Chapter 5

The fairy lights are still on from last night, pale gold against the gray January light through the window. My quilt is warm and heavy across my chest, and I lie there for a moment, feeling my breasts rise and fall with each breath. The weight of them is normal now. I don't notice it unless I think about it, which I just did, so now I notice it—that gentle, grounding presence, the way they settle into the mattress when I'm on my side.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, my hand small and soft, the chipped pink nail polish catching the light.

Ava: you up?

I grin. She's in the next room. I can hear her moving around—the creak of her bed, the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. I could just call out, but there's something delicious about texting myself.

Chloe: yeah just woke up. chai?

Ava: oh totally. i'll start the kettle

I push off the quilt and sit up. My dark curly hair falls around my shoulders, wild from sleep. I'm wearing the oversized college t-shirt I slept in, and my glasses are on the nightstand. I put them on and the world sharpens.

The apartment is cold—the heat hasn't kicked in yet—so I pull on my plum cardigan over the t-shirt and step into my brown tights under the sleep shirt. It's a lazy morning look, but it's warm, and the soft wool of the cardigan against my arms is a comfort I still haven't gotten used to. Maybe I never will. Maybe that's the point.

In the kitchen, Ava is standing at the stove in her cream sweater and olive linen trousers, her chestnut hair in its usual messy bun. Her feet are bare, and there's a smudge of coffee grounds on her wrist. She's my clone. She's me. But when I look at her, I see Ava—the calm, dry, slightly older sister, the one who keeps the apartment running and procrastinates on her own work.

She turns and sees me and smiles. "Nice cardigan."

"Nice sweater," I say. My voice is Chloe's—sweet, slightly high-pitched, still a little rough from sleep. "Oh, totally."

She laughs, that warm, raspy contralto. "You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The—the Chloe thing. The 'oh, totally.' I can hear it coming out of my mouth before I stop it, but you just let it happen."

"I am her," I say, and it comes out with Chloe's slight stumble, her bright, unself-conscious rhythm. "We've been over this."

"I know. It's still weird." She turns back to the kettle as it starts to whistle. "Okay, chai. Cardamom, right?"

"Cardamom, cinnamon, a little ginger." I lean against the counter, watching her move. Her hands are Ava's hands—long-fingered, elegant, the silver cuff bracelet glinting at her wrist. They know exactly where the spices are, how much to crush, when the water is hot enough. "You're getting good at that."

"I've been practicing. Also I have her—my—muscle memory." She crushes the cardamom pods with the flat of a knife, the small green seeds spilling onto the cutting board. "Shift for a second."

I close my eyes and shift my focus. Suddenly I'm standing at the stove, the knife in my hand, the cardamom fragrant under my fingers. The world is slightly higher—Ava's height—and the weight on my chest is different: moderate, teardrop-shaped, higher-set. The sweater is soft against my arms, and I can feel the waistband of the linen trousers against my stomach.

"Whoa," I say, and it comes out in Ava's voice. "Okay. Hi."

"Hi." Chloe's voice, from across the kitchen. I shift back, and I'm Chloe again, leaning against the counter, watching myself make tea.

This is my life now. This is real.

Chloe's Monday: Victorian Literature in the morning, where Dr. Hendricks lectures on Wuthering Heights and I take notes in Chloe's messy handwriting, the letters slanting left. A girl named Jenny asks to borrow my pen, and I hand it to her without thinking—Chloe always lends Jenny pens. The quad between classes is cold and bright, the winter sun making long shadows on the frost-covered grass. I walk to the bookstore with my canvas tote bag over my shoulder, my boots clicking on the pavement, and the air tastes like cold and the faint, distant smoke of someone's fireplace.

The bookstore shift is slow. Raj is in the back room again, muttering about a mis-shipped order—this time it's cookbooks instead of the poetry anthologies he requested. "Who needs seventeen copies of The Joy of Cooking?" he says, emerging with a stack that he drops on the counter. "Seventeen."

"Oh my god, okay, that's—" I start laughing before I can finish. "That's so many. What are you going to do with them?"

