Coven-ish

  An almost magical origin story

  Every mess starts somewhere.

  Before ‘the coven’. Before the cursed sweater and other drama—

  There was Sophie. Bright-eyed. High on tea, the regular kind, not the special brews you can get at the coffee shop. Dressed like pastel optimism on two legs.

  This isn’t a love story.

  Not exactly.

  It’s what happens when a girl who still believes in unicorns meets a girl who stares like the sun and a girl who walks like gravity bends for her.

  There were no spells. No rituals. Just tea, concerts, and one very awkward morning after.

  Almost magic.

  But not quite.

  Okay, so.

  If you’re going to understand anything about what happened later—

  The breakfast. The waffles. The smirking. The (thing)—

  You have to start here at the beginning.

  And the beginning is—

  JUNO: A complete misrepresentation of events.

  NEEN: Technically, it’s where she met me, so it qualifies.

  SOPHIE: Can I please narrate this without a courtroom-level cross-examination?

  Anyway.

  The beginning is uni.

  First year. Art school. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, tragically unaware that half the teachers were either failed provocateurs or aggressively into “destructive critique.”

  I came in with a sketchbook full of magical girls, sticker designs, and one dream: to make something beautiful.

  And I did. I made friends.

  Okay, a friend.

  Sort of.

  It wasn’t very easy.

  She wasn’t in any of my classes, but she always sat by the cafeteria window and seemed to smell good.

  (Which she did. Like lemon balm and the exact opposite of the hallway.)

  NEEN: I remember the outfit. Pastel overload with frog earrings.

  JUNO: So you clocked her immediately.

  NEEN: I see everyone immediately.

  SOPHIE: Can I get through one memory without being turned into a sitcom?

  So there she was: Neen.

  Different study altogether, something equal parts more tangible and out there, like psychology or plant-based magic—but she kept ending up near me. In the cafeteria. At the library. Once in the rain, with a single yellow umbrella, it looked like she was about to rescue me or write a poem about it.

  And I wasn’t into her. Not really.

  I mean, I didn’t think I was.

  I just kept getting... aware.

  Aware of her voice.

  Aware of how she smiled, like it cost her nothing.

  Aware of the way she watched people. Not in a creepy way. In a “I already understand you” way. Which should’ve been scary but wasn’t.

  NEEN: You were very easy to read.

  SOPHIE: I had layers!

  JUNO: Like a glitter onion.

  We started hanging out.

  Late-night library sessions. Tea in her dorm. She taught me how to brew it properly, and I pretended I’d never microwaved mine before.

  She showed me how to pot a plant. I gave it a name.

  She laughed once, so hard she snorted.

  And I felt something click.

  Not a crush. Not yet.

  Just… a note in a song I didn’t know I’d been humming.

  SOPHIE: See? That was poetic.

  JUNO: That was sapphic foreshadowing, and you know it.

  We didn’t kiss.

  Nothing happened.

  It was just tea. And plants. And laughter. And the slightest possibility hanging in the air like a soap bubble that neither of us popped.

  Because maybe that wasn’t the point.

  Maybe the point was—

  NEEN: Juno walked into the concert like a reckoning.

  JUNO: You make it sound so violent.

  NEEN: It was a lot of eyeliner.

  SOPHIE: Okay! We’re pivoting now onto a new scene. Someone else tell it. I need to hydrate and emotionally prepare for what comes next. Besides, I wasn’t there, so it would be hearsay and not hold up in court.

  I didn’t plan on going.

  It was one of those indie night market festival things, full of vegan soap and gender-neutral jewelry, and at least three men named Luka playing acoustic guitar.

  I showed up for a local band. Stayed for the chaos. Stayed longer for her.

  She wasn’t dancing. Not really.

  She stood near the crowd’s edge, hands in her coat pockets, watching the stage like the beat had to ask permission.

  And then she turned.

  Not dramatically. Not cute.

  Just turned.

  Looked right at me.

  And I... paused.

  SOPHIE: You never pause.

  She didn’t smile. Not right away.

  But she did nod. Just once.

  As if I had passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

  I should’ve walked away.

  But I didn’t.

  We stood next to each other for most of the set. No talking.

  She didn’t look at me again. Didn’t need to.

  I leaned over once. Said something stupid like, “You move like you want me to worship you.”

  She blinked at me, tilted her head.

  Said, “Maybe I was.”

  I grinned. She didn’t.

  Then she left.

  Not in a dramatic stomp-off. Not in a “follow me” kind of way.

  Just… left.

  So, I followed her.

  NEEN: You offered to walk me home. Instead, I ended up walking you home.

  JUNO: I was being polite.

  SOPHIE: You were thirsty.

