Elara's alarm buzzed at exactly 6:47 a.m.—a cruel, tinny sound she had carefully chosen because it sounded nothing like an actual alarm, more like a malfunctioning robot attempting jazz. She slapped it off, groaning, feeling every muscle ache from the previous day's jog through the park. She loved the park—the old trees that smelled like damp moss and forgotten autumns, the way pigeons strutted like miniature generals, ruling their tiny empires—but mornings were hard, and mornings after midnight sun events were harder.
Her apartment was small but lived-in, a chaotic sort of comfort she secretly adored. Pale teal walls gave the illusion of space but never quite convinced her; the color reminded her of melted ice cream she'd once dropped on the sidewalk as a kid. The couch, a deep maroon velvet relic, sagged in the middle like a tired old horse, and the cushions bore indentations that seemed to mimic her own moods—dips for sadness, slight lumps for confusion, flattened spots for comfort.
Elara glanced around the living room. A bookshelf sagged under the weight of novels ranging from Gabriel García Márquez to Haruki Murakami, their spines bent like stubborn old friends refusing to straighten. On the windowsill, a succulent drooped lazily toward the sunlight, its pot painted a cheerful mustard yellow that clashed violently with the teal wall—a clash she didn't mind. Her laptop sat on the small oak desk, open to a half-finished essay she would almost certainly submit late. She laughed quietly to herself, imagining her teacher's sigh—the one that always carried the subtle weight of "I'm disappointed in you, but also intrigued."
--
She shuffled into the kitchen, humming a song that might have been Beyoncé, might have been someone's TikTok remix—her memory was hazy pre-coffee. The kettle whistled like an impatient neighbor, demanding attention, and she poured water into a chipped mug—ceramic white, with tiny gold flecks that had chipped over time, leaving her with the impression of tiny, accidental constellations. Coffee. She couldn't live without it, not truly. It was the only thing that made the buzzing warmth beneath her chest—the pulse she never fully understood—feel manageable, grounded.
As she sipped, she gazed out the window. The city outside was waking slowly: traffic crawling like metallic centipedes, people on their phones like zombies hunting for human connection, pigeons still ruling the streets, utterly unconcerned with human panic. She laughed. It felt good to laugh before the weight of the world touched her.
---
School was a short walk away. She liked walking, even if the sidewalks were cracked like old parchment and smelled faintly of asphalt and stale bread from the bakery on the corner. Music on, hood up, hands in pockets—this was her armor. She wasn't invisible, but she could blend. She could breathe.
In class, she floated through the day, taking notes mechanically, responding politely when called on, nodding like she understood complex algebraic proofs even when her mind drifted to more interesting things—like the faint pulse that sometimes danced along her fingertips or the little sparks she imagined flickering around strangers in the library.
Lunch was a solitary affair. She preferred it that way. Tuna sandwich, apple, water. She sat near the window, watching life happen outside: teenagers showing off for invisible audiences, couples holding hands as if the world might explode if they let go, old men playing chess with the same intensity she reserved for magical battles in her dreams. She smiled faintly at the universal absurdity of humans.
---
Back in her apartment, Elara sank into the couch like it was an old friend. She stretched her legs across the cushions, reaching the floor with the tips of her toes just barely, and let the quiet envelope her. Evening light spilled through the mustard-yellow blinds, painting the walls in soft honey and coral streaks, like spilled paint from a child's ambitious art project.
She brewed another cup of coffee—black, bitter, her favorite—and settled at the desk to scribble. Notes, sketches, lists of things to do, and little doodles of stars and suns and eyes she sometimes imagined staring back at her. Music played faintly, a mix of retro pop and obscure indie tracks she only listened to in secret.
Her apartment smelled like coffee, old books, and a faint trace of incense she'd lit earlier, trying to summon calm—or maybe just because the scent reminded her of lazy Sundays with her mother long ago. The curl of smoke was hypnotic, swirling lazily like a miniature galaxy in the lamplight.
---
Elara often sat on the balcony at night, feet dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe. Neon lights flickered, cars shimmered like fish in slow rivers of asphalt, and somewhere a dog barked. Ordinary. Human. Real. And yet, beneath her ribs, she could feel it: the pulse, the hum, the whisper that something extraordinary lurked beneath the ordinary.
She liked her routines. She clung to them like a life raft, a little anchor in a world that had already shifted in ways no one could understand. The ordinary moments—coffee, pigeon-watching, sloppy doodles, late-night essays—kept her sane. They reminded her that she was human, despite the curse, despite the midnight sun, despite the whispers.
She chuckled to herself as she dropped her notebook onto the maroon couch. "Someday," she whispered, "someone will have to explain the magical apocalypse to me while I'm eating tuna sandwiches."
---
Even in this calm, Elara couldn't shake the subtle reminders: shadows lingering in the corner of her apartment when the lights flickered, the soft warmth coiling in her chest when she was alone, the faint whisper of something ancient brushing her thoughts.
But tonight, she let it lie. Tonight, she was ordinary.
And in her small apartment, with teal walls, mustard blinds, maroon velvet couch, and golden-flecked coffee mug, that was enough.
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