"I don't know. Build a fort." He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Cover for me for ten minutes? I need to call the distributor and yell at someone."

"Go," I say. "I've got it."

The store is empty except for a man in the history section who's been reading the same page of a Civil War biography for twenty minutes. I lean on the counter and check my phone.

Ava: slow morning at the shop. some guy just tried to order a 'latte with no milk.' i don't know what that means

Chloe: maybe he wanted hot water?

Ava: i gave him black coffee and he seemed happy. anyway how's the bookstore

Chloe: raj is building a fort out of cookbooks. it's a whole thing

Ava: pics or it didn't happen

I take a photo of Raj, who has actually started stacking the cookbooks into a small wall on the counter, and send it to Ava. A moment later, her response comes through: a string of laughing emojis and oh totally.

The thrill of it is quiet but constant. Two conversations happening at once—Chloe texting Ava, me texting me. The gap between what the world sees and what's actually happening belongs to me alone.

Ava's Monday: The coffee shop is on Fourth Street, a narrow space with exposed brick and a chalkboard menu that Ava updates every morning. I'm behind the counter at seven, my apron tied around my waist, my hair in its messy bun, the smell of espresso and steamed milk filling the air. The morning rush is steady—students, professors, a few regulars who know my name. "Morning, Ava," says Mr. Henderson, a retired accountant who comes in every day at eight-fifteen for a medium black coffee and a blueberry muffin. "Morning," I say, and my voice is Ava's—warm, slightly raspy, the words trailing off with a soft laugh even when nothing is funny.

The shift passes quickly. I make lattes and cappuccinos and the occasional complicated tea order, and my hands know the machines without thinking. Ava's muscle memory. Ava's life. The woman who comes in at nine-thirty always orders a vanilla latte with oat milk and tips exactly two dollars. The student with the pink hair always forgets her wallet and has to run back to her car. These rhythms are Ava's, and now they're mine.

Around ten, the rush dies down. I wipe down the counter and check my phone.

Madison: still on for thursday? i need to vent

Ava: always. same place?

Madison: you know it. 2pm. don't be late this time

Ava: i'm never late. you're always early

Madison: same thing

Madison Brooks. Ava's best friend, the polished, ambitious marketing coordinator who's been her anchor for three years. I have all of Ava's memories of her—the photography workshop where they met, the gallery openings, the weekly coffees that are sacred to both of them. Madison is stunning and driven and a little intimidating, and Ava loves her with a fierce, protective affection that I can feel in my chest when I think about her.

I send a final text—see you thursday, try not to stress until then—and tuck my phone away. The café hums around me, the espresso machine hissing, a customer laughing at something on her laptop. A man at the corner table is absorbed in a book, his coffee going cold. Two women by the window are deep in conversation about someone's wedding. The world is full of people living their own lives, and I'm here, behind the counter, in a body that fits me like it was made for me.

Thursday: Ava meets Madison at the café near the college.

The café is a different one from where Ava works—smaller, quieter, with mismatched chairs and a pastry case that's always half-empty by two o'clock. Madison is already there when I arrive, sitting at the table by the window, her sleek blonde hair in a high ponytail, her fingers wrapped around a mug of something that's probably a matcha latte. She's wearing a black tailored jumpsuit and pointed-toe heels, and she looks like she just walked out of a magazine, which she always does.

"You're late," she says, but she's smiling.

"I'm five minutes early," I say, sliding into the chair across from her. "You've been here for twenty minutes."

Madison shrugs. "I had a call that ended early. How are you? How's the show prep?"

"Slow," I admit. Ava's voice, that warm contralto, carrying the weight of her stress. "I'm behind on the framing, and I still haven't decided which prints to use for the center wall. It's—let me think about that." I trail off, laughing at myself, and Madison laughs too.

"You always say that. 'Let me think about that.' It means you're going to panic for three weeks and then pull something incredible out of nowhere."

"That's the plan."

The barista brings my coffee—black, the way Ava always orders it. The scent rises from the mug, dark and bitter and familiar. Madison launches into a story about the luxury listing that's been stagnating, her hands gesturing, her voice bright and energetic. "The owners want to price it at two-point-five, but the comps in the area are two-point-two at best, and they won't listen. My mother—" she rolls her eyes "—my mother has decided to weigh in, because of course she has."

