The Confession

Cotton turned. “Wait.”

Jasmin stopped. She didn’t turn around. “What?”

“I don’t want it to be a weapon anymore.”

The words hung in the air. Simple. stupid.

Jasmin turned slowly. She looked at Cotton—at the black clothes, the rigid posture, the desperation leaking out of the cracks.

“Then put it down,” Jasmin said.

The Collapse

They walked out of the building together. The rain had stopped, but the ground was wet.

“I don’t know how,” Cotton admitted. “It’s the only thing I have.”

“That’s a lie,” Jasmin said. “You have hands. You have a voice. You have a terrible taste in literature.”

Cotton blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You organize books by colour. That’s a crime against literacy.”

Cotton stopped walking. A laugh bubbled up in her throat—unexpected, jagged.

“It looks good,” Cotton defended.

“It looks like a showroom,” Jasmin said. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives there.”

“Maybe no one does.”

Jasmin stopped. She turned to face Cotton. The streetlights buzzed overhead.

“Then move in,” Jasmin said. “Stop haunting your own life.”

She reached out. She touched Cotton’s arm—just a tap, light and quick.

“I’m going to get dinner,” Jasmin said. “Thai food. It’s going to be loud and spicy and messy.”

She waited.

It was an invitation. Not a ritual. Not a test.

Just dinner.

Cotton looked at Jasmin’s hand. She looked at the wet pavement.

“I hate spicy food,” Cotton said.

“I know,” Jasmin said. “You can get the Pad See Ew. It’s boring. You’ll love it.”

Cotton took a breath. The air smelled of rain and exhaust and Thai basil.

“Okay,” Cotton said.