I smile at that. “Yeah, exactly.”

She turns to me, her expression softer now. “Okay, so if you could do anything—like, no limits, no ‘but what ifs’—what would you want to do with your art?”

The question catches me off guard. I’ve always drawn, always sketched, but I’ve never really thought about it in those terms. It’s always just been mine. A way to see the world differently.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think… I’d want to do work that lasts. Work that makes people feel deeply. Like, when you look at a painting, and it just hits you, you know?”

Celeste nods, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. That’s how I feel when I hear a song that just gets me.”

For a moment, we just sit there, the usual teasing giving way to a quieter moment, unspoken but understood.

Then she ruins it.

“Okay, but if you did start a band, you’d totally have to be the mysterious, brooding artist type. I can see it now: dark eyeliner, tragic backstory, only speaking in poetic metaphors—”

I groan, chucking a nail polish bottle at her. “Oh my God, Celeste.”

She cackles, throwing her head back but still somehow dodging the flying bottle effortlessly. “I’m just saying! We’d make a great duo.”

Valkyrie, as if in agreement, lets out a low woof before dramatically flopping onto her side.

I shake my head, laughing. “I’ll stick to sketching, thanks.”

“Fine, fine,” Celeste concedes. “But when you inevitably change your mind, I get to be your manager.”

“Deal,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But only if you promise to stop trying to set my love life on fire.”

She grins. “No promises.”

14

Selene

I stand in front of my closet, my arms crossed, glaring at the disaster zone I’ve created. Clothes are everywhere—draped over the bed, piled on the chair, half-folded, and then abandoned on the floor. Nothing feels right.

Celeste, who has been lying on my bed like a lounging cat, lets out a very dramatic sigh. “Selene, babe, you’re in hell. I can see it. I can feel it.” She gestures vaguely toward my pile of discarded clothes. “But it’s time to face facts: you’re never going to find the perfect outfit, because you’ll never think it’s perfect.”

I groan, grabbing another sweater off a hanger and holding it up against myself. “I just—ugh, I don’t know. I want to look cute but not like I’m trying to look cute, and I don’t want to seem like I care too much, even though I obviously care way too much.”