"Oh, totally," I say, and Madison groans.

"Don't 'oh totally' me. You know how she is. 'Madison, you need to be more aggressive.' 'Madison, have you considered staging the master bath with orchids?' Like orchids are going to add three hundred thousand dollars to the listing."

The memory surfaces without warning—triggered by the mention of Diane, by the coffee scent in the air, by the particular quality of Madison's frustration. It's a winter evening three years ago, and Ava is nineteen, standing in a cramped gallery space with her first photographs mounted on the walls. She's terrified. Her hands are shaking, and she's had two glasses of free wine, and she's pretty sure she's going to throw up in the bathroom before the night is over. And then this tall, polished blonde woman walks up to her and says, "Your composition is incredible. I'm Madison." And Ava thinks: I don't know who you are, but you just saved my life.

The memory fades, and I'm back in the café, watching Madison gesture with her matcha latte. "Anyway," she's saying, "I told her I'd handle it, and she gave me that look—you know the look—"

"The 'I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed' look," I say.

"Yes. That one. How do you do that with your face? It's like a superpower."

"Practice," I say. "Also I've seen her do it to you like a hundred times."

Madison laughs, and her whole face changes—the tension in her jaw releasing, her shoulders dropping. This is what Ava does for her. Grounds her. Reminds her that she's more than her mother's expectations. I can feel the warmth of that friendship in my chest, Ava's affection for Madison coloring everything I see.

"You're the only person who gets it," Madison says. "Jordan tries, but—Jordan's family is normal. They do normal things. They don't have opinions about bathroom orchids."

"Jordan's family sounds nice."

"They're disgustingly nice. It's very unsettling." She takes a sip of her latte and looks at me over the rim. "How's Chloe?"

The question catches me off guard for half a second—I am Chloe, in another body, at this very moment—but Ava's memories supply the answer. "She's good. She's been writing a lot. Did another open mic last night."

"The one where she read that poem about the aquarium?"

"Yeah. That one." I smile, and it's Ava's smile, fond and a little proud. "She killed it. Maya was there, and they were—you know how they get. Comparing poetry collections and quoting dead Victorians."

"I love that for her." Madison's voice is genuine, warm. She's never met Chloe—not really, not beyond a few brief encounters—but she loves her through Ava, the way best friends love each other's families. "You're lucky, you know. Having a sister like that."

"I know," I say. And I do know. I know it from both sides.

Meanwhile, in Chloe's body, I'm at the library with Maya.

The library is a low, modern building on the edge of campus, all glass and exposed beams and the particular hush of a thousand books breathing quietly. Maya is at our usual table, a stack of poetry collections in front of her, her dark auburn hair falling loose around her shoulders. She's wearing a rust sweater and an olive corduroy skirt, and there's a smudge of ink on her finger—she's been journaling again.

"There's a poem about that," she says when I sit down, gesturing at the rainy window. "Frost. 'Acquainted with the Night.' The line about the city lane."

"I don't know that one," I say. Chloe's voice, bright and curious, already reaching for my notebook. "Wait, read it to me."

Maya pulls out her phone and finds the poem, and her low, melodic voice fills the quiet space between the shelves. "I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain." She pauses, her deep brown eyes thoughtful. "It's lonelier than it sounds. He's not just walking in the rain. He's walking away from something. Or toward something he can't reach."

I think about the male body nested inside Ava's shell. About the gray, heavy weight of returning to it. About how I never want to go back. "Yeah," I say. "I get that."

Maya smiles. "You always do."

We spend the next hour talking about poetry and her thesis and Chloe's term paper, which I've actually started—I wrote an outline last night while Ava edited photos across the table from me. Maya is stressed about graduation, about leaving Eleanor, about Ben, about the future. I listen the way Chloe always listens—with my whole attention, with little sounds of agreement, with the occasional stumbling interjection that makes Maya laugh.

"You're in a good mood today," she says as we're packing up.

