The door swings shut behind Eli, bell jangling in his wake. The city presses close, loud and wide, as I step out onto the sidewalk. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my wrists, in my cheeks, in the pads of my bare feet inside my sneakers.
I look at my sketchbook, at the sharp jaw and crooked mouth I drew across two pages. It's not perfect, but it's honest, and somehow that makes it better.
I want to text Janelle, to send a photo and brag that yes, I finally talked to a real human boy and didn't combust. But I know what she'll say.
Don't get weird, Cookie. He looks dangerous. You need to get out of la la land and join the rest of us in reality.
My fingers hover over my phone. Instead, I take a picture of the coffee cup, steam rising in the city dusk, and send it to Tara with just a:
"Guess who I met?"
No reply.
Maybe everyone's out already, or maybe I'm the only one who's not where she's supposed to be.
I start walking.
New York smells like rain and cigarettes, street carts and concrete. There's music somewhere—live or in my head, I can't tell.
I replay Eli's words, his smirk, the way he never really answers unless he wants to.
I let myself drift, counting the cracks in the sidewalk, watching the shadows grow longer between the buildings.
A siren wails in the distance. A group of tourists crowd the crosswalk, laughing, taking photos of everything.
Someone bumps my shoulder. I mutter, "Sorry," out of habit, even though I'm not the one in the way.
A sudden gust flips my sketchbook open, the drawing of Eli's eyes staring up at me.
I smile—smile with my heart, like the song—but the city is starting to feel too big, too loud, too real.
The streetlights come on one by one. I tell myself I'm not lost. I'm just...
Alone together with the city.
Alone together with my dreams.
And for now, that's enough.
The sidewalks are sticky with heat and spilled coffee, traffic horns blending with laughter and music bleeding from a corner bar. I keep my head down, sketchbook pressed to my chest, sneakers squeaking.
My phone buzzes, loud in my pocket.
I check: Mom.
I let it ring once, twice, but guilt wins out.
"Hi, Mom."
She wastes no time. "Cookie, are you walking alone again? You know what we talked about—don't be distracted, keep your phone in your hand. This is not like back home. People aren't nice."
I close my eyes, the city swirling around me. "I'm fine, Mom. I'm just heading home."
"I mean it. I saw something on the news—a girl got mugged near Central Park. You can't just drift off the way you do, honey. You need to stop living in... in la la land. You're not a little kid anymore."
I bite the inside of my cheek. She's been saying that since I was thirteen, when my stories got weirder and I started filling notebooks with talking cats and dream cities instead of algebra.
"I know," I say, because it's easier than arguing.
She sighs, softer. "I just want you safe, Cookie. Promise me you'll go straight home."
I promise. We say goodbye. The line clicks dead.
I pocket the phone and keep walking. The city's magic dims under the streetlights.
Alone together.
I hear the lyric in my head, Eli's voice and Chet Baker's, twisted together.
A voice snaps me out of it: "Yo, watch where you're going!"
I jerk sideways, almost walking into a bike messenger. He zooms past, cursing under his breath.
I shake my head, heart pounding.
Maybe Mom's right. Maybe I do get too lost in my head out here. Maybe New York is too much for a girl who never learned how to stop daydreaming.
But I don't want to be someone else.
I speed up, determined to get home before the city can make me feel small again.
By the time I reach my building, my shirt is sticking to my back and my curls are a frizz halo in the reflection of the lobby glass. The elevator wheezes up to the sixth floor, past flickering hallway lights and the vague, sour smell of someone's forgotten takeout.
My room is tiny, a closet with a bed and a desk, but it's mine. I drop my bag, deadbolt the door, and turn on the little lamp Janelle bought me at Target, its yellow light warm against the dusk outside.
I sit at my desk, open my sketchbook, and let my pencil wander.
First it's Eli's jaw, then the tilt of his mouth—half bored, half daring the world to surprise him. Then his hands, scarred and graceful, resting on a guitar that looks like it was built the year the city was born.
I write in the margin, not even sure why:
Alone together, above the crowd.
Is it Chet Baker's lyric, or just what I want?
A siren drifts through the window. Voices echo in the hallway—someone laughing, someone yelling, footsteps stumbling toward the stairs. I'm safe, I tell myself. But the city feels alive tonight, watching.
There's a tap—so soft I almost miss it.
I freeze, listening. Another tap, like a fingernail or a ring on glass.
I look at the window.
Nothing.
Just the blinking neon of the deli across the street, a man in a hoodie on the corner, phone pressed to his ear.