  She asked if I liked the music. I said yes.

  She asked if I always wore this much eyeliner. I said obviously.

  We didn’t flirt.

  SOPHIE: I’ve seen you flirt. You were flirting, alright!

  JUNO: You weren’t even there!

  SOPHIE: Neen, back me up here?

  NEEN: You were flirting…

  SOPHIE: *Bursts out in giggles*

  JUNO: Can I finish my part?

  I opened the door to our house. She walked through it.

  That’s how it started.

  The rest is none of your business.

  SOPHIE: You’re telling the story.

  JUNO: I’m telling my version.

  She kissed like she meant it.

  As if she already knew how I’d taste and just needed to confirm it.

  There was no awkward fumbling. No second-guessing.

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  Just movement. Breath.

  Skin.

  Sophie: Okay, okay, okay. I take it back. I’ve heard enough!

  Juno: But I only just got to the good part…

  SOPHIE: Nope. Not listening LALALALALA

  And then silence.

  Afterward, we lay there. Not touching.

  Her eyes were open. Mine weren’t.

  She said, “You’re going to be complicated.”

  I said, “You started it.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  She rolled over, closed her eyes, and still looked like the one in control.

  I left the bed before the sun did.

  Made tea. Fed the cat. Opened a window.

  I thought that would be the end of it.

  NEEN: You know it wasn’t.

  JUNO: …Yeah. That’s the problem.

  Anyway.

  JUNO: Sophie?

  SOPHIE: Oh, right. Where were we?

  I made waffles.

  That morning. The morning after.

  I remember it because the waffle mix was lumpy, I used the wrong pan, and I was too stubborn to admit I had started cooking to give my hands something to do.

  NEEN: You were always stress-cooking back then.

  SOPHIE: DO NOT.

  JUNO: You did, Soph. You still do.

  SOPHIE: *Muttered violently into a mixing bowl.*

  Anyway.

  It was quiet.

  Sunlight through the window. Everything looked soft and golden. You know the kind of morning that pretends to be gentle right before punching you in the emotional face? Yeah. One of those.

  I’d just flipped the second waffle when the door creaked open.

  And in walked Juno.

  Hoodie. Braid. Sex hair.

  That little smirk that said “yes, I did something unspeakable and no, you don’t get details.”

  JUNO: I didn’t smirk.

  SOPHIE: You winked.

  JUNO: Not.

  SOPHIE: Oh, it was a full-body smirk. Your shoulders were smirking.

  She went straight for the coffee, didn’t even blink at me.

  Then the second door creaked.

  And in walked—

  Neen.

  Wearing one of Juno’s oversized t-shirts.

  And socks.

  And nothing else.

  I glitched.

  Like—emotionally blue-screened. Full shutdown. System restart pending.

  She paused when she saw me.

  Not guilty. Not awkward. Just...friendly.

  Like this was normal.

  “Morning,” she said, like I was a roommate, not an emotional landmine.

  NEEN: I said it nicely! I even smiled.

  SOPHIE: You smiled like a babysitter who found the kid awake past midnight.

  JUNO: She smiled like she knew.

  I couldn’t say anything.

  My brain threw up a 404 error and stalled on “uhhhh.”

  I nodded. Possibly. Might’ve just blinked loud.

  And suddenly, my kitchen—my kitchen—felt like the backdrop to a foreign film where I hadn’t read the subtitles.

  They sat as if it were the most normal thing in the world, like we weren’t in a triangle of quiet, sticky tension that tasted suspiciously like cinnamon syrup and betrayal.

  NEEN: I passed the syrup to you.

  SOPHIE: And smiled while doing it.

  NEEN: Because I’m polite.

  They ate.

  I did not.

  I moved my waffle around the plate like I was staging a very quiet breakdown.

  “So,” I said, bright as day, “sleep okay?”

  JUNO: Best in months.

  NEEN: It was comfortable.

  SOPHIE: In my old hoodie and Juno’s T-shirt.

  JUNO: That thing has holes in it.

  SOPHIE: It’s vintage.

  NEEN: I would call it absorbent.

  SOPHIE: EWWWW!

  We all stared at each other for a second too long.

  Then I excused myself. Said something about laundry.

  There was no laundry.

  There was just me, walking out of that kitchen like I hadn’t just witnessed the origin story of something I wouldn’t be part of.

  And honestly?

  I was fine.

  NEEN: You weren’t fine at all.

  JUNO: She made a third batch of waffles for no one.

  SOPHIE: I didn’t cry.

  NEEN: You hummed sad show tunes at the toaster.

  JUNO: And you whispered “Benedict Arnold” at a mixing bowl.

