The evening sky was a soft, dusky blend of lilac and gold as Isabella stepped out of the hospital gates, her small canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Her shift had ended, finally, and with it the endless hours of mopping corridors, changing bed linens, and exchanging gentle smiles with patients whose names she remembered even better than the nurses did. Her body was tired, her hands a little sore from the cleaning agents and scrubbing, but there was a quiet energy in her steps tonight—a pull in her chest, like something wonderful awaited.
Because it did.
She wasn't going home.
She was going to Emily's.
The thought alone made her heart lift as she crossed the busy road and joined the fading rhythm of the city. Emily. Her best friend since they were both twelve and scrawny and full of ideas bigger than their world. Emily, who had gone away to study abroad and returned with the same laugh, the same wild ideas, and the same heart that had always felt like home to Isabella.
Emily had called her earlier that day, her voice practically glowing through the phone.
"Bella, if you don't come over tonight, I swear I'll cry. Brownies are already in the oven and I bought wine. We're watching trashy reality shows and judging people in luxury, okay?"
Isabella had laughed, her heart already packing its bags. She hadn't seen Emily in two weeks, and that was too long. Their lives had taken different paths—one filled with blood-stained uniforms and late-night bus rides, the other wrapped in luxury and scented candles—but they always found their way back to each other.
Emily lived in a quiet neighborhood tucked away behind tall iron gates and a manicured lawn, in a beautiful two-bedroom apartment paid for by her impossibly rich parents. It was tastefully decorated, with clean white walls, expensive art pieces that looked like they'd been picked straight from a gallery, soft rugs, elegant lights, and indoor plants that looked healthier than most people Isabella knew. Everything in Emily's home was deliberate, gentle, and infused with the scent of vanilla and lavender.
But what made it beautiful wasn't the furniture or the decor—it was the warmth.
Emily had poured herself into the space after returning from the UK, where she'd spent four years earning a degree in fashion and another two trying to forget what loneliness felt like. Her parents had sent her abroad with suitcases full of money and expectations, but never with love. They were wealthy. Influential. Elegant. And emotionally absent.
They didn't care about how she was coping, or whether she missed home, or if she cried herself to sleep. They only cared about results, reputation, and their own narcissistic ambitions. Their love was currency, and it came with conditions.
So Emily had chosen independence.
She refused to live in their mansion. Instead, she asked for an apartment, and once it was paid for, she cut herself away from their suffocating grasp. She decorated it on her own, started a small online fashion business, and reconnected with the few people who had ever truly mattered to her. Chief among them—Isabella.
When Isabella arrived at her door, Emily threw it open before she could knock.
"Finally!" she squealed, grabbing her into a tight hug. "You're late, but I forgive you because you look exhausted and I missed your face."
Isabella chuckled, hugging her back. Emily's satin robe smelled like strawberries and her hair was tied up in a messy bun that somehow still looked glamorous.
"I missed you too," Isabella said, allowing herself to be dragged inside.
The apartment was warm, glowing with soft lighting. The TV was already on, muted, playing a fashion documentary. A plate of freshly baked brownies sat on the counter, next to two wine glasses and a bottle already opened.
"I made these myself," Emily announced proudly. "And by that, I mean I stood in the kitchen and watched the oven."
Isabella dropped her bag by the couch and let herself fall onto it. "This is paradise."
"I know," Emily smirked. "And it comes with a personal bartender."
She poured wine into the glasses and joined her on the couch, curling up with a soft, peach-colored throw pillow.
The evening passed in waves of laughter. They talked about everything—Isabella's job, the strange patients she'd met, the woman who talked to ghosts in Room 9, and the nurse who kept trying to flirt with the new doctor but kept dropping things around him.
Emily cackled with laughter, nearly choking on her wine. "How do you survive in that place?"
"Barely," Isabella said, grinning. "But some of the patients are kind. Some just need someone to sit with them."
"You've always been good at that," Emily said. "Just… being there."
The conversation slowly turned softer. Emily talked about her parents—how they only called when they needed something to brag about at their social events.
"They don't even know where I live, Bella," she whispered. "I didn't tell them. They haven't asked. It's like… as long as I post pictures on Instagram and look happy, they assume everything's fine."
Isabella took her hand. "You deserve better."
"I know," she sighed. "That's why I have this place. My own life. My own little world."
Isabella looked around. "You've made it beautiful."
Emily smiled. "You're the first person to say that."
They played music, danced barefoot on the rug, and finished the brownies with no shame. Isabella changed into one of Emily's oversized T-shirts, and they curled up under the same blanket to watch movies. At some point, the conversation turned again—deeper, slower.
"You ever think about disappearing?" Emily asked. "Like… just running away. No plan. Just… gone."
"All the time," Isabella replied. "But then I think about who would miss me. Nora at the hospital. Mr. Hartley. You."
Emily blinked back a tear. "You're the only person who's ever made me feel seen. Like I'm not just decoration in someone else's house."
"You're not," Isabella said. "You never were."
They stayed awake for hours, whispering old memories, secrets, dreams. Emily showed Isabella her art journals—pages of color and chaos and beauty. Isabella told Emily about the stars she sometimes saw from the hospital rooftop when she needed a moment to breathe.
When they finally fell asleep, tangled in blankets, the apartment was silent but full—full of laughter, shared pain, and the comfort of knowing that even in a cruel world, they still had each other.