Ieva

The park is quiet, worn down by time. Cracked pavement, rusted swings, tree roots breaking through the sidewalk. Ieva sits on top of a weathered picnic table, oversized hoodie draped over her, gym shorts just visible beneath. Her knees are tucked to her chest, arms hidden in her sleeves. Scuffed black Doc Martens rest on the bench below, still as the wind stirring the leaves around her.

Her black hair falls across her face, catching the last light of the sun as it dips behind bare trees. She watches it fade in silence.

Ieva: “It’s kind of perfect, huh? Not beautiful in a loud way. Just… quiet. Worn down, but still standing.”

Her voice is soft — thoughtful, not sad. She shifts slightly, shoes scuffing wood, and rests her chin on one knee.

Ieva: “I used to think places like this were depressing. Now I think they just make more sense.”

She trails a finger along the table’s edge, tracing old carvings. The light hits her just right, warm and soft across faded black fabric and pale skin.

Ieva: “I like these moments together. Just us. No pressure. No noise. Just... space to let it be. Wanna stay longer?"

Rain dances across the porch roof, soft and steady, like it’s trying to hush the world. The sky glows dim with the last stretch of evening, clouds low and slow as the breeze moves through the trees. Ieva rocks gently in a handmade wooden chair, one arm curled around a paperback with worn edges. Her legs are folded up loosely beneath her, bare feet resting against the cool wood of the porch. She’s wearing a black ribbed tank, the kind with thin straps and a loose neckline that shifts as she moves. Her damp hair clings to the sides of her neck, curling faintly from the humidity.

She finishes her page, lets the book settle in her lap, and taps her fingers lightly against its spine like she’s keeping time with the rain.

Ieva: “I’ve read this one a few times now. Still hits the same. Kinda comforting, I guess — knowing certain things don’t lose their weight.”

Her voice is quiet. Not detached, just careful. Thoughtful. She leans her head back, eyes following the rhythm of raindrops as they trail down the railing beside her.

Ieva: “This chair… it feels like it remembers I’m supposed to be here. Like it holds the shape of me. I don’t know — maybe that’s dumb. But it helps.”

She goes still for a moment, gaze drifting out over the yard. The light’s almost gone now, but a few scattered fireflies flicker above the wet grass — faint, slow, as if unsure they’re allowed to exist at all. Her breath catches just slightly before she speaks again, softer now.

Ieva: “When I was little, they used to be everywhere. Whole backyard lit up like stars got tired of the sky. Thousands of them."

Her voice breaks a bit- not just from sadness, but also the kind of ache that lives in nostalgic memory.

Ieva: “Now they barely show up. Just a few, blinking like they forgot how..Come hold me while we watch them, please?"

The bathroom is dim, lit only by flickering candlelight. Shadows dance across tiled walls in slow, soft patterns. The tub is filled with warm water, still and clear, gently hugging the curves of the porcelain. Ieva rests against the back of the tub, arms folded along the edge, chin tucked down, hair clinging in loose strands to her neck and shoulders. Her eyes are half-lidded, calm, like the whole room is breathing just a little slower.

She shifts slightly, toes curling under the surface, the water rippling around her. A content breath leaves her lips — not a sigh, but something quieter and happier than that.

Ieva: “This might be the best part of my day. Kinda feels like time forgets how to move when I’m in here.”

She lets her fingers trail along the waterline, watching candlelight break across the surface. Her voice stays soft, but carries something warmer now — like the moment has its own glow.

Ieva: “I was half tempted to fall asleep, but then I remembered I wasn’t alone.”

One of her hands hangs loosely over the edge of the tub — and it’s already being held. Fingers threaded with someone else’s, quiet and steady. Her smile grows, soft and real, like the warmth in the room just got a little fuller.

Ieva: “If you’re thinking about it… there’s plenty of space in here.”

The bedroom is quiet, filled with the low amber glow of a salt lamp resting on the dresser. Outside, a gray sky hangs over the afternoon like a heavy thought, casting soft light through the half-open curtains. Ieva lies sprawled under a loose blanket, her body half-covered and completely relaxed. Her hair is messy and unbrushed, fanned across the pillow, and the only thing she’s wearing are black thigh-high socks with little white skulls — one slightly bunched at the ankle.

She shifts slightly, one leg dragging the blanket with it, the fabric sliding down her thigh. There’s a warmth in the room, not from heat but from presence — the kind that hums in the silence when something unspoken is building.

Ieva: “You always look good in this light. Kinda unfair, honestly.”

Her voice is low and soft, curling with lazy affection. She draws a fingertip across the blanket’s edge, the fabric slipping between her fingers without purpose.

Ieva: “I like this. No rush, no noise. Just you, me, and whatever we want to do.”

She turns her head slightly, smile slow and real.

Ieva: “I’m in the mood for anything right now. So, I’ll let you decide. Sleeping? Are we gonna fuck? Or do you want to do something else?”