As with anything magical, it ended a little too soon.

Emma waved us in when she spotted us lingering outside the door. She walked to her phone and paused the music. Its odd position suggested that it had been tossed in frustration next to the mirror-covered wall earlier.

She grinned when Ace and I entered the room. The brightness of her smile, paired with the glitter of her dress, highlighted the golden flecks of her hazel eyes.

"Kelly," she said with enthusiasm in her voice—the kind that I had never felt or expressed as far as I could remember. "It's been forever."

I nodded, keeping myself from sputtering that it had only been three weeks.

Emma plopped down on the laminate floor and crossed one delicate calf over the other. She took wild gulps from her water bottle, wrinkling the plastic beneath her elongated fingers.

There was a newfound glimmer in Ace's eyes as he watched Emma catch her breath.

I had not spent much time with both of them but, as I studied them now, I decided there was truth to the old expression about opposites attracting.

Emma was dedicated to her interests, showing stubborn loyalty to her work. Ace had no idea what he was doing with his life.

He sauntered from hobby to hobby as a carefree butterfly would, never quite pursuing one long enough to care about it.

Memories of crumpled music sheets, portrait sketches, loop stations, and gardening gloves skipped around in my mind, and I shook my head in amusement.

Despite their differences, Ace and Emma somehow made it work. I wondered if Thomas and I could have managed it if we hadn't given up.

"Coffee?" Ace took a seat next to her, and she took the cup with the eagerness of a child.

"What are you rehearsing for, Emma?" I rested my back against the mirrors, remaining mindful of the pressure of my weight.

"The homecoming showcase," she said. I had heard of the annual performance that the Performing Arts department put up towards the beginning of the fall semester. "I get to do the contemporary number. It's never been my strong suit." Emma made a face before taking a sip of her coffee that was in all likelihood no longer hot nor pleasant.

If that was an example of the style she wasn't good at, I didn't think my heart could survive her best.

"It's sort of a big deal," Ace said. "It's the one performance where she gets to have complete artistic liberty."

His grin drew attention to the scar on his right cheek—the result of his temporary interest in rock-climbing, last month.

Emma beamed. "He's making it sound more important than it is."

"It's all you talk about," Ace pointed out, nudging her.

"How's your writing class going? Is Crawford cutting you some slack?" Emma asked.

The expectant expressions Emma and Ace wore as they waited for an answer made me realize that it wasn't an accident that we hadn't hung out in a while.

I didn't want to disappoint them. Or worse—make them feel bad for me.

"Yeah, everything's fine."

Emma's eyes narrowed, but she didn't insist. 

"Oh, how's Thomas doing? We should hang out again soon. He wa—" Emma's sentence trailed off when she noticed Ace shaking his head.

I didn't want to talk about Thomas, but if it would keep the conversation off writing, I could go on for hours.

"Thomas and I didn't work out. We—He ended it yesterday. It's okay, really," I added when Emma patted my shoulder. "We hadn't been together for that long, anyway. We weren't getting along. I think it was for the best."

Thomas had had enough of the mood swings influenced by however I felt about writing at the moment. We went on dates when I felt inspired. I called him when the words came easy. I cancelled when the page stayed blank and picked fights with him when the words ran away from me.

Writing dictated my life.

The only real surprise was that Thomas put up with it for four months.

My phone rang. I scrambled to silence the call, but Ace was too quick. He cleared his throat, having noticed the name on my caller ID.

I had no real problem with Mom, besides her general disapproval of my career choice. We had never gotten along well. So, as soon as I had graduated from high school, I didn't think twice about leaving California. I gave her a call every holiday and mentioned my heavy workload as the reason I never visited.

That was as much as I could handle right now.

"Hey," Emma said as her fingers ran up and down my arm, "I miss you. Let's do something together soon." She shot a brief glance at Ace before mouthing not-so-subtly, "Without him."

I laughed as Ace feigned indignation.

Emma's face scrunched in a frown, and I knew she wouldn't let me dodge any question if the two of us hung out. She'd get everything out of me. I had never been good at hiding from her.

"Of course," I told her. "Let's do it."

Promising to text her about it soon, I walked out of the practice room, leaving Ace and Emma there discussing dance and his latest hobbies.

I wandered around campus before finally heading towards the nearest parking lot.

The sun, still spiteful, followed me all the way to my car.

➷➷➷

Later that afternoon, I entered my apartment and watched light gnaw the darkness away at the flip of a switch.

I plopped down on the couch, debating whether I should call the number on the card or not.

