Desire (wlw)

XXXIII.

Isabel

The week after the sorority party passed in a haze, the days blurring together in a mix of rehearsals, muted grief, and Lea. Always Lea.

I tried to keep my head above water, but every time I let myself stop—even for a moment—the weight of my dad's death came crashing down. And when it did, my first instinct was to drink. It wasn't a conscious decision; it just felt easier than facing the mess in my head. But Lea? She saw right through me.

Every time I reached for a bottle, she was there. Subtle, never overbearing, she'd distract me with something else. A walk to get some fresh air, a spontaneous trip to the record store, or even just pulling me onto the couch to binge-watch some ridiculous reality show. At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but the more it happened, the more I realized it wasn't. She was paying attention. To me. To my patterns. To the ways I was trying to cope—or not cope.

And it wasn't just about the drinking. It was everything. The way she made sure I ate when I'd forget. The way she left me space to talk about my dad if I needed to—but never pushed if I didn't. She was just... there. Always there, in this quiet, steady way that I didn't even know I needed until I had it.

It was in the little things. The way she'd bring me coffee exactly how I liked it before our rehearsals. The way she'd pull me aside mid-practice if she saw I was zoning out, asking in that soft voice of hers if I needed a break. And God, the way she looked at me. Like I wasn't a mess. Like I was worth taking care of.

Rehearsals were their own kind of chaos. We still hadn't found the perfect voice for her song, and it was eating at both of us. Lea would get this look in her eye—a mix of frustration and determination—and I could tell she was putting too much pressure on herself. I wanted to tell her to ease up, but every time I opened my mouth, she'd catch my gaze and give me this small, reassuring smile. Like she had it under control. Like she was handling her own stress and mine too.

It hit me one night, sitting on her couch after she'd pulled me away from yet another bottle of wine. She didn't just see me. She got me. She understood the parts of me I didn't even know how to explain. And even when I couldn't say it, she gave me exactly what I needed.

—

The morning of the funeral arrived like a heavy fog, muted and solemn. Lea and I were in her apartment, the sound of zippers and soft shuffling the only noises breaking the stillness. The air between us was heavy but warm—Lea had a way of grounding me, even when my world felt like it was spinning off its axis.

I stood in front of the mirror, fastening the last button on my blouse when I caught Lea's reflection in the glass. She was adjusting her blazer, her movements careful, precise. I could see the nervous energy buzzing beneath her composed exterior, but when our eyes met, her expression softened.

"Are you ready to meet my family?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended. I didn't even know why I phrased it that way—it wasn't as if this was some casual introduction.

Lea's lips curved into a small, reassuring smile, and she nodded eagerly. "I am. But..." she hesitated, her tone turning gentle, "I'm sorry it's under these circumstances."

Her sincerity caught me off guard for a moment, and all I could do was nod in response. She wasn't just saying it—she meant it. That was the thing about Lea. She never said anything just to fill the silence.

I smoothed my skirt and took a deep breath. "I just hope... I hope everything goes smoothly today," I said, more to myself than to her.

Her reflection didn't move as she studied me for a moment, her dark eyes filled with quiet understanding.