  Okay. I may have had a few feelings.

  But I did not cry.

  NEEN: You know it wasn’t just about the waffles.

  JUNO: …Yeah. That was the problem.

  She left.

  Sophie, I mean.

  She bailed on breakfast, mumbled about laundry, and exited the room as if her social battery had hit zero, taking the lights with her.

  I figured she’d be back in a minute.

  But she didn’t come back.

  Neen and I were still sitting there in the syrupy silence.

  My kitchen table suddenly felt like the most awkward three-person scene, missing one body.

  I finally said it. “So… did that seem weird to you?”

  Neen sipped her tea. Unbothered. “She didn’t expect to see me.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like we were doing it on her bed or anything.”

  “She knows me.”

  I blinked. “From the waffles?”

  SOPHIE: I would like to note that it was before the waffles.

  JUNO: You could’ve mentioned her.

  SOPHIE: I was going to! Eventually.

  NEEN: You looked at me like I was the answer to a question you hadn’t figured out how to ask.

  “You know her?” I asked.

  Neen nodded. Calm. Even. “We met at uni.”

  “Okay, but—like, know her? Or just shared a group project and trauma bonded over campus mold?”

  “She’s… complicated,” Neen said. “There was tea. Late-night library talks. I helped her name a succulent.”

  SOPHIE: Cyril. His name was Cyril.

  JUNO: Why is everyone always emotionally bonded over houseplants?!

  NEEN: We didn’t bond over the plant. We bonded because she let me hold her silence with her.

  “She never told me about you,” I said.

  Neen tilted her head. “You’re her sister.”

  I stared. “Excuse me?”

  “I assumed,” Neen continued gently. “The way you talk about her. The way she looks at you. It’s obvious.”

  JUNO: That is…

  NEEN: A mistake?

  JUNO: Wildly inaccurate.

  SOPHIE: Wait, what?

  “I’m not her sister,” I snapped. “We just grew up close. Her mom helped me out of some shit when I was younger, and now she’s my human glitterbomb of a moral compass. That doesn’t make me her sibling.”

  Neen blinked, but didn’t flinch. “Still sounds like someone she’d want to protect her.”

  “She doesn’t need protecting!”

  SOPHIE: …I kinda did.

  JUNO: DON’T DO THAT.

  SOPHIE: It was sweet!

  JUNO: She just called me your sister. That is NOT sweet. That is trauma-adjacent typecasting.

  I stood up. Sat down. Did both badly.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You didn’t,” Neen said. “But I might’ve.”

  She said it as if it were math. Like it wasn’t about guilt—it was about impact.

  I folded my arms. Stared down at the syrup pooling on my plate like it held answers.

  “She’s still spiraling, isn’t she?”

  SOPHIE: I wasn’t spiraling. I was... dramatically internally reorganizing.

  JUNO: You were sulking in a laundry basket.

  SOPHIE: I was thinking.

  NEEN: You were thinking with feelings. Very bravely.

  Neen looked at me. Calm. Kind.

  Lethal in the way she always is—with the truth, not the blade.

  “You could check on her,” she said.

  “Why me?”

  “Because she expects you to.”

  I hated that. Hated how right it was.

  I hated how it stirred something in my chest that felt like responsibility in my eyeliner.

  SOPHIE: I wouldn’t have admitted it then, but yeah. I wanted her to find me.

  JUNO: You’re lucky I like you.

  SOPHIE: You’re lucky I didn’t cry on the waffles.

  NEEN: Everyone’s lucky you made the waffles.

  I stood up.

  Didn’t say anything. Just... stood there for a second, letting the moment settle in my bones.

  Neen didn’t smile. Just nodded once, like the story knew its next beat.

  And I walked out of the kitchen.

  Not because I had to.

  Because she needed me to.

  I was in the hallway.

  Sitting on the floor. Knees to my chest. Hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands like armor made of cotton and regret.

  No actual laundry in sight. Just one rogue sock and a very long sigh.

  JUNO: You looked like someone canceled your birthday.

  SOPHIE: It felt like someone canceled my emotional development.

  NEEN: You needed thirty-seven minutes of silence and a frog sticker.

  SOPHIE: I had three frog stickers, thank you very much.

  Then the door creaked.

  I didn’t look up.

  “Laundry’s on the left,” I muttered. “Avoid the sock. It’s emotionally charged.”

  Silence.

  Then: “You okay?”

  Of course, it was her.

  I didn’t answer right away, mainly because I wasn’t sure.

  Also, because my voice was hiding behind my ribs somewhere.

  “I didn’t know you knew her,” she said.

  “She helped me name a plant,” I said. “We were friends. Or maybe almost. I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “If you had?”

