I woke to the feeling of warmth, not my own, and the gentle tug of a breath that didn't belong to me.
For a moment, I didn't move. My arm was stretched across Harper's waist, my forehead nearly resting against her shoulder. The sheets were tangled between us, and the air held that particular stillness that comes right before the world starts up again.
Then—she laughed.
It was quiet, almost a whisper of a sound, but it rolled through me like thunder. I froze.
"Oh my God," I muttered, instantly pulling back, heart leaping straight into panic mode. "I—I must've rolled over in my sleep."
Harper chuckled, her voice still drowsy. "Or maybe the rosé took over and you got a little snuggly."
I sat up, brushing my hair away from my face, trying to breathe normally. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—like, actually—sleep on your bed.
"It's okay," she said easily, yawning. "You were half asleep and mumbling something about city lights and heartbreak. I figured you needed the company."
Heat bloomed across my face. I looked away, desperate to find something—anything—to fixate on besides the easy way she smiled at me, like none of this meant more than a harmless sleepover. Like she hadn't felt the way I curled into her warmth or the weight of all the things I hadn't said.
Harper threw off the covers and stood, stretching her arms overhead. "Anyway, no regrets. Just maybe fewer drinks next time."
I nodded, mouth dry. "Right. Fewer drinks."
The conference wrapped up in the usual haze of check-out lines, half-empty coffee cups, and last-minute selfies. Maya made us pose by the hotel's ugly indoor fountain while Dani tried to barter for extra branded notepads from the event staff.
Everyone looked a little worn out but lighter—like we'd all survived something mildly grueling and were bonded because of it.
I kept sneaking glances at Harper.
She hadn't brought up the bed again. Not even in a teasing way. Just went back to casual, breezy Harper—the version that could talk to everyone and somehow belong everywhere.
And I? I belonged to the space behind her, walking too close, smiling too easily, saying too little.
The ride home was quiet. Rae had left early, and Harper sat next to me on the shuttle, earbuds in, humming softly to whatever indie playlist lived in her phone.
I stared out the window, watching the buildings thin into trees and the sky begin its shift toward gold.
My head leaned against the cool glass, but my thoughts were warm, restless. I wanted to ask her what she remembered—if anything. I wanted her to say that waking up next to me made her heart flutter too. But she didn't.
She tapped my knee when we pulled up to our stop. "Back to reality," she whispered with a grin.
I smiled, though something in me wilted.
Monday came too fast.
The office was the same shade of beige it had always been—same carpet, same fake ficus near the elevator, same printer that moaned like it was dying every time it worked.
But I wasn't the same.
I sat at my desk and stared at the inbox that had exploded in my absence. Everyone was bustling about, catching up, trading stories.
Harper breezed in ten minutes late, her conference badge still dangling from her tote. She plopped into her chair across from mine and waved at the team.
"So," she said loudly, "anyone want to hear about Carly's wine-fueled poetry recitation?"
I whipped my head around. "Harper—"
"Oh don't worry," she said with a wink. "She was adorable. Whispering to the stars and everything. Very romantic."
Everyone laughed. Even Ethan.
I laughed too, because I had to. But I was also quietly dying inside.
Later that day, we sat in a meeting with Ms. Grafton reviewing the project timeline. Harper leaned over during the slide presentation and whispered, "You're not mad, are you?"
I blinked. "What? No."
"I just thought it was funny." Her voice was low, apologetic. "But if I crossed a line, I'll chill."
I wanted to tell her the only line she crossed was the one I was trying to draw between friend and something else—and how I'd failed at it.
Instead, I said, "It's fine. It was a wild night."
She smiled and nudged me with her elbow. "Still friends?"
Always. Even when it hurts.
That evening, I found myself alone in the office, finishing up a slide deck due in the morning. Everyone else had already gone.
I was on the last few slides when Harper walked past my desk, tote bag slung over her shoulder.
"Still here?" she asked.
I nodded. "Almost done."
She leaned on the edge of my cubicle wall, smiling. "You always work late when you're thinking too much."
"Maybe I just have a lot to do."
Harper tilted her head. "Hey… seriously. Thanks again for being cool this weekend. I know it was a mess, but you made it kind of fun."
I looked up at her, heart knocking hard against my ribs. "It was fun," I said quietly. "Parts of it."
She hesitated, then added, "You're a good friend, Carly. One of the best I've got."
There it was again. Friend.
I smiled, but it felt like folding a paper crane with hands that were shaking.
"You too."
She gave a little wave and disappeared down the hallway. Her footsteps faded, and then the silence returned.
I sat for a long time, staring at the blinking cursor on my screen.
Maybe friendship was enough.
Maybe not.
The next morning, I stood at the office bathroom sink, washing my hands, when Dani walked in and paused beside me, her eyes catching mine in the mirror.
She smirked. "You and Harper, huh?"
I glanced at her, confused. "What about us?"
Dani shrugged as she pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. "Nothing. Just… you two seemed like really good friends at the conference. Close. Like you get each other."
I reached for a towel of my own, trying not to show too much on my face. "Yeah. I guess we just clicked."
"She doesn't open up much, you know," Dani said casually, leaning against the counter. "Not like that. But with you—it looked different. Like she was actually relaxed."
I gave a tight smile and focused on drying my hands. "She's easy to talk to."
Dani nodded. "I noticed. That's all. I think it's nice."
I tossed the paper towel in the bin. "Thanks."
She didn't press. Just gave me a knowing look before heading out the door.
I lingered a little longer, staring at my own reflection.
Just good friends.
That was all anyone saw.
That was all I let them see.
By Friday, things had almost returned to normal—status meetings, coffee runs, group chats full of memes. But I noticed every little thing now.
The way Harper leaned in when she laughed. The way she said my name like it meant something. The way her eyes softened when she looked at me.
She didn't know.
And I didn't tell her.
But some days, I wanted to.
Some days, I imagined her waking up beside me again—but choosing it.
One afternoon, we went out for lunch as a group. Maya brought up Rae, asking Harper when they'd next hang out.
Harper lit up. "Oh, next weekend. She's dragging me to this absurd brunch thing with Loe."
Loe.
I'd almost forgotten. Not really. But I'd let myself pretend for a moment that he wasn't part of the picture. That she wasn't already spoken for.
I nodded slowly and stabbed my fork into a piece of lettuce I no longer wanted.
On Sunday night, I pulled out the old tarot deck from the back of my closet.
The box was worn, edges faded, but the cards still felt familiar in my hands. I shuffled slowly, breathing in the quiet of my bedroom.
I laid out three cards, face down.
The past. The present. The future.
I flipped them one by one.
A cup emptied. A heart turned inward. A star, distant and shining, just out of reach.
I didn't believe in magic anymore.
But some part of me still wished it could tell me if this ache would end—or begin again.