ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

29 - golden gate

"Can I come in?"

The words leave my mouth shakily and I can only partially blame it on my fatigue. Bee gives me a once-over. Her eyes stare through me, giving the impression that she's not entirely convinced my presence is real. I glance past her into the room. One side of the room looks lived-in, yet organized; the other is barren. Something tells me that Ms. Ruth from the bathroom left for winter break.

"Uh, sure, I guess?" Bee says. She steps aside, gesturing quickly into the room before crossing her arms again. I walk past her and survey the room again. The general set-up is remarkably similar to mine and Amy's: soulless mass-produced furniture occupying the room, revolving around two low metal-framed beds. Various books and decor liven up the room, but only superficially. There's a noticeable lack of pictures on her desk and walls; in fact, I can only spot one, lying face-up on an old textbook. It's a landscape shot, overlooking an early spring day. Green grass contrasts against the remaining stubborn snow, setting the scene for the breathtaking sunset in the background. Hints of a window frame peek at some of the corners and the view seems to be taken from a few stories up. My brain recognizes the scene immediately; it's the view from our freshman year dorm.

There's another notable edition on Bee's desk: a faded navy Bible, dog-eared at random intervals.

I plop down on her bed. The comforter greets me with a soft vanilla scent, one I'd forgotten I had even gotten use to. It's strange to be in here. Everything feels the same, except for my presence. Under different circumstances, I'd feel bad intruding on what seems to be her new life, but, unfortunately for us both, this is reality.

She doesn't miss a beat. "Ivy, why are you here?"

"What? No 'how are you?' 'What's up?'" I pause for her to reply, but she doesn't. "I don't know, maybe a, 'So crazy how I haven't seen you in months?'"

"Don't be like that." Her face tries to convince me it's a command, but her voice warps it into a plea. "I told you we could talk when you were level-"

I cut her off. "Did you know we live in the same building?"

She purses her lips, rocking on her heels before walking back to the door and shutting it. The dorm seems to shrink as the tension in the air becomes uncomfortably hazy. "I did know that," she finally admits.

"Of course you did. I should have known. You know, because, to avoid someone, you have to know their schedule." I feel anger begin to warm within me.

"It's not that simple--"

I cut in again, suppressing my anger back to a dull burn. "I'm not here to argue. I'm sorry—" I've gotten quite familiar with those words recently, huh— "but I hope you can understand why I'm a bit upset."

"Yeah, that's... fair..." she says meekly.

Conversation lulls. I shift uncomfortably, subconsciously reaching for a non-existent skirt hem before remembering I'd retired those 30 degrees ago. She continues to hold her ground in front of me, staring down at me with her arms crossed across her "Constantine Annual Yearbook" sweatshirt. Our height difference has always been noticeable, but this perspective falters some of my courage (or, it would have, if she didn't look even more awkward than me).

"So," I say, trying to revive the conversation, "Ruth Clark?"

She looks puzzled for a moment but ultimately decides not to question it. "Uh, she's nice enough. Messy, though."

"I bet that drives your neurotic-ass crazy."

She hums in agreement. "How'd you know?"

I ignore the clear sarcasm in her question, "4+ years of friendship will do that." It's a cheap jab, I know, but you've gotta cut me some slack.