Chapter 8: Night Owls and Early Birds

It was past 11 p.m., almost midnight, when the glass door slid open.

The apartment was quiet, the only sounds the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of traffic outside. I was half-asleep, drifting between dreams and the real world.

"Ethan, are you asleep?"

"Ah, no, not yet." I quickly sat up. It was Megan.

She leaned against the doorframe, her hair tousled and eyes bright. She looked like she’d just come from a party, even though it was just another Tuesday night.

"I’m going to have a smoke. Aubrey’s allergic, so I can’t smoke in the living room."

"Okay."

I scooted over to make room, realizing there wasn’t much space to begin with. She moved with easy confidence, like she’d done this a hundred times before.

"You smoke?"

"Uh, sure."

The kitchen wasn’t big, and with my bed there, there was barely any space left to stand. If Megan faced me, it felt like she was looking down at a corpse. If she turned her back, it would be awkward to have her butt pointed at my face. After thinking it over, she just sat on my bed.

She perched on the edge, crossing her legs and lighting up with a Zippo lighter. The glow from her lighter cast shadows on the walls, and the smell of Marlboro smoke mixed with leftover stir fry.

"Where are you from?"

"Maple Heights."

After that, I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I fiddled with my phone, searching for a topic, but my mind went blank. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it felt almost companionable.

"I think everyone in this apartment is pretty nice," I offered lamely.

Megan smiled, and with that smile, a cloud of smoke drifted onto my face, carrying a faint fragrance.

Her perfume mixed with the smoke, creating a scent that was oddly calming. She exhaled slowly, watching the tendrils swirl in the air.

"Not bad."

She didn’t say anything more. The glowing tip of her cigarette reflected off her coral lipstick, looking a bit seductive. She only smoked half, then stubbed it out in the sink.

She stood up, stretching her arms over her head. "Go to bed early. Who knows when you’ll get another good night’s sleep."

I didn’t get what she meant, feeling a bit puzzled.

I shrugged and lay back down, wondering if she knew something I didn’t. Her words echoed in my mind as I drifted off.

Around six in the morning, before my alarm even went off, I was woken by footsteps in the living room. Some people were already getting ready for work, bustling around.

The apartment was a hive of activity—shampoo scents wafting from the bathroom, the whir of blow dryers, coffee brewing, and the clatter of heels on the hardwood floor. I blinked in the early light, trying to remember where I was.

I rubbed my bleary eyes, stretched my sore arms and back. I had to get up, too—had to get to the city library early to grab a seat and start another busy day of studying.

The thought of fighting for a spot at the library was enough to get me moving. I pulled on a wrinkled t-shirt and tried to shake off the sleep.

"Yo, Ethan, up early," Natalie greeted me with a smile.

She waved as she passed by, balancing a makeup bag and a cup of coffee.

"Morning."

Natalie went straight to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Someone was already in there—Chloe was brushing her teeth. When Natalie went in, she said something, and Natalie looked embarrassed and quickly closed the door.

I was embarrassed, too, and retreated to the kitchen to light a cigarette.

The awkwardness was real. I didn’t want to intrude, but I also really needed the bathroom. I took a long drag and tried to distract myself.

People have all sorts of habits. When a habit lasts long enough, it becomes second nature. And if a reflex lasts even longer, it becomes a physiological reaction.

Old routines die hard. My morning smoke was the only thing that felt familiar in this sea of new faces and crowded spaces.

For example, waking up and lighting a cigarette is a habit for many guys. And smoking makes you want to use the bathroom—that’s a conditioned reflex for most guys.

"I’m doomed."

I muttered to myself, glancing at the closed bathroom door. The struggle was real.