hey, Willow. How are you doing today, sweet girl?”

Penn is an older woman with sharp grey hair and a wardrobe that routinely puts mine to shame. Tonight, she’s wearing makeup that makes her icy blue eyes look impossibly bright.

“I’m okay. Just…” I lift the trash bags. “Managing the garbage.”

“A glamorous Friday night.”

“Thank you. I worked very hard on the itinerary.”

She laughs.

I like Penn’s laugh. It’s loud. Completely unapologetic. The kind of laugh that makes other people look over and somehow never seems to bother her.

If I laughed like that in public, I would think about it until 2037.

“Are you going somewhere?” I ask. “You look incredible.”

The second incredible leaves my mouth, my brain flags it as a diplomatic disaster.

Why did I say it like that?

Does she think I think she normally looks terrible?

Have I just implied her baseline appearance is a tragedy?

Penn glances down at herself.

“Do I?”

“Yes. I mean—not that you don’t usually.”

Stop.

“You always look good.”

Stop talking.

“I just meant you look especially—”

Willow.

Shut the fuck up.

Penn laughs again, entirely unaffected by my internal collapse.

“I’m meeting some friends. Thanks for noticing.” She gives me an approving once-over. “You always were my favorite neighbor.”

I look down at myself.

Band shirt.

Giant sweatpants.

Cat socks.

One of us has misunderstood the assignment.

“You really do look stunning.” I hold up the bags like a shield. “Anyway, I should probably get these out of the building before they start leaking something biologically significant.”

“Lead the way.” She adjusts her coat. “I’m heading out that way too.”

Perfect.

It’s not that I don’t love Penn.

I do.

Penn has lived across from me since I moved in. She brings me cookies at Christmas and knocks on my door whenever she gets a package addressed to the wrong apartment, even though I have repeatedly explained that she can just leave it outside.

She refuses.

Apparently packages require ceremony.

It’s just that every spontaneous human interaction provides me with approximately six hours of post-game analysis to obsess over later in bed.

We walk down the corridor together, the rhythmic clack of her baby-pink heels echoing against the linoleum. She’s wearing a long pink wool coat over tailored trousers.

In a Seattle snowstorm.

It’s a miracle she isn’t slipping.

Meanwhile, I look like I emerged from the very dumpster we’re walking toward.

“Willow?”

I look at her, then immediately away.

“Yes, Penn?”

“Would you like to come with me?”

My entire body has an answer before my mouth does.

No.

Apparently, Penn sees it.

Her expression softens.

“I just thought I’d offer. You’re always in your apartment. You seem so…”

She hesitates, searching for a gentler word.

Then gives up.

“Lonely.”

Lonely?

If she only knew about the fire-breathing dragons waiting for me upstairs, or the fictional kingdoms whose entire political stability depends on me reading Chapter Fourteen.

I am fully booked.

“I’m fine, Penn. Just tired. Work is…” I shrug. “Well. It’s work.”

She studies me for half a second too long.

I hate when people do that.

Like if they look hard enough, they’ll find the thing I’m deliberately not saying.

Then Penn reaches out and pats my arm.

My body locks.

It’s automatic.

A sharp little recoil beneath my skin before my brain can remind it that this is Penn.

Penn, who brings me cookies.

Penn, who has never once done anything to make me uncomfortable.

Penn, who is just being kind.

Still, I take half a step away before I can stop myself.

Something flickers across her face.

Fuck.

I force a laugh and keep walking.

At the bottom of the stairs, I push open the heavy back door and hold it for her.

Snow tumbles past us in thick, aggressive flakes.

I look down at her shoes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to change?”

Penn follows my gaze.

“To what?”

“Shoes designed for Earth?”

She smiles.

“It’s only a few blocks. Don’t worry.”

“That is exactly what people say immediately before an avoidable emergency.”

“Goodnight, Willow.”

Then she picks her way through the fresh powder in baby-pink heels like this is a completely rational life choice.

I watch her for a second.

