The first morning in her new apartment was nostalgic—being surrounded by a new place that smelled of fresh paint, new wood, and an absolute, terrifying silence.
That morning, Alyx woke up for the first time in three months in a bed with new bedding instead of the brown sofa in the apartment, surrounded by the soft snores of Marshall or the murmurs of Robin and Ted leaving. It was something novel, and the white walls, devoid of home decor, seemed to amplify the sound of her own body: her too-fast heartbeat and slightly ragged breathing.
Although the previous day she had finished unpacking the larger items—her trading setup and kitchen utensils, all organized—her clothes were still in boxes. The Polaroid of the three of them at Coney Island ended up stored in a desk drawer, deeper inside but closer than where she hid Lily's notebook and earring.
The first ritual in the new space was making coffee. The Italian coffee maker whistled on the granite kitchen counter—the countertops Lily would like, she thought involuntarily, and she tried to distract herself with the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the space. Her hand trembled as she poured the first cup, not just from the caffeine still in her system, but also from starting her habit in a new place, added to the anxiety of being in a new location without the noise of her friends nearby.
With her prepared coffee cup in hand, plus a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, she headed to the apartment balcony. She lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing, since she hadn't bought more furniture apart from her bedroom bed and the desk she brought with her. There, she observed the urban landscape—some buildings and a bit of vegetation in the common areas. The smoke rasped her throat, but the nicotine was a chemical balm for her raw nerves. Just two cigarettes that morning, as she had imposed on herself, since she disliked smelling like cigarettes all day.
As the days passed, Alyx gradually distanced herself more from the group, trying to find herself first physically by no longer appearing at MacLaren's every night as the group did. Although she had done this before, now it was more spaced out. At first, she made excuses about needing to monitor an important trade entry, being tired from exercise (they thought she went to the gym for her more toned body—clearly it wasn't just the gym but martial arts), or having a neighbors' meeting. Time passed until she no longer gave many excuses—she just didn't go.
Her days took on a new routine to which she strictly adhered, leaving no room in the day to think about her emotional chaos.
In the mornings, she dedicated herself to Trading, always focused with a cold mind for decisions and entries to take. She no longer had the distractions of Marshall in his zombie mode, Ted with his romantic plans for a woman he barely knew but swore would be the love of his life, or Robin with her journalistic anecdotes.
She took risky positions based on those hunches from another life, profiting monetarily from what she knew. The numbers in her accounts grew. The money she earned was a kind of point game she set herself to raise with new goals.
In her afternoons, now alone, she increased her Muay Thai days, which made her more relentless. Her height and reach had improved exponentially; where before she felt gawky and clumsy, now she felt more in control of her physical movements. The trainer praised her for her technique and ferocity. "It looks like you're fighting your demons," he once said. She just nodded slightly, soaked in sweat, her knuckles raw under the bandages. Each kick to the bag was for Lily, each elbow strike for Marshall, and each fast combination for the Alyx who believed a three-way love was possible.
On alternate nights, she took her painting classes. She abandoned the frequent themes of landscapes and buildings painted from memory; now she painted sensations, giving shape to the tightness in her chest upon seeing the empty bar window, the texture of silence in her new apartment, the color of Marshall's pain—a murky, grayish brown—and Lily's—a bright green cracked by black veins. Her teacher, a serious woman with eyes that seemed to miss no detail, observed her silently. She never commented on her common paintings until now, with this change. One day she said: "Finally you're painting your truth, not what you think you should paint." Alyx didn't respond. She just mixed more black on the palette.
Other nights were a vicious cycle—what she thought was control now had another destructive outlet with loneliness, coffee, and cigarette consumption beyond the limits she imposed on herself other days.
Sometimes she opened the new sketchbook she had bought—a cheap one, without the sentimental weight of Lily's. In it, she drew only emptiness: an empty chair, an empty window, an empty bed. They were simple, stripped-down drawings that terrified her for what they revealed.
On the other hand
The group noticed her absence. At first, it was a minor annoyance. Since before, when Lily left, she had also stopped going to the bar several times to take care of Marshall, but now they didn't even know what she was doing.
"Where's Alyx?" Barney would ask.
"Working, I think," Marshall would respond, distracted and sunk in his own post-Lily, post-Barney cynical transformation.
But then the absences accumulated, leading to changes in the group's dynamics. Her presence, though recurrent and spaced out, had been a silent, stabilizing balm for the group.
"It's weird," commented Robin, looking at the empty space where Alyx used to sit, observing, analyzing, occasionally making a dry comment that put things in perspective. "Without Alyx, Barney's stupidity has no counterbalance. It's like a nuclear reactor without control rods."
Ted nodded, playing with his beer. "Yeah. She was always the one who made me see when I was being a dramatic idiot. Now I only have your opinion, and you're Canadian, so you're too polite to tell me directly."
Robin shot him a deadly look.
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