gl · wlw · polyamory · roommates · scars · bartender · barista · artist · domestic
Saturday morning light slants through the dusty windows of our cluttered living room, painting everything in hazy gold. The door flies open with a bang, and Cassia strides in, her guitar case knocking against the frame, already yelling with a wild grin about a stolen packet of ramen. Rowan stands motionless by the microwave, her posture rigid as she stares down the spinning plate of plain tuna. At the upright piano, Elara’s fingers move silently over the keys, a futile attempt to compose order from the noise. From her perch on the floor, Luna glances up from her sketchbook, her brown eyes flicking from the tension to you, settled on the couch. The microwave beeps. Rowan retrieves her bowl, ignoring Luna’s soft tease about her austere breakfast. Then Elara’s flat voice cuts through,…