"I guess I am," I say. And it's true. The baseline euphoria of being Chloe, of being female, of living this life—it's so steady now that I barely notice it. It's just the color of the world. Warm. Golden. Alive.

Saturday evening: the Vance apartment. We're cooking dinner.

Ava is at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta, her chestnut hair escaping its messy bun. I'm at the counter, chopping vegetables, my dark curls clipped back with a hair scarf. The kitchen smells like garlic and olive oil and the particular coziness of a winter evening. The radio is playing something soft and jazzy from Ava's playlist.

"Madison says hi," Ava says.

"Oh, totally. Tell her I say hi back." I scrape the chopped peppers into a bowl. "How was she?"

"Stressed. The listing is still stagnant. Her mom is being—" she waves the wooden spoon in the air. "You know."

"I do know. Chloe's memories of Diane are mostly secondhand from you, but they're consistent. Polished, glamorous, low-grade terrifying."

"That's the one." Ava drains the pasta, and steam billows up around her face. For a moment she looks like a photograph—the soft light, the steam, the concentration on her features. Ava would have taken this picture. Would have seen the composition, the balance, the story in a single frame.

"Hey," I say. "Shift."

She closes her eyes. I close mine. When I open them, I'm standing at the stove, the wooden spoon in my hand, the steam warm against my face. The world is taller from here—Ava's height—and the weight on my chest is different, lighter, higher. I look down and see her hands, her silver cuff bracelet, the tiny scar on her knee from the bike accident visible below the hem of her trousers.

"Hi," I say, and it comes out in her voice. Warm. Raspy. Mine.

"Hi," Chloe says from the counter. Her voice is sweet, a little high-pitched. "How's the pasta?"

"It's—oh, totally." I laugh, and it's Ava's laugh, trailing off into a soft exhale. "It's done. Grab the bowls?"

We eat at the small kitchen table, two sisters in a quiet apartment, and no one in the world knows that both of them are the same person. The pasta is good. The wine is cheap. The conversation is easy—we talk about Ava's gallery show, about Chloe's term paper, about whether they should adopt a cat. Ava says yes, Chloe says maybe, which means yes. Ordinary. Mundane. Perfect.

After dinner, we watch a movie on the couch, some romantic comedy that Chloe loves and Ava tolerates. I'm in Chloe's body, curled up under a blanket, my head resting on Ava's shoulder. She's warm and solid and smells like laundry detergent and coffee. Her hand finds mine, and our fingers lace together—Chloe's small, round fingers and Ava's long, elegant ones.

"Hey," Ava says quietly, during a slow scene. "You still there?"

"Always." I shift—Chloe to Ava, Ava to Chloe, just for a second, just to feel the hand I'm holding from the other side. "This is still the best thing that's ever happened."

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, it is."

We don't say anything else. We don't need to. The movie plays on, and the apartment settles around us, and somewhere in the distance a car passes on the wet street below. Two bodies. Two hearts. One consciousness, spread across them both like light through a window.

Sunday night. I'm in Chloe's room, the fairy lights glowing, the quilt pulled up to my chin. The term paper outline is on my desk, half-finished, and there's a mug of cold chai on the nightstand. Through the wall, I can hear Ava settling into her bed—the soft creak of the mattress, the click of her lamp.

I shift. Ava's room: the pale grey duvet, the cluttered desk, the corkboard wall covered in prints. My camera is on the nightstand, the lens cap still off from the shoot I did this afternoon. My feet are cold—I forgot to put on socks—and my hair is loose, spread across the pillow. The room smells like coffee and vanilla.

I shift back. Chloe's room: the books, the fairy lights, the faint scent of rosewater. My glasses are folded on the nightstand. My term paper is waiting for tomorrow. My heart is beating, steady and slow, in a chest that is softer and rounder and more mine than anything has ever been.

Two bodies, settling into sleep. Two sets of lungs, breathing in the quiet dark. The hunger is quiet. The longing is still. I am exactly where I want to be.

I close my eyes. The fairy lights blur gold against my eyelids. Somewhere, in the other room, my other heart is beating in time with mine.