August came fast - like the rush of wind when a subway train barrels past, or the sticky, relentless heat of the city that clung to their skin the moment they stepped outside. One minute they were kissing goodbye to childhood bedrooms and packing boxes, the next they were standing in a tiny shoebox apartment in Brooklyn, keys trembling in their hands, wide-eyed with the weight of it all.

It was the kind of place people romanticized when they talked about moving to New York. Exposed brick. Creaky floorboards. A fire escape that doubled as a reading nook when the weather was just right. What they didn't tell you in those stories, though, was how the place had only one window, barely any natural light, and was so cramped they had to take turns brushing their teeth. A mattress on the floor. A single drawer they shared for socks. Rent that made them wince every first of the month.

And yet - they loved it.

They kissed in the kitchen while burning pasta and laughed as smoke curled from the pan. They studied on opposite ends of their secondhand couch, feet tangled under open textbooks. Molly was often late to class, not because of traffic or alarms, but because Jessica insisted on making her breakfast, and somehow time always melted between shared coffee and sleepy kisses.

It wasn't perfect. It was real. And real meant arguing over groceries, over who forgot to pay the Wi-Fi bill, over how they'd make rent if Molly's internship didn't start paying soon. They clashed over space, over noise, over whether it was crazy to think they could build a life from such a small beginning.

But at night, when the city hummed outside their window and the lights cast long shadows on their walls, Molly would curl up behind Jessica, their limbs fitting together like puzzle pieces. Her voice, low and vulnerable, would drift into the stillness between them.

"Still us?"

Jessica would smile in the dark, her fingers lazily tracing circles on Molly's hand. "Yeah," she'd whisper. "Still us."

And for now - for always - that was enough.