I'm using your shirt as a pillow case (Mildred x Ethel)

1

The summer sun hangs heavy in the sky, painting everything in shades of gold and honey, and the heat has settled over the world like a warm blanket that refuses to be shaken off. It is the kind of afternoon where time seems to slow down, where the air shimmers above the pavement and the buzz of insects provides a constant, sleepy background hum to everything. 

Birds sing lazily from the trees, their songs slower and softer than in spring, and the flowers in the garden have opened their faces fully to the light, drinking in every ray with greedy satisfaction.

At the Hallow residence, the house sits quiet and mostly empty, a grand structure of pale stone and tall windows that usually buzzes with the energy of a large family but now holds only silence and the occasional creak of cooling wood. The rest of the Hallows have departed for a seaside vacation, a trip planned for months that involves visiting castles and overpriced food and the kind of family togetherness that makes Ethel want to hide in a cupboard until September. 

She had declined the invitation with a carefully constructed excuse about needing to study and prepare for the upcoming term, and her mother had accepted this with a look that suggested she knew exactly why Ethel wanted to stay behind but was choosing not to comment.

So now Ethel is alone, and the solitude is both a relief and an ache. She moves through the too-quiet rooms like a ghost, her bare feet silent against the polished floors, and she finds herself in her bedroom more often than not, surrounded by the familiar comfort of her own space. The window is open, letting in the warm breeze that carries the scent of cut grass and distant barbeques, and the curtains flutter gently in the draft.

On her bed, folded carefully and held close every night, is a soft gray sweater that does not belong to her. It is Mildred's sweater, stolen in a moment of desperate longing the last time they had seen each other, taken from the back of a chair where Mildred had left it after a long afternoon of studying together. Ethel had shoved it into her bag when Mildred wasn't looking, her heart pounding with a mixture of guilt and need, and now it is her most treasured possession. She was going to return it... Eventually.

She sleeps with it pressed against her face, breathing in the scent of Mildred's soap and shampoo and something uniquely her, something that smells like home and safety and the only thing that keeps the loneliness at bay. Because the truth is, Ethel Hallow cannot sleep without Mildred Hubble anymore. The nights stretch too long and too dark, and without the warmth of Mildred beside her or the sound of her breathing or the weight of her presence in the room, Ethel's mind refuses to settle. The sweater is a poor substitute for the real thing, but it is better than nothing.

She is holding it now, sitting cross-legged on her bed with the fabric clutched to her chest, when the magical mirror on her desk begins to glow. The soft silver light pulses once, twice, three times, and Ethel's heart leaps in her chest with such force that she almost drops the sweater. She scrambles across the room, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste, and grabs the mirror with both hands.

Mildred's face appears in the glass, slightly flushed and glowing with summer warmth, her hair messy and windswept as if she has been running or flying or simply existing with her usual chaotic energy. She is grinning, her eyes bright and happy, and the sight of her makes Ethel's breath catch in her throat.

"Hi, you called," Mildred says, her voice coming through clear and warm, like honey poured over sunlight.

"Hi," Ethel breathes back, and she hates how soft her voice sounds, how much longing leaks into that single syllable.

At the Hubble residence, Mildred has just returned from an afternoon out with her mother and friends. She had spent the day wandering through the village, eating ice cream that melted too fast in the heat, browsing shops that smelled of incense and old books, and walking through the park with her mother Julie who had insisted on holding her hand even though Mildred is officially too old for such things. The sun has pinked her nose and warmed her skin, and she feels happy and tired and full of the lazy contentment that comes from perfect summer days.