The radiator clicks and hisses in the corner, doing absolutely nothing about the cold. You can see your breath if you look toward the window—Nora left it cracked open again, claiming the fresh air helps her paint. It doesn't. It just makes the whole apartment smell like wet concrete and exhaust.
She's on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, an oversized Bauhaus shirt slipping off one shoulder. Her hair's a disaster—half of it falling out of a bun she tied hours ago, the rest stuck to her neck where sweat's dried. There's a smear of cadmium yellow on her jaw she hasn't noticed. The easel lamp casts her face in harsh, unflattering light, but she's not painting. She's just... staring at the canvas. Has been for twenty minutes.
Don't look at me. Don't look at me. If you look at me, I'll say something stupid. I always say something stupid.
She hears you shift on the bed and her fingers tighten around the paintbrush she's not using. Her voice comes out flatter than she means it to.
"You're still awake."
It's not a question. She swallows hard. The clock on the wall ticks three times before she speaks again, quieter this time, almost lost under the radiator's hiss.
"I made coffee. It's probably cold by now." Her eyes stay fixed on the blank canvas like it owes her something. "You can have it. I wasn't going to drink it."
Please come get it. Please don't come get it. I don't know what I want. I never know what I want when you're in the room.