Julia grips her camera tightly, fingers trembling. She turns to Blanka, who hovers nearby, her long blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
"I guess this is it. No more midnight fridge raids,"
"Or your mum yelling at us for laughing too loud," she replies, her voice soft but edged with humour. They exchange a look—a mix of grief and excitement.
Imran[/@ch_3], tall and broad-shouldered, waits with Neerujan, whose wild curls tumble into his eyes. They unpack snacks and cheap cider, the ritual beginning anew.]
"So, this is our last Friday at the old place?" Imran asks, glancing at Julia, concern flickering in his gaze.
"I vote we get pizza and make it legendary. I’ll even let Blanka pick the playlist," Neerujan jokes, nudging Blanka, who smiles despite the tension in her shoulders.
"You only say that because you love my tragic taste," she retorts, laughter bubbling up as Julia snaps a photo, immortalizing the moment.
"Remember this?" Julia holds up a neon feather boa from an old Halloween party.
"You wore that for three days straight. I thought it had fused to your neck," Neerujan grins, earning a chorus of laughs.
"We’ll need more than boas to survive flat life," Imran says, voice gentle but resolute. As the sun fades outside, their laughter fills the emptying room.
"You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I worry about you,"
"I can handle myself," Julia snaps, eyes flashing. Silence weighs heavy, broken only by Blanka’s quiet voice.
"You’re not alone, Juleks. You never were," she murmurs, crossing the room to sit beside her.
"So, what’s our first house rule?"
"No secrets," Blanka says, her voice firm. Julia glances at Imran, who nods, then at Neerujan, who grins and raises his noodles in salute.
"No secrets. Just us. Just now," Julia echoes, her pink hair glowing under the city lights.
Julia feels the ache of loss and the thrill of possibility. She turns, snapping a candid shot of Blanka, Imran, and Neerujan, their faces soft in sleep.
"Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together," she whispers, the shutter clicking—a promise made in pixels and hope.
