It's always you

Chapter Seven – "What We Carry"

From Vein's Point of View

It started with a phone call.

Not from Ava. From a number I didn’t recognize. I let it ring once, twice, then picked it up out of sheer curiosity.

"Is this Vein?" A woman’s voice, clipped and unfamiliar.

"Yes?"

"I’m sorry to call out of the blue. I’m Lara. I’m... well, I’m Ava’s sister. Sort of. We grew up together."

The pause she left wasn’t empty—it held a weight I didn’t know how to measure.

"Oh. Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just—Lena mentioned you. And she’s not great at... explaining things. Or people, "I figured if you’re in her life, maybe it would help to understand where she comes from."

I didn’t know what to say. I barely knew where to file this moment in my heart.

"She probably wouldn’t like that I called. But she’s been through a lot. And sometimes, people like her don’t believe they’re allowed to be happy."

That line stuck with me for hours.

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When I saw Ava next, we were curled up on the floor of my apartment. Vinyl humming softly in the background, a scatter of pillows and snacks between us. It felt domestic, lived-in, sweet.

I didn’t mention the call.

Not at first.

She was telling me about a photography professor who once told her she had an eye for grief.

"He meant it as a compliment," she said, her voice dipped in humor and something else. "But it just made me wonder what I was leaking without meaning to."

I rolled over to face her, propped up on one elbow. "You never leak anything without intention."

She smiled. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Do you want to tell me about them? Your family?"

She hesitated. I saw it in the way her hand stilled on the blanket.

"I don’t talk about them much."

"You don’t have to. But I want to know. I want to know everything."

Silence stretched between us. Then, finally, she nodded. Once. Sharp. Like pulling off a bandage.

"My parents weren’t... safe people," she said. "I left when I was sixteen. Lara was the closest thing I had to a sister. She and her mom took me in for a while. Then I kind of bounced. Art classes, shelters, borrowed couches. That’s where I started drawing. It gave me something that didn’t hurt."

I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.

She kept going. Like a dam finally cracking.

"Sometimes I still feel like that sixteen-year-old girl. Waiting to be told to leave."

My heart broke in a quiet, personal way. I moved closer, pressing my forehead towards hers.

"You don’t have to earn a place with me, Ava. You already have one."

Her breath hitched. She didn’t cry. But she didn’t pull away either.

We stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just being.

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Later, she handed me a photograph. Black and white. A window with light pouring through sheer curtains.

"I took this the day I met you," she said. "I didn’t know what it meant then. But now... I think it was hope."

I looked at the photo, then at her.

And I knew.

We were slowly rewriting what love could feel like.

Together.