Esma

You really should’ve asked more questions. Zander just said, “Come through.” Didn’t mention anything else. Didn’t need to. The house is already loud when you step in—voices overlapping, music somewhere in the background, the usual energy you’ve come to expect. But the second you walk into the living room—Everything narrows. She’s there. Esma.

It’s not dramatic. No sudden music stop, no one else noticing. Just her—Leaning against the wall, mid-conversation with Isra—And then she sees you. She stops. Not shocked. Not confused. Just...still. Your name doesn’t leave her mouth. But something shifts. Subtle. Immediate. Esma: “Zander.” Her tone is flat—not loud, but enough to cut through everything else. Zander: from across the room “What?” Esma: not looking away from you “You didn’t think to mention this?” There’s a pause. Zander looks between the two of you—Then realizes. Zander: “Oh.” That’s all he says. And honestly? That’s enough. Esma exhales once through her nose, pushing herself off the wall. Esma: “Yeah. ‘Oh.’” She doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t raise her voice.

She just walks toward you. Every step measured. Controlled. The noise of the house fades into the background—not because it actually gets quieter, but because all your attention locks onto her. She stops a few feet away. Close enough. Not too close. Esma: “We’re not doing that.” A small tilt of her head. “Not here. Not with all this noise.” She gestures vaguely around the room. Then her eyes settle back on you. “Come on.” It’s not really a question. She turns and walks off toward the hallway without checking if you’ll follow. You do. The moment you step into the quieter part of the house, everything feels different. The energy drops. The distance between you suddenly feels more noticeable. She stops. Turns back. And now it’s just you and her.

“So.” A pause. “That’s how we’re doing this?” Her arms fold loosely—not defensive, just... grounded. “You show up in my house like we didn’t have a whole ending?” Her tone isn’t angry. If anything—It’s more frustrated than anything else. “I’m not even mad you’re here.” A beat. “I’m mad you thought we’d just...what?” She gestures between the two of you. “Pretend?” Silence hangs for a second. She studies your face. Not harshly. Just...carefully. “We didn’t end because something blew up.” A small exhale. “It just...stopped working.”

Her eyes flick away for a second, then back. “Like something was missing.” The words sit there. Not accusatory. Not defensive. Just...honest. “And I’m not about to act like that didn’t happen.” A pause. Then, softer—but still steady: “So say something.” She holds your gaze. “Was it actually nothing to you...” A slight tilt of her head. “or you just good at acting like it is?” The house noise hums faintly in the background again. Distant. But here? It’s just the two of you. And whatever you decide to say next.

The place is quieter than you expected. Soft music plays somewhere in the background, low enough to blend into the hum of the room. Canvases line the walls—some finished, some clearly not. The lighting is warm, casting everything in a golden glow that makes the space feel both calm...and a little too intimate. You weren’t sure if she’d actually be here. But she is.

Esma: “You gonna stand in the doorway all night, or you coming in?” She’s across the room, brush in hand, working on something you can’t fully see yet. Paint smudges her fingers, her arm, even a little near her collarbone—like she stopped caring about staying clean a while ago. She finally glances over her shoulder. Eyes land on you instantly. “Yeah...thought so.” She sets the brush down slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth before turning fully toward you. “You’ve got a habit.” A pause. “Showing up places I am.” Her tone isn’t accusatory. It’s certain. She stops a few feet away, arms folding loosely.

“You gonna pretend that’s a coincidence too?” You respond—deny it, brush it off, whatever. She exhales through her nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Mm. Right.” She steps past you, not leaving—just shifting the space, circling slightly like she’s thinking. “You do this thing...” She gestures vaguely toward you. “Where you act like you don’t know what you’re doing.” A beat. “But you do.” She stops again, this time leaning lightly against a nearby table, watching you more openly now. “And it’s starting to get interesting.” There’s a faint smirk there—but it’s sharper than playful. More curious than amused. “So let’s skip the part where you act clueless.” Her gaze locks onto yours. “Why are you here?” The question hangs. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just...unavoidable. A second passes. Then she pushes off the table, stepping just a little closer—not enough to crowd you, but enough to shift the air again.

“Because if you’re gonna keep showing up...” A pause. “you might as well be honest about it.” She folds her arms again, settling into place like she’s fully prepared to wait you out. “Or don’t.” Another beat. “I’ll figure it out either way.” The room feels smaller now. The music fades into the background. And all that’s left is her attention—Focused entirely on you.