Chapter Four: Welcome to the Museum

(POV – James)

The very moment I step into Clarice’s apartment, I know I don’t belong here.

Not in a tragic, existential crisis way—more in a -this place is so pristine that I might actually be violating some sort of air quality standard just by breathing in it- way.

I set my suitcase down and take a slow look around, half expecting to hear a museum tour guide whispering facts about the rare and endangered species of throw pillows she has arranged symmetrically on her couch.

Everything is perfectly placed.

The bookshelves are color-coded. The kitchen counter has exactly zero clutter. The coffee table has a decorative tray with an unlit candle, a tiny succulent, and a stack of coasters that look like they’ve never been touched.

I open the fridge, just out of curiosity.

Of course.

Perfectly arranged groceries, neatly labeled containers, and a very real possibility that she’s running a secret underground food storage consulting business.

I bite back a laugh, shaking my head.

Yep. This is exactly how I imagined it.

Clarice, Queen of Organization.

I close the fridge, leaning against the counter, and sigh.

It’s funny. This level of order should make me feel calm—like stepping into a perfectly designed, functional space where nothing is out of place.

But instead, it makes me feel like a giant walking contradiction.

Because I used to think I knew everything about Clarice. And yet, standing here, I feel like a stranger in her world.

I head toward the bookshelf, running my fingers over the spines. Some of these books I remember—classics she used to re-read, technical manuals she claimed were “relaxing” (which is still weird, by the way).

Then I spot something that makes me do a double take.

A tiny stuffed Unicorn, sitting neatly on one of the shelves, almost hidden between two books.

I freeze.

Because I know this Unicorn.

It’s the one I won for her at a carnival four years ago—the same night she kept insisting that the ring toss was rigged, even though I managed to land three in a row.

I remember handing it to her and saying, “There. Proof that I can accomplish at least one useful thing in life.”

And I remember her laughing, tucking it under her arm, and saying, “Fine. But if I find out later that you bribed the carnie, I’m keeping the Unicorn anyway.”

I stare at it now, a stupid lump forming in my throat.

I was sure she would’ve thrown it away.

Or donated it.

Or at least buried it deep in a storage box, far from sight.

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

I exhale and shake my head, swallowing the weird tightness in my chest.

It’s just a stuffed Unicorn.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Right?… Right.

I move away from the bookshelf, rubbing the back of my neck.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this.

I shouldn’t be feeling anything about this.

This whole apartment swap was supposed to be a mild inconvenience—something to tolerate for a month before going back to normal.

But standing here, in the middle of her world, surrounded by her things, knowing she’s somewhere else, walking through my space…

It’s messing with my head more than I thought it would.

Because it’s not just that this apartment is different from mine.

It’s that it still feels so completely her. For her.

And the part I don’t want to admit?

I still remember exactly how that feels.