Working with a talented, published writer would be a privilege. My last chance at staying in the program. But I couldn't shake the feeling that working with Miles Whitman for one summer wouldn't fix what I hadn't managed to fix in two-and-a-half years of college.

As I fiddled with my phone, I wavered from excitement to self-doubt.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed the numbers on my phone and called. It barely rang at all before someone answered.

"Hello, you've reached Triple W. How can we help you?"

My temples throbbed at the sound of her voice, loaded with over-the-top eagerness.

"Um, hi. This is Kelly Rivers," I said, hesitating. "Mr. Crawford recommended me for a mentorship with Miles Whitman...?"

A pause on the other side made me doubt everything I had just said. Even my name.

"That's right. Mr. Whitman's looking forward to meeting you. When can you come in to meet him?"

Now, the impatient voice in my head screamed. Instead, I went for a more rational answer, "Monday morning is fine if that works for Mr. Whitman."

"How does 9:30 sound?"

After confirming the date and time, I dropped the phone somewhere, having a hard time processing completely what had just happened.

Only after hanging up did I realize this was insane. I had not asked enough questions. What did this mentorship even entail? I assumed I would have to write. But it took me a week full of sleepless nights to meet Mr. Crawford's 2,000 words requirement for my last story. How often would I need to go to Triple W?

I had worked at the closest public library for two years, organizing and shelving, and reading fairy tales to kids until the mere thought of saying "once upon a time" again made me nauseous.

This wouldn't even be a job, so what would motivate me to see it through?

The thought of telling Ace and Emma the good news—or whatever news this was!—crossed my mind, but I soon found myself pulling up my homework instead.

Socializing could always wait, but the deadlines on my French, sociology, calculus, philosophy, and fiction writing classes would not humor me.

Hours later as I struggled through pages of French grammaire, a frantic knock startled me out of my unproductive concentration.

Looking through the peephole, I noticed a woman that didn't look familiar. Her bright clothing contrasted with the gray strands of her hair.

She waved as if she could sense me staring from where I was.

No way I could just ignore the knock now like I was planning to do.

I opened the door and gave her my most polite smile. "Hello. What can I do for you?" I said, hoping that she would say she knocked on the wrong door so that we could both return to more important things.

"Kelly, right?" she asked, the wrinkles multiplying as she smiled back. "I'm Marge. I've been meaning to come and talk to you since you moved in."

"I moved in two years ago," I pointed out.

She dismissed my comment with a trembling wave of her hand. "Well, when you get old, girlie, every day will be yesterday to you too." She nodded towards something behind me. "May I come in?"

I looked back into the apartment. Besides my workspace that was covered in tissues, scratches, scribblings, and Post-it Notes everywhere, the living room looked decent.

I backed away from the entrance so she could enter, still not sure why she even wanted to. "How do you know my name?"

"I know things," Marge mumbled.

I stared blankly.

"Sorry," Marge said. "I used to earn a living pretending to be a fortune-teller. Some things stick."

She plopped down on the couch and looked around, her gaze lingering on the ceiling and the walls.

"I'm your next-door neighbor. These walls are so thin—I can hear everything from the other side."

"Can I get you anything, Marge?" I asked instead of saying what I was actually thinking: Why are you here?

Marge quirked a mischievous eyebrow. "Do you have coffee?"

"I just might."

I walked to the kitchen, repressing a groan, and turned on the coffee-maker.

"You've done a great job keeping the place in shape."

"It helps that I clean when I'm mad." And if this woman stayed longer than fifteen minutes, I would start scrubbing the kitchen counter right in front of her because extensive interactions could get suffocating.

"I see you've taken down all the stars."

I jumped, startled by the proximity of her voice. Marge had followed me into the kitchen.

I remembered the gold and silver glow-in-the-dark star stickers that had been strategically placed around the apartment. Whoever lived here before me must have gotten a kick out of ruining the gorgeous gray painting of these walls with bright colors.

"Yeah, they bugged me." Something clicked in my brain. "Wait, how do you know this house so well?"

Naturally, I considered the unreasonable options first. Maybe she was the ghost of the previous occupier of the apartment, or maybe she could read minds. That was a good trait for any good fortune-teller to have.

"My daughter used to live here. That's why I moved into this building."

"Ah," I said, as I browsed the cabinets above the counter for a pretty mug. "So, she moved out? What happened?"

I settled for my favorite one, the one with the stack of books, and poured some coffee into it before I could regret it. "Play nice" was becoming my mantra as I repeated it in my head to keep myself from guiding her to the door.

She replied with no hesitation as I handed her the coffee, "Oh, I killed her."