[Y/N] HARRISON'S FLAT reminded me of a picture in a magazine; eccentric in nature, but perfectly suited to the person themselves.

Although, to be completely honest, it might have been found in a House Hoarders tabloid instead of Teen Vogue. Every inch on her walls seemed to be covered in picture frames, none of them matching and all of them different sizes. Her coat-rack consisted of twenty different coloured coats, and her shoe collection spanned from the door to the end of the entrance hallway. It wasn't a mess, per say, but it was certainly overwhelming to the eye. Orange and green hues, floral wallpaper, and plants growing out of a scattered array of pots.

"You like spaghetti?" She asked, disappearing from the hallway. "If not, I have some leftover soup in the fridge."

I kicked off my trainers, following her voice into her kitchen. It looked similar to mine, but more lived in. Whereas I had only a few cups and plates, she had a multitude. Pots and pans were scattered all over the counters and sink bins, ingredient boxes stacked on top of each other like a culinary wall.

"I like spaghetti," I said. "But I wasn't planning on staying long."

"Nonsense. Stay for dinner."

"I don't want to intrude."

"You intruded three days ago," she said, but I could hear a slight laugh in her voice. "And I accidentally threw the whole pasta box in, so there'll be more than I can eat. I hate leftovers."

I stared at her, watching as she danced about her kitchen. She lived exactly how I expected her too, and even though she'd welcomed me into her home, I still felt like I was intruding on the very precipice of her life. Had she forgiven me, or was she still testing my every action? I wasn't sure how I'd gone from being her worst enemy to sharing a meal with her.

"I never actually apologised," I said, leaning against her countertop. "I only told you a fact about that band."

She held up her hand, peering into the bubbling pot. "It's the band, or the Beatles. Not that band."

"The Beatles, then. I've yet to properly say I'm sorry."

"Nothing's stopping you, Kit Copper."

"Connor."

"The Beatles. Mess them up, I'll mess yours up." She turned to smile at me, a teasing flare in her eyes. "But you can apologise at any time, I don't mind."

I wanted to dust the flour off of her face, but the embarrassment of attempting something so unsolicited would be worse than seeing it there. If anything, it matched the chaotic nature of her home. She picked up a plastic spoon, stirring the boiling pasta and sprinkling it with salt.

"I'm..." I began, although I wasn't sure what I was saying.

She didn't look back at me. "You're?"

"Did you know the Beatles first played in Germany?"

"I did know that."

"Is there a fact you don't know?"

"Probably not."

"Well, that right about foils my plan." I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Not that I had a plan to begin with, I'm perfectly capable of apologising on my own. I only thought the trivia facts would lighten the mood—I promise you, that's all there was too it—and now that I know you know everything there is to know about them, that put paid to it."

I couldn't see the expression on her face, but by the way her hand raised to hover near her face, I presumed she was stifling a laugh. I must have seemed pathetic—and to be fair, I probably was—but even in my most dire straits of humility, I'd always found it hard to apologise. It wasn't a matter of pride; no, I could pin that down with no hesitance in the matter. It was a matter of fear. My apology had one chance of making do, and if it all went toss-up, then I'd be worse off than I started.

I didn't want to be worse off with her. I just couldn't figure out what to say.

"'I'm sorry' would be a start," she said, finally turning to look at me. "Or I could go first if that would help you."

"Go first?" I asked quizzically.

"I'm sorry about the music," she said. "I'll turn it down."

I wanted to ask her why she didn't say that the first time I asked, but I knew that would be a terrible idea. She opened a cupboard, taking out two bowls and handing one to me. As I took it from her hand, my finger grazed against her own, and I suddenly realised the truth about it all. My fear of screwing up an apology wasn't on the basis of the 'sorry' alone, but because of how I felt. It was like being back in time, given a second chance to make things right.

Up until now, she'd given me the cold shoulder, hiding her personality behind coat racks and crassness—but to see her like this, it was like seeing the woman on the balcony. Her skin was warm from the orange of her houselights and she had a smile that toyed with naivety and mischief. And though we weren't on the balcony, if felt as if I was still a building away from her, about to make another mistake.

To feel so conflicted about a stranger was strange in itself. But she had the unique trait of making others feel indebted to her opinion of them. She did hold my career in the palm of her hands, now that I think of it.

"I'm sorry for taking three days to apologise to you," I began, the bowl dancing nervously between my fingers. "And I'm sorry for insulting you. I was angry, and I took it out on you and your music. I shouldn't have."

It was mediocre, at best.

But it seemed to have worked, because the woman smiled, clicking off the stove.

"Pasta's ready," she said.

➵

Moonlight danced around the floor of my bedroom, slipping through the carpet and shining onto the windowsill. It was cold, perhaps too cold to sleep, and the thin blanket I had wasn't providing any warmth. I needed to decorate my home before I died of hypothermia.

I kept my gaze on the silver specks of light, trying to stop my mind from slipping into its memory. But it really was no use; the melancholy blue of my home did nothing but remind me of the warmth of [y/n] Harrison's flat next door.

Our dinner had been short, lasting no more than a bowl of spaghetti, but we'd talked about everywhere and everything it seemed. She told me all about the Beatles and I answered all of her questions about England.

"I would kill to go to Liverpool," she said, jabbing her fork at me. "Just imagine how spectacular that would be."

I'd shrugged. "London's better."

"London didn't birth the Beatles."

"Well, we did birth The Rolling Stones."

"I knew you were a Stonehead."

"I'm not." I laughed, holding up my hands. "I promise you. Rock-and-Roll isn't my kind of music."

I remembered the way she rolled her eyes, eyelashes flickering like birdwings as she silently berated me. There was no saving myself, and even if I had listened to a few songs of the music genre, I didn't know anything well enough to defend myself.

Surprisingly, she didn't question me on the subject.

"I suppose that's alright," she said. "What do you listen to instead?"

"Swing music."

"What?"

"Alright, I get it." I laughed. "But in my defence, my Mum always played In the Mood by Benny Goodman and his Orchestra when I was growing up. That kind of stuff gets ingrained into your head before you can walk."

[y/n] let out a breath. "Everything makes sense now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"No wonder you hate Rock," she said. "All that wahh wahh, zubba zubba, zahhhh is practically an electric guitar's greatest nemesis."

"Please tell me that wasn't your impression of a trumpet."

"Trombone, actually."

I tried not to smile at the memory of that moment, stuffing my face into my pillows. Perhaps I was glad that we were on good terms—better terms, really—and the freedom of my New York life could begin without worry. It was hard to imagine what our friendship would be like (if that's a title I deserve to call it) going forward, but I hoped it would be something great.

For with all the wonders of New York, I felt less alone with her smiling at me. It meant the city was no longer a place to be lost in. It meant I had made a friend; that I would finally live here.

Beside the dancing specks of moonlight, I felt the sense of my life beginning.