But around that delusion, she’d built nothing. She had no money. Her apartment was a dump. Her friends were her employees and everyone else was behind six inches of bulletproof glass. She’d held Willow at arms-length and acted like falling in love with him was a crime on par with murder. Because she did love him. She loved him from when he first kissed her in that dingy closet, so slow and so sure, his scent enveloping her in safety that defied logic.

He was her wedding dress. A million times more effective than any ballgown, and she hadn’t even offered him a long-distance relationship. Hadn’t suggested they try and make it work. But why would she? She was a fucking kid—living in her baby hovel daydreaming and forgetting to eat. Willow was a grown man. And he deserved a grown woman.

It was eight in the morning when Eden got dressed in jeans and Timberlands and googled the nearest place to buy a vacuum cleaner. She walked the three kilometres, listening to Boris Brejcha play the Grand Palais. She was responsible for at least a million of his thirty-seven million YouTube views, but it was her comfort music, and she’d never needed so much comfort.

A young clerk carried the vacuum to the front of the store for her. “You okay to get this home?”

“I’ll manage.” She staggered a block before finding an old shopping trolley and wheeled it home that way.

Back at her apartment, she realised vacuuming wasn’t a good idea while her floor was covered in garbage. Back out she went, jogging to the corner store to buy trash bags, sponges, surface cleaner, and dusting rags. Chuck, the perennially grumpy server, gave her a weird look. “Have you killed someone?”

Eden laughed. “No.”

He gestured to the rack of multi-coloured energy drinks. “Any of those?”

“No thanks. I’m already pretty energised.”

“I can see that. Tap the machine.”

She started in her bedroom, organising her clothes into piles—wash, trash, keep, and charity. Soon she had six garbage bags filled and her washing machine was running at top speed. She dusted all surfaces, clearing caterpillars of grime from her lampshades and bedhead. When she was done, she vacuumed five years of dirt out of the floor, revealing the carpet in all its emerald glory. When she was done, her bedroom looked like an actual human woman lived there. She moved on to her studio, trashing old bongs and KitKat wrappers and dusting speakers that were grey with fur, and then she moved to the kitchen.

The sun was setting when she’d finished wiping her cupboards. She’d listened to nine full-length trance sets, come up with a new song, and her apartment looked like a place a person wouldn’t be ashamed to live in.

To celebrate, she ordered Thai food from the place Willow chose after they role played.