Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

A door pops from its too tight frame before I can start up the stairs. My neighbor steps out, thick black hair twisted in a bun and in a deep blue set of scrubs. They are gender-neutral cut and fall boxy around her frame as she always goes a size too big rather than too small; I've heard plenty of warnings about how they are designed so no size fits. Her shoes have thicker rubber soles that somehow squeak even on concrete so I can hear her descend her steps and walk towards her car. She does a double take upon spotting me in her periphery. I spin to meet her wide-eyed look. Her eyes are nearly black, smooth and even in shade without the disruption of lines or flecks, so they can be overwhelming to look directly in. Or maybe I'm iffy on eye contact with people I want to impress.

"(Y/n)?" She takes a step towards me, concern and a light scolding to her tone. "Where have you been? One of your little friends was running all around here looking for you? You got her real worried."

"Sorry I've been uh...moving," I mutter, squeezing and pulling at my hands.

"With him?" She doesn't hide the small sneer she sends Hoodie. "And where? It's been two months, hon, you just disappeared."

"I do that," I say with a shrug. "I'm sorry, Aaliyah. I should have told someone, let Camilla know what's going on. I'm not...good at letting people know when I'm leaving."

"Not good at staying gone either," Aaliyah remarks.

I laugh weakly. "Disappeared a little too fast. I still have to get all my stuff."

"Well...You stay safe. And make good choices," she says, eyeing Hoodie warily again.

"Have a good day at work," I call after her as she turns back around to her car.

She offers a passing wave before dipping inside the vehicle and pulling out of the driveway. I wait until I can no longer here the pebbles loose in the driveway crunch beneath her tires then turn to go up the stairs. Hoodie follows silently, making no remark on the conversation. He doesn't even seem bothered at Aaliyah's instant distrust though every other person we have run into melts right into his hands, even from the briefest of interactions.

The stairs are narrow and steep to cut over the lower two floors without cutting into either of the lower apartments too much. Thick rubber padding lines the wooden steps. It crackles and sticks to the steps beneath our feet, pulling away with the sound like tearing living skin off leather in the dead of summer. The narrow walls make everything echoey, cave like, and funnels the cold air up the stairs so the entire apartment is freezing. I pull my coat tighter to myself as a gust rips up behind us from all the cracks around the door.

My apartment is a studio. Two large windows, one between the slanting walls supporting the roof, brighten up the entire room with the late morning light. There is a small counter and set of cabinets, a microwave and hotplate. Halfway across the room the flooring transitions from tile to hardwood. Fragments of old rooms shaped together in new walls, but the flooring was never fixed to be cohesive. The bathroom door sits off the kitchen, also barely fitting into its frame and sitting at a harsh angle. A small metal bedframe with cactus sheets from back in undergrad, worn to transparency in places, and a cheap metal and cloth dresser that deep blue and stained like copper. Most of the rest of the room is taken up by shelves and books, a spattering of now dead plants. They all had cutesy names before they turned brown and brittle then disintegrated under their own weight. Fallen soldiers in my fight against loneliness. I have to restart my forest every time I make a serious move anyways. Something about cramming cloth potters into a car messes up the roots. Nicknacks and books, pinecones and larch cones, bird nests and feathers, horse chestnuts, and a variety of stones and minerals decorate the rest of the shelves, the small bedside table, and some of the floor. Ok...a lot of the floor. Mostly books on the floor. Notebooks, sketchbooks, reading books, wordsearch and crossword puzzle books, scrap books more full of mementos like tickets and knotted bracelets than pictures.