Chapter Three: Unfamiliar Territory

(POV – Clarice)

The first thing I notice when I step into James’s apartment is that it doesn’t feel wrong.

It just feels… not mine.

Which is somehow worse.

I set my suitcase down and take a slow, measured look around.

The space is open and unstructured, but not in a careless way. His furniture is sleek and modern—dark wood, deep blue, and muted grays. Clean, sharp lines. No clutter.

But where my apartment is meticulously curated, his feels effortless. Lived in. Comfortable in a way I can’t quite define.

There’s no color-coded bookshelf, no symmetrical arrangement of furniture, no perfectly measured distance between the coffee table and the couch.

Instead, there are sketchbooks stacked haphazardly on the console table, their edges worn from use. A half-finished architectural model sits on a side shelf, alongside a few scattered design books. A framed blueprint of the Sydney Opera House hangs above the couch—no doubt one of his favorite structures.

I exhale slowly.

James always had a way of making things look effortless. Like he could just throw things together and somehow make them work.

I should hate that it still bothers me.

I tell myself I do.

And yet, as I step forward, my fingers brush against the edge of his coffee table—and a wave of nostalgia hits me so hard it nearly knocks me off balance.

Because I remember this table.

Not this exact one, but one just like it.

It’s the same style as the coffee table we had in our old apartment, back when we were still us.

Back when he used to steal my Post-it notes and scribble ridiculous reminders on them.

Back when I used to find little sketches tucked into my planner—tiny, effortless doodles of me, usually with a speech bubble saying something sarcastic.

Back when we spent late nights sitting on the floor, my laptop open as I coded, his sketchbook resting against his knee as he worked on new designs.

Back when things felt… easy.

I inhale sharply and pull my hand away like the wood burned me.

I should not be feeling anything right now.

I should be unpacking, setting up my workspace, getting comfortable.

Instead, I’m standing in the middle of James’s apartment, being weirdly sentimental about a coffee table.

Pathetic.

I shake off the moment and move further inside, arms crossed, scanning the room like I’m about to conduct an efficiency audit.

The kitchen is minimal, no sign of the neatly labeled pantry bins I have at home. The bedroom door is closed, and I tell myself I have zero interest in seeing what kind of disorganized chaos awaits behind it.

And then I spot it.

Sitting on the bookshelf, wedged between architecture books and a stack of half-read novels, is a Magic 9-Ball.

I blink.

I step closer, hesitating before pulling it off the shelf. It’s slightly worn, the plastic a little scuffed, but it’s undeniably the same one he used to have years ago.

The one he used to consult over every dumb decision in our relationship.

I exhale, already regretting this, but I shake it anyway.

Will this apartment swap be an absolute disaster?

I flip it over.

Reply hazy, try again.

I snort. “Sounds about right.”

I shouldn’t be amused. I should be rolling my eyes and placing this thing right back where I found it.

Instead, I shake it again.

Did James actually keep this thing all these years?

I flip it over.

Signs point to yes.

I make a face and shove it back onto the shelf. I’m not doing this.

I’m not getting sucked into nostalgia over a ridiculous plastic fortune teller.

I head toward the hallway, pushing open the first door I see—expecting a home office or storage space.

What I find instead stops me in my tracks.

It’s not an office.

It’s a studio.

James’s workspace.

It’s a small room, but it’s filled with sketches, concept drawings pinned to the walls, scale models on floating shelves, drafting tools arranged in what looks like a methodical mess.

And sitting on the far desk, neatly tucked between two architectural models, is something that definitely doesn’t belong.

A small, familiar yellow notebook.

My chest tightens.

I know this notebook.

Because it’s mine.

Or at least, it was.

I walk toward it slowly, as if approaching too fast will make it disappear. I reach out and carefully pick it up, my fingers brushing the worn edges.

I flip it open.

My handwriting stares back at me.

It’s from three years ago, filled with my old notes—ideas, sketches, random bits of code I had scribbled down. I had thought I lost it when we split up.

But James had kept it.

Why?

I run my fingers over the pages, my heart pounding.

I tell myself this doesn’t mean anything.

It’s just a notebook.

But as I stand there, in a space that is so undeniably his, holding something that is undeniably mine, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just stumbled onto something I wasn’t supposed to find.

And I have no idea what to do with that.