Mila Wilson is quiet, anxious and a little bit of a mess. Panic attacks have ruled her life for as long as she can remember - but starting college is her chance to take control. Love? Not something she believes she's built for.
Then she meets Jace E...
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I blink, caught off guard by his question. "So, I'm staying tonight?" I ask, even though the answer seems obvious from his tone.
"Yeah, stay," Jace says casually, like it's the simplest thing in the world. It's not simple to me. Not really. But I nod, because I like every second I get to be with him. Even when we're quiet. Especially then.
"I wouldn't mind just staying in, but it's up to you," I say after a pause, trying to sound casual, like I'm not already overthinking what staying in entails.
"Yeah, that's fine with me," he says, and I check the time. It's only five in the evening. The thought of hours stretched ahead—without movement, without structure—makes something coil inside me. Stillness can be too loud. Sometimes it gets under my skin until I feel like I'm crawling from the inside. But maybe I'll be alright tonight. Maybe with him, I won't get that way.
"So, movie night it is?" Jace leans in and plants a featherlight kiss on my cheek.
"Sounds good," I smile, warming from the simple affection.
"Alright, let me set up," he says as we both rise.
He moves toward the living room, and I instinctively reach for my phone, thumbing through Instagram. A blur of tiny dresses, tropical trips, and perfect poses floods my screen—mostly girls from high school who seemed to glide through adolescence on invisible high heels. And now, apparently, into adulthood, too. They look flawless. Polished. Like they never doubt themselves.
I haven't posted in a while, and I get a flicker of something that feels like defiance. I'm different now. My new tattoo feels like a small badge of that difference. Maybe even a symbol. A statement. I know I'm being a little vain, a little hypocritical, but I shrug it off. Everyone is, sometimes.
I slip off my sweater, revealing the black spaghetti-strap top underneath, and walk toward the full-length mirror by Jace's bathroom. The mirror's frame is a rich dark brown, and there's a massive leafy plant beside it—his place is filled with these tiny thoughtful touches that make it feel more like a home than any space I've ever lived in. The floors, warm wood under my feet, ground me somehow. It all fits.
I adjust the top, subtly pushing it tighter so my small cleavage looks a little more flattering. I turn slightly, raising my phone to angle the tattoo into focus, letting my arm hang at just the right tilt. I cover part of my face with the phone, so the post feels intentional—about the ink, not about me. Even if I know better.
I snap a few pictures, adjusting angles and poses, trying to capture something I can't quite name.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jace's voice breaks into my thoughts, amused and just a little incredulous.
I whip around, cheeks flushing. He's watching me like I'm some kind of circus act.
"I'm taking a photo for Instagram," I admit, caught red-handed.
