Diana and Daniel lay side by side on his bed, catching their breath after a playful bout of wrestling. The room was warm and quiet, their laughter fading into the stillness.
Diana glanced at the clock, letting out a small sigh. "Carmine will be home soon, so I need to head up."
She didn't really want to go. It was peaceful lying there with Daniel, and the attic always felt a bit more isolated. Still, she slid to the edge of the bed, her feet touching the floor, though she remained sitting. That's when she noticed something odd—the floor wasn't as cluttered as usual.
"Did you clean your room?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Daniel shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah," he muttered with a small nod, a bit embarrassed. "Sort of."
Diana smiled knowingly but didn't push further. With a playful sigh, she stood up from the bed, brushing her hair out of her face as she stretched. "I'm heading up," she said, walking over to the pull-down steps. Grabbing the handrails, she climbed up quickly, her movements familiar.
Once inside the attic, she reached back to pull the steps up, locking them into place with a soft click. The room was dim, the only light filtering in from the edges of the small, closed window on the far side. The air felt cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of Daniel's room below.
Diana made her way across the attic, her fingers brushing against the small wooden shutter. She unlatched it and pushed it open, letting the sunlight pour in and chase away the shadows. The light illuminated the space, revealing the bits and pieces she had gathered over time.
In the corner stood an old, rusty clothing rack where she had hung the few pieces she deemed wearable. The rest of the clothes—the ones that didn't quite make the cut—sat in a faded box, tucked into the far shadows where they'd stay forgotten for now. Near the entrance, stacks of bottled water sat neatly in a corner, and a box filled with snacks rested beside them, all within easy reach from her makeshift bed.
Next to the clothing rack, Diana had propped up an old mirror she'd found and cleaned. Its frame was chipped, the glass a bit cloudy, but it served its purpose. She glanced at it briefly as she walked past, feeling a strange sense of familiarity with her own reflection, something that hadn't always been the case.
Her mattress, a thin, well-worn thing, lay directly on the floor. Next to it, a small lamp and her writing materials sat by the electrical socket. Diana had considered bringing up a table, but that would've drawn too much attention—even in a house as cluttered as this one. For now, she was content to work on the floor.
Diana let out a small sigh and collapsed onto the mattress, her arms spread out as she stared up at the dim ceiling. The room felt strangely still, her usual distractions missing. No buzzing phone, no flicker of screens—just her and the quiet.
"Damn," she muttered, half-laughing to herself. "I really sound like someone who can't live without the internet."
She shifted slightly, glancing down at her body. The sense of unfamiliarity that had once haunted her every glance had long since faded. She was used to it now—the curve of her arms, the shape of her legs—it felt familiar, like it had always been this way.
As she looked down, an idea slowly began to form in her mind.