New Year, New Journal (Izmailovsky Market)

[Seren]

Seren listened without interrupting, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers curved around her mug. As Casey leaned in, the space between them closed just enough to matter. The café’s background noise softened into something distant, and with it Seren became more aware of the gold around Casey – still warm, still steady, but now threaded with something else: a careful restraint. Not secrecy exactly. Maybe a choice.

When Casey mentioned being a musician, Seren’s brows lifted a fraction, not in surprise, but in recognition. Not of her specifically, just of the way it suddenly made sense to her – the soft, more intimate way she thought Casey wanted to be seen. The difference between a public and private persona. She’d heard of Cadence Mathis, but it was the vague recognition of something in the popular sphere. Seren wouldn’t have recognised her any more than she’d recognised Casey.

“Different kinds of travel still leave the same marks,” she said. “You learn how to live out of a bag. How to arrive without settling.” She paused for a moment, then added, more gentle and thoughtful: “How to decide what parts of yourself are allowed to come with you.”

At the mention of guilt, Seren saw the glimmer shift – loosening, rearranging, as if something tight had finally been unclenched. It sat close to Casey’s chest, not bright, but sincere. Seren didn’t reach for it. She let it be. But she could see the desire to share. She smiled again, softer this time. Her thumb traced the rim of her mug, grounding, and she studied Casey with open curiosity rather than intensity. “You don’t owe me the whole version,” she said. “But I’d like the true one. Whatever piece feels safe to share over coffee.”