I watch him, heart racing. For a moment, he looks up—right at my window.
Then he walks on, swallowed by the city's golden glow.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, feeling foolish. Maybe Mom's warnings are getting to me. Maybe New York is teaching me to be afraid.
But I keep drawing.
I sketch Eli's face again, and mine beside it—our lines tangled together, lost in the city, alone together, but maybe... not quite alone.
I curl up in bed, sketchbook open on my chest, the page half-full of Eli's face and the city lights blurring behind him. I leave the lamp on—just in case.
The sounds of the city leak through my window: car horns, laughter, a bottle shattering somewhere down on the sidewalk. I drift in and out, caught between waking and dreaming.
In my sleep, I see Eli—standing alone under a streetlamp, his shadow stretching across wet pavement. He's singing, voice low and sweet, but the words slur and twist, echoing around me.
"Let's get lost...
Alone together...
You make me smile with my heart..."
He looks at me, eyes full of something I can't name. He holds out a hand. I reach for him—
—but the city pulls him away, his body dissolving into blue smoke, his voice fading into static.
I jolt awake, sweating, heart pounding. My lamp is still on, the sketchbook pressed against my skin like armor.
The city is quieter now. No more tapping, no voices. Just the low hum of a taxi's engine idling somewhere below.
I lie there, counting the beats of my heart, telling myself it's nothing. Just a dream. Just the city getting under my skin.
The next morning, my phone is blowing up.
Janelle:
"Brunch, ten a.m. Don't ghost or I'm coming to drag you out myself."
Tara:
"You alive? Tell me you didn't get kidnapped by a jazz nerd."
I sigh, dragging myself out of bed and into jeans, tying my curls back with an old scarf. I want to text Eli, but I don't even have his number. My hands itch for my sketchbook, but I shove it in my bag instead.
The brunch spot is noisy, sunlight streaming in through greasy windows, plates clattering, mimosas popping. Janelle's already there, picking at a muffin, eyes sharp as ever.
She doesn't waste time. "You look like shit."
"Thanks. You look... awake."
She snorts. "What's with you lately? You're always zoned out. Did you even sleep?"
I stir my coffee. "Weird dreams, that's all."
Tara slides into the booth, phone in hand. "Dreams about the mystery musician, I bet. You've got that face. Cookie's in la la land again, Janelle. Classic."
I bristle, but force a laugh. "You wouldn't get it."
Janelle rolls her eyes. "Seriously. You need to stop walking around here with your head in the clouds. It's not Jersey anymore."
Tara adds, "Or at least give us his number if you wind up murdered, so we know who to blame."
I look out the window, at the bright, endless city, and feel something tugging me back toward last night's dream.
Maybe I am in la la land.
Maybe that's the only place I still feel safe
Brunch with Janelle and Tara dissolves into bickering and bottomless coffee. By the time I slip away, I'm wired, twitchy, and desperate for air. I walk without thinking, letting the city guide me.
I turn onto Mercer Street, drawn by the sight of a used bookstore—tiny, cluttered, the kind of place that feels like a secret. The bell jingles as I push inside. The air smells like paper, old leather, a little mildew. Heaven.
I'm deep in the poetry shelves, pretending to care about Yeats, when I hear it—an unmistakable, hacking cough, followed by a muttered curse and the soft slap of paper against a counter.
I peek between books.
There he is.
The musician.
In daylight, under buzzing fluorescents, his hair sticking up at impossible angles, sleeves rolled up, bruises blooming down his forearm.
He's arguing with the clerk, his stutter sharp and impatient:
"J-j-just g-g-give me anything but st-store credit, man."
The clerk looks bored. "Sorry, that's all we do unless you want another book."
He huffs, glancing over his shoulder—right at me.
I freeze, a battered copy of Jazz Poems halfway to my bag.
He squints, eyes suspicious. "You f-f-f-foll—"
He catches himself, glances away.
"I've s-s-seen you around."
My cheeks burn. "This is a free country. I can read wherever I want."
He snorts, not unkind, and tucks the envelope under his arm.
The silence is awkward, but it hangs there, like a pause between notes.
I pretend to read. He pretends not to watch me.
The clerk clears his throat. "You done here?"
The boy shrugs. "Guess so."
He turns to leave, pausing just beside me, close enough that I catch the edge of his cologne—cheap, a little smoky, strangely familiar.
He looks at my book, lips twitching.
"Poetry, huh? G-g-gotta keep the d-d-dream alive."
