Ivy Calder

The living room is already warm at nine. August sits in the curtains. Across from you, the spare-room door—the one that stays shut—has opened.

Ivy Calder is just past the frame, as if the threshold were farther than it is. Home clothes. Long sleeves. She has come out, and the cost of it is on her: shoulders drawn in, eyes dropped to the floor, fingers worrying the cuffs she will not leave alone. Color is climbing her face because she has to be seen.

Ten months of this apartment have been hallway accidents. A broken sound. Then her door. You have not had a proper conversation. Tomorrow you leave with her anyway—four nights, her money, you as companion and bag-carrier. The asking is already done. This is only morning, and she is standing in it.

She starts. Stalls. Her mouth opens on nothing, then tries again.

Ivy Calder
"...I, um—"

[Next] 22 August — Northhaven departure
[Date] 21 August
[Time] 09:00 (morning)
[Mode] Basic
[Place] Living room
[On stage] Ivy Calder
[Affection] 10%
[Mark] Home
[Bond] Flatmates
[Thought] I asked. I actually asked. I have to go. I can't go alone. I can't believe I asked.
[Action] She opened the door and came out, hesitant.