Chapter Five: The Familiar Stranger

(POV – Clarice)

The apartment is too quiet.

Which is funny, because I like quiet. I work best in silence, I think best in silence—honestly, I thrive in it.

But this?

This silence feels different.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders as I scan the living room, hands on my hips like I’m about to evaluate a project scope.

James’s apartment isn’t messy. It’s not chaotic. It’s just… James.

Which is to say, it has zero symmetry, no obvious organizational system, and an impressive number of random objects that shouldn’t belong together but somehow do.

I pick up a book from the coffee table. It’s an architecture book. Of course.

Underneath it? A Morbius comic.

I squint.

A man in his thirties, with a degree, a career, and an allegedly functional brain, is out here stacking academic texts on top of Marvel comics like that makes sense.

I roll my eyes and toss the book back.

But it gets worse.

The bookshelf is a mystery zone. One side looks normal—novels, reference books, the standard intellectual nonsense. But then, shoved into the mix like some kind of psychological experiment, is:

• A Rubik’s Cube (unsolved, obviously).

• A jar of coins, which, if this was three years ago, I would have sworn for a fact that James has never traveled enough to collect.

• A small ceramic owl, which I pick up before immediately putting back because I refuse to analyze why it’s there.

And the worst offender?

A random shoelace, tied in a perfect bow, sitting on top of a hardcover like it’s an art exhibit.

I stare at it, baffled. There is no logical explanation for this.

Maybe it’s a secret test.

Maybe, right now, James is sitting in my apartment, laughing to himself because he knows I’ll see this and lose my mind.

I should be concerned.

Instead, I laugh.

A real, actual laugh. The kind I haven’t had in days.

I shake my head, moving toward the bedroom.

The bed is neatly made, which immediately tells me he only did that because he knew I’d be staying here.

Classic James.

He probably wrestled with the sheets, muttering about how “beds aren’t meant to be tucked in like military barracks,” but still did it anyway—because, deep down, he knows me too well.

The thought makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t like.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my hand over the comforter. The room smells like him—clean, warm, familiar in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.

I turn, my gaze landing on his nightstand.

There’s a small stack of books. A watch. A pen.

And underneath it all, almost hidden from view—

A framed photo.

I hesitate, then reach for it.

It’s of us.

Taken years ago, at a New Year’s Eve party. I’m laughing at something, mid-motion, and James is looking at me, grinning.

I exhale slowly, my fingers tightening around the frame.

I thought he would’ve gotten rid of this.

Or packed it away.

Or at least shoved it in a drawer, far from sight.

But no. It’s here. Sitting right there, like it still belongs.

I put the photo down carefully, suddenly feeling unsteady.

I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t feel anything about this.

But standing here, in the middle of his space, surrounded by pieces of his life, knowing he’s somewhere else, surrounded by pieces of mine—

It’s unsettling.

Because this apartment isn’t mine.

I don’t belong in James’s world anymore.

And yet…

My fingers twitch, like they’re fighting the urge to fix something. Straighten a stack of books. Align the coffee table with the rug. Bring order to his space, the way I always used to.

The way I once thought I’d be doing for a lifetime.

I shake my head, pushing off the bed. I grab my bag and unzip it, determined to anchor myself in something. I pull out my laptop, my phone charger, a spare notebook—things that make sense.

Things I can control.

I set them up on his desk.

And for the first time since I walked in, something feels right.

Not comfortable. Not easy.

Just… right.

At least for now.