“Please don’t die!”

Penn lifts a hand without turning around.

I choose to interpret that as agreement.

I dump my garbage and sprint back inside before my ears freeze off.

By the time I make it upstairs, my socks are damp from the snow. I peel them off and leave them in a sad little heap by the door.

The microwave beeps.

I carry a depressing plate of steamed vegetables to bed.

It’s not dinner.

It’s a nutritional obligation.

Grocery shopping isn’t happening tonight, and my conscience refuses to make some poor delivery driver climb a Seattle hill in a literal blizzard just so I can have pad thai.

I settle into my pillows and grab my book.

I hope Penn doesn’t snap an ankle.

Those were terrible shoes for this weather.

She’s fine.

She is an adult woman who has successfully survived several decades on Earth without me monitoring her footwear.

I open my book.

Across the alley, a light flicks on.

I glance up.

My neighbor in the opposite building is home.

Brilliant.

So he wasn’t even there earlier when I panicked and hid in my kitchen.

I crouched on my floor and questioned my life choices for an empty room.

He steps onto his balcony wearing a sharp suit and lights a cigarette. He’s older, with silver hair, and I’ve seen him out there before.

He isn’t looking at me.

He’s looking down.

Toward the alley.

Curiosity wins.

I slide off the bed and crouch near the window. My apartment is dark except for the bathroom light, which means I’m basically invisible as long as I don’t stand up.

I press closer to the glass and follow his line of sight.

At the end of the alley, I see pink.

Pink coat.

Pink heels.

Penn.

Relief comes first.

See?

Fine.

I glance back at Balcony Man.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, and for a second, I swear he smiles.

At Penn?

They’re probably around the same age. Maybe they know each other. Maybe he’s one of the friends she’s meeting.

Penn turns suddenly, looks up toward his building, and waves.

Okay.

They definitely know each other.

My narrative-obsessed brain immediately starts constructing a thirty-year secret romance between two strangers. Maybe they’re star-crossed lovers who spend their nights staring longingly across the urban abyss—

Jesus Christ, Willow.

Stop.

You are a literal peeping Tom.

I crawl backward from the window and climb into bed.

Whatever Penn is doing is none of my business.

I pick up my book.

Read a sentence.

Then read it again.

And again.

I have absolutely no idea what it says.

Ten minutes pass.

I look toward the window.

Just a quick inventory check.

Penn is still there.

I lower the book.

Why is she still standing outside?

I move back toward the glass.

And stop.

There are two men with her now.

Neither of them is Balcony Man.

One stands directly in front of Penn.

The other hovers slightly behind her, close enough that if she stepped backward, she’d hit him.

I look up.

Balcony Man isn’t smiling anymore.

He’s completely still.

His cigarette burns between his fingers.

Something is wrong.

Penn steps away.

The men move with her.

My chest tightens.

I grab my phone.

Emergency.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

Call.

But what if I’m wrong?

They could be her friends.

People argue.

You don’t weaponize municipal services because three people are having a weird conversation in an alley.

Do you?

What would I even tell the dispatcher?

Hi, I’m currently spying on my neighbor from a dark room and the vibes are highly suspect.

What if they ask for my name?

What if they make me go downstairs?

What if the police come and nothing is wrong and everyone knows I called?

Just watch.

Be sure.

One of the men reaches for Penn’s purse.

She jerks it away.

My stomach drops.

No.

No, no, no.

Call.

Just call.

My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the phone.

Penn tries to step away, but the second man grabs her arm.

“My husband is waiting for me inside—”

Her voice carries through the quiet snow.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Penn lives alone.

“Then give us the bag, and we’ll be on our way.”

Call the police, Willow.

Call the goddamn police.

My thumb won’t move.

I stare at the screen.

Move.

Penn screams.

“Let go of me!”

Everything in my head goes silent.

No calculations.

No rehearsing.

No what-ifs.

My phone hits the floor.

I’m already at the door.

I throw it open.

And I run.