Novels by Etaro

(Clarice’s POV)I barely manage to take three steps into my apartment—James’s apartment—before my phone starts buzzing. I don’t even need to check who’s calling. There’s really only one person who senses only my most inconvenient moments, as if she has a sixth sense for when I need chaos in my life. “Anna,” I say, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto James’s couch. “This better be important.”“Oh, you can bet your ass it is,” she replies, her voice practically bubbling with excitement. “I just wrapped up my lesson plan for the week, and now I’m officially free to bother you.”Anna and I have been best friends since Sophomore year at college. She took me to my first party, learned how to do make-up via my face, slept in my bed through all her heart breaks, lived vicariously through mine and she hasn't been able to do without me since. Everybody knew that Anna was crazy.That's why it came as a shock to everyone else to find out that she had wanted to

(Clarice’s POV)The moment I shut the door behind James, I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Then, I let out a groan. Loudly. Even I knew that that was — if I’m being honest — a dreadful idea. I should have never let him in. I should have just ordered takeout in comfortable silence and eaten it in my pajamas while binge-watching Abbott Elementary like everyone else. I definitely shouldn’t have invited my ex — the very same ex I hadn’t talked to in over a year — to dinner in my apartment. Well, his apartment technically.And yet. I look at the empty takeout containers on the coffee table, still hearing his voice echo in my mind. Still picturing the way he sneered every time he got under my skin. Still recalling how shockingly simple it was to slip back into old habits, as if no time had passed at all. And that’s exactly the problem. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. No use dwelling on it now. The evening is

(James’s POV)The moment Clarice slams the door in my face, I have to stifle a laugh. Some things never really change. I knock again, hoping she’ll come to her senses. “Rice.” “Go away.” I catch a faint whiff of something… smoky. “Do you smell something burning?” Silence. Then, muffled through the door: “NO.” That’s it—I can’t hold it in anymore. I laugh. Loud enough to annoy her, which only makes it better. “You know, if you were trying to impress me with your culinary skills,” I call through the door, “this is quite the tactic.” The door swings open. Clarice stands there, arms crossed, glaring up at me. And for just a second—just a second—I completely forget about the smoke and the charred whatever-it-is, and the fact that we haven’t seen each other in over a year. Because there she is. Hair pulled up in that messy bun she always does when she’s cooking. A smudge of something—flour? Salt?—on her cheek

(POV – Clarice)I had been expecting a lot of things since this whole apartment swap thing started. But what I wasn’t prepared for was a phone call from James Burrows—my ex—after months of silence.My phone rings just as I’m about to settle in with a bowl of ice cream and an old sitcom rerun.I frown at the unknown number, already prepared to decline the call because, let’s be honest, if it’s important, they’ll leave a message. But then, something makes me pause. A weird feeling in my gut. I hesitate, then swipe to answer.“Hello?”There’s a beat of silence, then—“Clarice.”I freeze. I know that voice. I know it too well.I squeeze my eyes shut. “James.”It’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud in… God, how long? Almost a year? And now, just like that, we’re talking again because of a stupid apartment mix-up. Fate needs a new hobby.“Yeah.” His voice is calm, casual even. As if this is just a normal, everyday call between two perfectly normal, well-adjusted adults. “I figured

(POV – James)I knew Clarice was organized, but this?I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place so well—precise.I stand at the front door for a second, just staring. Her apartment is like something out of one of those design magazines you find in hotel lobbies, the ones you flip through for inspiration but never actually live in.Everything is in its place. The furniture, the bookshelves, the art on the walls—it’s as if she hired a personal stylist just to make everything look perfectly curated. Even the throw pillows on the couch are arranged like they’ve been carefully rotated just to maintain their “fluff.”Who does that?I chuckle to myself, shaking my head.I toss my bag on the perfectly organized kitchen counter, and that’s when I catch myself:I’m laughing. Laughing.She’s such a freak. A beautiful, efficient, ridiculously precise freak.It’s the kind of precision that makes me feel like I should be in a museum or something, not her ap

(POV – Clarice)The apartment is too quiet.Which is funny, because I like quiet. I work best in silence, I think best in silence—honestly, I thrive in it.But this?This silence feels different.I exhale, rolling my shoulders as I scan the living room, hands on my hips like I’m about to evaluate a project scope.James’s apartment isn’t messy. It’s not chaotic. It’s just… James.Which is to say, it has zero symmetry, no obvious organizational system, and an impressive number of random objects that shouldn’t belong together but somehow do.I pick up a book from the coffee table. It’s an architecture book. Of course.Underneath it? A Morbius comic.I squint.A man in his thirties, with a degree, a career, and an allegedly functional brain, is out here stacking academic texts on top of Marvel comics like that makes sense.I roll my eyes and toss the book back.But it gets worse.The bookshelf is a mystery zone. One side