Invisible String

Chapter 27 -The first date

Apartment hunting—otherwise known as the slow grind of losing hope, one "cozy" listing at a time.

I stand in the middle of yet another potential place, trying to imagine myself living here. The walls are freshly painted, sure, but the vibe feels... hollow. Staged furniture sits too perfectly in place, like no one's ever put their feet up on the couch or spilled coffee on the counter. It's sterile, a blank slate that's refusing to let me picture my life here.

"This isn't bad," Jackson says, peering into the closet and then immediately stepping back out. "Okay, it's a little bad. Do you even need this much storage?"

"No," I reply, pacing the living room. "But I do need space for a pull-out couch. And my keyboard. And somewhere to record without feeling like the walls are closing in."

He raises an eyebrow. "You're not asking for much, huh?"

"I'm not," I insist, gesturing around the apartment. "I'm not looking for a palace, Jackson. Just somewhere that fits. A place where I can actually live."

The problem isn't that I can't afford something decent—it's that "decent" doesn't seem to exist. The studios I've seen so far are too cramped, the one-bedroom places feel cavernous, and anything close to what I want is on the other side of the city.

This one's close enough, I'll give it that. The record label is a five-minute drive, and the rehearsal space is just a few blocks down. But I can already tell the lack of light in here would drive me insane after a week.

"It's the windows," I say aloud, mostly to myself. "Too small. The whole place feels... boxed in."

Jackson leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You've said that about every apartment you've seen."

"Because it's true," I mutter, walking over to the window to peek at the view. Or lack thereof. The neighboring building stares back at me, grey and featureless. No sunlight. No skyline. No sense of openness.

I step back, shaking my head. "Let's go. This isn't it."

Jackson doesn't argue. He grabs his bag and follows me out, but I can feel him watching me as we head down the stairs.

"What?" I ask when we reach the street.

"Nothing," he says, grinning. "You're just fun to watch when you're in perfectionist mode."

I roll my eyes. "It's not about perfection, Jackson. It's about finding a place that feels like mine."

And if that place exists, it's still hiding somewhere out there, waiting for me to find it.

As we're heading down the building's elevator, the hum of the cables the only sound between us. Jackson's leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, tapping his foot to some beat only he can hear. I'm staring straight ahead, my mind already on the next apartment we'll see, the next disappointment I'll have to endure.

I don't even bother looking at Jackson when I start rummaging through my bag. I pull out the black hat, sliding it on low over my eyes, then the sunglasses. Jackson glances at me, but I don't meet his gaze. Instead, I hold up a small, folded-up surgical mask and slip it on, adjusting it to fit snugly over my face.

Jackson snorts, a sharp laugh escaping before he catches himself. "Have I told you it looks ridiculous?"

"Yeah, multiple times," I reply, adjusting my sunglasses. "And like I told you, it's so no one will recognize me. The realtor was nice enough to give us the keys to these places so we could go uninterrupted, and I'm not in the mood to deal with anyone thinking they know me."