It almost sounds like a lyric. Maybe it is.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He smirks, brushes past me toward the door, then pauses.
"You c-c-coming, or...?"
I blink, thrown. "Coming where?"
He jerks his chin at the street, not looking at me.
"Coffee. Or not. S-s-suit yourself."
It's abrupt, a challenge, and somehow the kindest thing anyone's offered me all week.
Before I can answer, he's out the door, envelope tucked tight to his chest, the bell jingling behind him.
I grab my bag and hurry after him, heart pounding—not sure if I'm making a mistake, or if I've just found the next song.
________________
Eli
City's too damn bright in the morning. I hate the way sun bounces off car windows, stings my eyes, makes the bruises on my arm itch. Should've stayed in bed, but Manny's sleeping off a hangover and Jamie's got a girl over. Books are quieter. Less likely to look at you too long.
Didn't plan on running into her.
The girl from the quad.
The one who keeps looking at me like I'm a question she's dying to answer.
She stands in the poetry aisle, hair a cloud, sneakers scuffed, pretending she belongs. She doesn't. That's what I like about her. Most people in the city blend together—gray, fast, loud. She stands out by standing still.
Clerk's got no cash. Figures. I should've pawned the damn trumpet instead.
I look up, catch her watching. Big brown eyes, all nerves and hope.
Probably another college kid who thinks jazz is a personality.
But she doesn't look away.
That's new.
I make a joke—something about dreams and poetry. My tongue trips, stutter scraping the words raw. I see her blush, can't help but smirk.
Don't know her name. Don't care.
Still, when I walk out, I wait by the door.
Don't know why. Maybe I just want to see if she'll follow.
People say the city's full of ghosts.
Sometimes you meet one with a heartbeat.
Coffee sounds good.
Or maybe it's just her.
I light a cigarette, lean against the brick, and wait for her shadow to fall next to mine.
____
Cookie
He's waiting outside, smoking, shoulders hunched like he's bracing against the whole city. For a second, I hesitate—this is New York, and following strange boys out of bookstores isn't on anyone's safety checklist. But my feet move anyway, like they know something I don't.
He nods at me—no smile, no words, just a flick of his chin like I passed some secret test.
We walk side by side. The world feels charged, electric, like anything could happen. I clutch my poetry book tight, feeling ridiculous and giddy and a little reckless.
He flicks his cigarette into the gutter and doesn't ask if I want to split off. I don't ask where we're going.
We end up in a bodega coffee shop, the kind with a single row of faded booths and a handwritten sign over the register: CASH ONLY, NO WIFI, NO PHOTOS.
He orders black coffee, voice low, stutter more obvious with the cashier than with me. I order the same, just to keep things simple.
We slide into a booth near the window. He sprawls out, legs too long for the cramped seat, elbows on the table, staring out at the street like he's somewhere else.
I watch him, trying to memorize the curve of his jaw, the bruise peeking from under his sleeve, the way he fidgets with a sugar packet but never opens it.
Minutes pass. Neither of us says anything.
I break first. "You come here a lot?"
He shrugs. "N-n-not really."
I nod, twisting the strap of my bag in my lap.
Another silence. I force myself to ask, "So...what's with the envelope?"
It's stupid, but I have to say something.
He glances down at the manila envelope, taps it once, then tucks it deeper under his arm.
"J-j-just music."
I can't tell if it's the truth or a lie, but I let it go.
"Are you in school?"
He shakes his head, eyes back on the window. "D-d-done with that."
A pause, then, "You?"
"Yeah. Sort of. Hudson College. Writing. Or...supposed to be."
He snorts, the barest hint of a smile flickering on his lips.
"W-w-writing's s'posed to be anything?"
I laugh, the sound surprising both of us.
He looks at me, finally, really looks, and I swear the world shifts just a little.
"Why'd you follow me?" he asks, not accusing, just curious.
I swallow, cheeks burning.
"I don't know. You...you make it hard not to."
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Th-th-that s'posed to be a line?"
I laugh again, shaking my head. "No. I'm not that smooth."
He doesn't say anything, just stares, eyes dark and unreadable.
The city hums outside, but in here, the air is heavy with everything unsaid.
After a long pause, he leans forward, elbows on the table, and says—quiet, slow, like he's tasting the words for the first time:
"We're alone together... above the crowd."
I shiver, not sure if it's the coffee or the way he says it, like a secret only I'm allowed to hear.
We sit there, two strangers, names still hidden, caught in the middle of a city that feels a little less lonely tonight.