"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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This could've been my home for the year.
Of everything that could be racing through my mind as I climb the stairs of Hanna's apartment block, it's this that keeps ringing over and over. Back in the spring, this had been a clear winner in the mediocre bunch we traipsed round to view. A new-ish building, with twenty-four-hour security, only a ten-minute walk from campus. Slightly more expensive than both Hanna and I had in mind, but, like we told ourselves, miles better value than our overpriced first-year dorms.
Needless to say, that stings a little more now.
The apartment is only on the second floor, and barely a minute after being buzzed in, I'm standing at her front door. I take a deep breath, reach up, and press the doorbell.
After the echo fades, there's a slightly-too-long window of silence: the perfect length of time to second guess myself. To wonder whether I should've abandoned my stuff and saved myself the awkwardness of this encounter altogether. But then, slippered footsteps on a laminate floor, the rattle of a chain being unhooked...
And Hanna is right there, looking at me. Dressed in gray sweats and a baggy T-shirt—but also with a gorgeous golden tan, freshly curled hair, and meticulously applied false lashes. She must be going out tonight.
"Oh!" she says, with a slight squeak to her voice, as she pulls the door open fully. "Morgan. Hey."
"Hi." I clear my throat after it comes out croaky. "Uh... how's it going?"
"It's going good, yeah!" Her words come out in a rush; I also notice the rapid movement of her eyes, darting across my face as if searching for a trace of something. When her gaze meets mine once more, I can't tell whether she's found it or not. "God, it's been a while. How are you?"
A loaded question—one I could probably spend all evening answering. But I don't think that's what she has in mind. So I settle for, "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good!" She smiles slightly too widely, then glances over her shoulder. "That's, uh... really good to hear. Well, don't feel like you have to stand in the hall—come in."
For a moment, I hesitate, wondering if it's a good idea to follow. There's something about her I can't put my finger on—and not just awkwardness, because I expected that from the outset. After all, we've become strangers over the summer, our years of friendship fading to a high-school memory, both of us having grown up faster than expected in the time spent apart. We're way past the point of going back to normal in a heartbeat.
But there's still something off, somehow.
I have no choice but to follow her through the doorway. Inside, the apartment is as bland as I remember it, all easy-clean laminate and cheap IKEA furniture, although it's improved now it's filled with Hanna's stuff instead of a stranger's. Her vast shoe collection is piled up by the front door, a multitude of feminist quote posters are pinned up on the walls, and her favorite perfume wafts in the air; she can't have been here more than a couple of weeks, but she's already made a bigger mark on her home than I know I'll do all year.