  She shifted her weight. I could hear it. The sleeve of her hoodie brushed the wall.

  “I wouldn’t have brought her home.”

  There wasn’t anything accusing in her voice—just... honesty.

  The kind that lands softly but still leaves a bruise.

  “I mean,” she added, “you two look cute together. In that way, where I don’t get the dynamic, but I respect it.”

  “I don’t do cute,” I mumbled.

  “You’re wearing a hoodie with frogs doing ballet.”

  “They have legwarmers.”

  She didn’t laugh. But she didn’t argue.

  We sat there in the quiet, just breathing near each other.

  I twisted the fraying end of my sleeve.

  “Do you think she would’ve? If things had gone differently?”

  Juno didn’t even pause.

  “No.”

  Something in me eased. Something else cracked.

  JUNO: Not because you weren’t worth it.

  SOPHIE: But because the timing wasn’t.

  NEEN: And because I didn’t know what I wanted. Not yet.

  She sat beside me. Not close, just... enough.

  I passed her the rogue sock. She accepted it like a sacred object.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For not crying on the waffles.”

  I sniffled. Just one of those tiny, traitorous ones. The kind that surprises you, and suddenly everything’s wet.

  I looked away, but it was too late.

  And then Juno reached out and pulled me in.

  Not a huge hug. Not dramatic.

  Just arms. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way I didn’t know I needed.

  And I melted into it.

  For a second, I forgot to breathe.

  Her chin rested on my head like it had always belonged there.

  “Hey,” she said, soft enough that it barely counted as teasing, “Breathe, Cupcake. You’re allowed.”

  I blinked.

  “...Did you just call me Cupcake?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Which meant yes.

  NEEN: That’s when I knew they were family.

  SOPHIE: I still think she meant it sarcastically.

  JUNO: You think wrong, Cupcake.

  Behind us, the hallway creaked.

  Neen.

  She was standing there, half in shadow, like she didn’t want to intrude.

  I saw her make eye contact with Juno.

  She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t leaving either.

  And Juno—still holding me—just looked up, made eye contact, and nodded.

  That was it. No words. Just a nod after which Neen retreated to the kitchen.

  I didn’t understand what it meant until later.

  But I felt it.

  You don’t get to break her.

  Even if you didn’t mean to.

  NEEN: Can I tell the rest?

  SOPHIE: But of course, Neenie.

  JUNO: You call her Neenie?!?

  SOPHIE: I do…Junebug.

  NEEN: Junebug? *giggles*

  JUNO: It’s very…sisterly *mubmles* I like it

  So, I was there.

  I don’t mean at the beginning, not really. Not in the tea-sipping, frog-earring, giggling-over-a-succulent kind of way.

  But I was there for the after.

  For the moment that comes when everything breaks and yet somehow remains soft.

  They didn’t see me. Not at first.

  Juno had her arms around Sophie like she’d finally realized someone needed holding, and it didn’t have to mean weakness.

  Sophie was doing that brave-quiet thing. The kind where your voice is still stuck behind your ribs, but your body knows you’re safe now.

  I could’ve left them.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I waited. Quietly. The way you wait for a storm to pass without rushing it.

  Eventually, Juno looked up.

  We locked eyes.

  And she nodded.

  It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t forgiveness.

  It was something closer to a truce.

  I stepped away. Gave them space.

  Made tea—honest tea. Not the bagged kind, but the leaves-in-a-steeper kind. The kind that says, “I’m still here. If you want me.”

  Eventually, they drifted back in.

  Sophie’s first hoodie sleeves are too long again. Her eyes were a little pink, but clear.

  Juno hovered behind her like a thundercloud on cooldown.

  No words at first.

  Just waffles reheated, syrup re-poured.

  I passed Sophie a mug.

  She looked at it like it might cry if she didn’t hold it right.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She blinked at me. “For what?”

  “For not knowing,” I said. “For not asking. For assuming you’d be okay.”

  She nodded, slowly. Then reached across the table and touched my hand.

  Only for a second.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I think I was maybe… hoping you’d be something I could hold onto. And when you weren’t, I forgot to let go gently.”

  JUNO: I made a gagging motion. Silently. With love.

  SOPHIE: She did. It was very respectful.

  NEEN: I appreciated the restraint.

  We didn’t spell it all out. That wasn’t the point.

  But we did start again.

  From the middle.

  Juno passed Sophie the syrup.

  I refilled the kettle.

  And somewhere in there, something clicked.

  Not a love story.

  Not exactly.

  But something that felt a little bit like family.

  The kind you find, not the type you’re born into.

  Messy. Loud. Sticky with syrup.

  Almost magic.

  But not quite.