Alyx's apartment was slowly ceasing to be a punishment cell and beginning to resemble a place inhabited by someone who wanted to inhabit it.
The open sketchbook on the table showed more filled pages—not just the knot turning into scaffolding, which was now gradually becoming a painting on the canvas in her living room, but also loose strokes, studies of the teapot, the silhouette of an umbrella against the rain. And now, her silver earring rested on the most recent page, not as a sad memory, but as a reference point. An "I am here" on the map of her memories.
Her phone rang. It was Lily, and her voice sounded strange—a mix of panic and desperation.
"Alyx... I need a favor. I need... a place to stay. Just for a few days."
"What happened?" Alyx asked, her internal crisis radar switching on.
"My new roommate... is a raccoon. Literally. Or she has very, very bad hygiene and eats from the trash. I can't go back there." Lily's voice broke a little, not because of the raccoon, but because of the accumulation of events: the tiny apartment, the rude neighbor who, although he spoke another language, she knew was always rude to her, the loneliness that smelled of boiled cabbage and hopelessness. "Ted and Marshall are out of the question for obvious reasons, Robin lives in a studio with her gun collection, and Barney... well, he's Barney."
Alyx looked around at her sofa bed, her sanctuary of silence and slow progress. Letting someone in now, especially Lily, was like opening the floodgate of a dam she had just repaired. But the fact that it was Lily, plus the bridge they had built over breakfast, needed to bear weight to be real.
"You can stay here," she said before fear could paralyze her. "But there are rules."
Lily's arrival was like a hurricane in pastel tones. She arrived with a suitcase and a bag of groceries. "I brought food. Your refrigerator was pathetic," she announced and proceeded to fill it with fruit, yogurt, and things that weren't coffee or cheap red wine.
Alyx watched with her arms crossed from the kitchen threshold. "Rule number one: don't change anything. This isn't your house; it's a temporary refuge."
Lily stopped with an apple in her hand. "Is that the only rule?"
"For now."
"Okay," Lily smiled, a smile Alyx knew too well—the "I accept the rules, but I'll find a crack in the wall" smile. "I promise not to redecorate."
But Lily couldn't help it; it was just her nature.
On the second day, while Alyx was at a painting class (another step in her "one day at a time"), Lily found the crack—not in the wall, but in the atmosphere. The apartment was too quiet, too perfect in its austerity, and still smelled of paint and loneliness. So, without touching the furniture, she did the only thing she could do: she cooked. She made a vegetable soup that smelled like home, like the old days in Marshall's apartment when the three of them shared dinner after a long day.
When Alyx returned, the smell hit her at the door, and she could only stop, caught off guard. She recognized it wasn't the invasive smell of the Eriksen kitchen, full of mayonnaise and chaos. It was something simpler, deeper, that reminded her with a sweet pang that care could be a silent act, not an exhausting obligation.
"I made soup," Lily said from the kitchen, her voice carefully neutral. "It's just soup. It doesn't change the apartment's structure."
Alyx approached and saw the steaming pot with a plate set for her. It was a tangible connection. "Thank you," she murmured, and the word meant more than gratitude for the food.
As they ate in silence, Lily looked at the canvas with the scaffolding of lines. "It's different," she commented finally. "As if you're building something over the breakage."
"That's the idea," Alyx said, and she didn't add anything else. She didn't need to. Lily was seeing and understanding, in her own way.
Marshall's Perspective
Meanwhile, on another front in the city, Marshall was waging his own battle against post-breakup loneliness. Brad, his friend from law school, had burst into his life like a golden retriever with a Juris Doctor degree, and Marshall, hungry for male camaraderie that didn't involve Barney's games, latched onto him.
"Brunch, brother! The Popover Pantry!" Brad announced after they discovered their mutual love for Alanis Morissette. "Why can't two guys enjoy some good eggs Benedict and freshly squeezed orange juice?"
Marshall, who desperately missed the inconsistent rituals of couplehood, nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Let's reclaim brunch! It's just mid-morning food!"
But when he told the group, the reception was different.
"Brunch with Brad," Ted said, raising an eyebrow. "Sounds like... a date."
"It's not a date! It's a friend hangout!" Marshall protested, but a seed of doubt was planted. Was he being weird? Was he becoming a "Brad"?
Robin, from her recent experience with jealousy, was more direct. "Marshall, brunch is what you do after the date. It's the territory of couples and girlfriends. Now, two single guys at brunch... that's unexplored and slightly sinister territory."
Barney, of course, saw it as an opportunity. "It's brilliant! You're infiltrating enemy territory! Brunch is full of vulnerable, hungover women craving comfort food. Brad is your bait, you're the hunter in... Operation Benedict Conquest!"
Marshall ignored Barney, but Ted and Robin's discomfort stayed with him. However, the prospect of a normal Sunday with conversation and pastries was too tempting, so he went to brunch with Brad.
And it was... wonderful. They talked about law, music, how hard it was to be single in a city of couples. Brad wasn't Lily, nor Alyx, but he was a warm, uncomplicated presence. For a moment, Marshall forgot he was in socially murky territory; he was just enjoying himself.
Until Brad pulled out two tickets. "Hey, I've got these for Mamma Mia! on Friday. I was going to take Kara, but... you know. You in? Let's reclaim Broadway, brother!"
Marshall took them. A musical with Brad. And his mind replayed Robin's words: "couple territory." But Brad smiled with genuine camaraderie. Was it so bad to want a friend to do things with?
Alyx, informed of the situation by Marshall's messages—Brad invited me to a musical. Is that weird? Rate it 1 to 10.—responded with her new pragmatism: If you like ABBA and the company, it's a 10. If you're only going to not hurt his feelings, it's a 3. So you decide what qualifies.
It was the kind of sensible advice she used to give, but without the exhausting weight of feeling responsible for the outcome. Marshall read it and smiled. Alyx was becoming Alyx again, but a lighter, freer version. And that, more than any brunch or musical, gave him hope.
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