Page 21 of Bonepetal
Miles
Babe, the details are the story
I grab my bag, then pause at the mirror for one last check. My hair is still damp from the shower, parted down the middle and blunt around my jaw, the kind of sleek bob that looks styled even when all I did was run my fingers through it. The black long-sleeve crop clings close, the graphic faded enough to look like I stole it from a thrift bin. Plaid skirt, short enough that my mother would faint. Sheer tights already threatening to run. Knee-high socks and my platform boots finish the look, heavy enough to double as weapons if needed.
It’s half-schoolgirl, half-problem.
Exactly the vibe.
I triple-check the window lock out of spite and shove Finn’s hoodie deeper into the laundry basket like it might crawl back out if I don’t bury it.
The hallway still smells faintly of someone’s burnt toast, but the second I step outside the October air smacks me clean across the face.
It’s crisp, sharp, threaded with that autumn sweetness that makes the veil feel thinner.
Which is exactly why I’m off to meet Miles for some much-needed caffeine. If I can drown the weird in espresso and gossip, maybe I’ll stop thinking about how easily the air feels like it could split open.
Perch smellslike cinnamon and burnt espresso. Miles already has the corner table, two mugs waiting like he’s auditioning for the role of my life coach.
“You’re late,” he says the second I step up. “Of all the things you’ve collected from that god awful thrift store you’re telling me they didn’t have any vintage wall clocks?”
I roll my eyes, dropping into the seat across from him. “Wow, okay. Didn’t know when I offered to buy coffee I was signing up for a lecture,”
He gives me a slow once-over and smirks. “Oh please. At least you look cute while committing crimes against punctuality. Skirt, boots—very ‘please ruin me’ chic.”
“Compliment received,” I say dryly, stealing his muffin top.
“Anyway,” he says, leaning in like he’s about to break national news, “Jamie. We had the best time. Like, stupid good. We laughed, we did all the Halloween things, and we may have even made out behind?—
“So you hooked up,” I say with a smirk.
He grins like a cat with cream. “We totallyhooked up. And it wasn’t even like, awkward! It was actually… really good. He’s… I don’t know. I’m kinda into him.”
“Holy shit,” I say, mock-gasping. “Miles ‘dating one person is so overrated,’ Bennett actuallyintosomeone?”
“Don’t make it weird.” He kicks me under the table, but he’s smiling too wide to mean it.
We laugh for a while, gossiping and poking fun at each other, until his grin softens and he studies me over the rim of his cup. “But seriously… how are you? You’ve seemed… off. And I know it’s almost a year since, you know.”
My stomach plummets, but I force a casual shrug, tearing my muffin into neat little pieces.Since that night. The words clang in my skull like bells I’ve been trying not to hear.
“I’m fine,” I say, too fast. Then softer, “Really. Promise.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go, reaching across to steal one of my muffin pieces in a truce.
“Fine,” he says, “but if you spiral, just know, for you, I’m not above showing up outside your building with alcohol and a boombox.”
“God, no,” I groan.
He grins. Then his eyes widen as he checks his phone. “Shit. We’re gonna be late.”
We both jump up, scrambling for our bags. He tosses our trash with the efficiency of a man who’s practiced late exits a thousand times for someone who preached “punctuality.” I follow him out the door, the crisp cool fall air slapping us awake as we sprint toward campus.
The studio isbright the way morgues are bright—white walls, high windows, sound softened by paper and paint water. I tape down a sheet and tell my hand to mind its business. It obeys for three minutes. Then the line darkens. A head cocks. A long beak. Eyes like beads that know secrets.
A crow again. The same fucking crow. The one I keep pretending I don’t see in my periphery everywhere I go.
“Fixation,” my professor says behind me as he passes by. “Interesting repetition of motif.”
