Fever Dream

Kalena

There are things I can only say to Esme.

Things that sit too deep in my chest to float up during casual kitchen chats with Ivana or Armani. Even with Billie, there are parts of me that still feel sealed — not out of fear, but out of habit. I've learned how to fold myself into smaller versions for survival. But with Esme? I've never needed to shrink.

That's why, on a slow, golden Saturday afternoon, I texted her:

u home? i need air. and you.

She replied in three seconds. 

always. get here. i have snacks.

-

Her apartment was still the same — airy and warm, with plants on every windowsill and soft jazz playing from the speaker in the corner. The second I walked through the door, Esme hugged me like she knew I'd been holding something in. She smelled like sunscreen and citrus body spray, like summer and safety.

"I missed you," she said, pulling back to look at me. "You've been MIA."

"I know. I've just been... in it."

She didn't ask what it was. She just nodded like she understood. "Let's get out of here."

Five minutes later we were in her car, the windows down, the breeze warm on our faces as we drove down Melrose. I didn't know exactly where we were going, and it didn't matter. Being with Esme was already the softest kind of exhale.

We ended up at this tucked-away café with yellow umbrellas and ivy crawling up the walls. It wasn't busy, which was rare for a weekend, and that made me feel even more like the universe was gently holding space for whatever needed to happen.

Esme ordered an iced chai. I got a matcha. We took our drinks and sat outside at a small iron table, my legs tangled under the bench, sunglasses on, elbows brushing.

"So," Esme said finally, taking a slow sip of her drink. "What's going on in that beautiful, tortured little brain of yours?"

I looked at her. Then out at the street. Then back again.

"I feel like everything's changing," I said quietly. "And not in a bad way. Just... fast."

"Billie?"

I nodded. "She's all in. And I am too. I've never felt like this with anyone."

Esme's smile was soft. "You look lighter."

"I feel like I'm unraveling and rebuilding at the same time. Like she sees these parts of me I didn't even know were there. And she holds them."

"I love that for you."

"She's funny, Esme. Like actually weird and goofy and makes me laugh until I forget how to be guarded. She says I make her feel calm. But I think she makes me feel safe."

Esme reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "That's what it's supposed to be. You don't need fireworks and chaos. You need someone who makes your nervous system relax."

I swallowed hard, nodding.

"She saw a message from my mom the other night," I said. "Didn't say anything, but I could tell she was holding it."

"What did it say?"

I hesitated, then pulled my phone out and showed Esme the last text.

Você sabe que não aprovamos esse tipo de vida. Mas você é nossa filha. Ainda estamos orando por você. (You know we don't approve of this kind of life. But you are our daughter. We are still praying for you.)