BRIANNA

8. YOU ARE MY FRIEND

BRIANNA'S POV

"Where are you staying? Did you rent an apartment?" Sarah's question caught me off guard as soon as we stepped out of our last class. An apartment? Me? With what money? The thought was almost laughable. With the little cash I had managed to scrape together, the idea of affording an apartment was as impossible as reaching for the moon.

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady, not wanting to reveal how much her question had stirred my insecurities. "No," I replied, forcing a casual tone, "I rented a bedroom in one of the small rental places a few blocks from here." I tried to sound like it was no big deal like it was just a temporary solution until something better came along. But the truth was far less glamorous.

The room was as basic as they came—barely enough space for a bed and a small desk, the walls thin enough that I could hear every movement from the neighbouring rooms. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could afford, at least until I found a part-time job. The thought of asking my mother for more money was something I avoided like the plague. She was already stretched too thin, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her sacrificing even more for me.

The guilt of it gnawed at me constantly, a persistent reminder of the precarious balance we were both trying to maintain. As long as I stayed in that room, one thing was certain—I would have to make sure my mother never saw it. The last thing I wanted was for her to worry, to see the reality of my situation and feel compelled to step in, to help in a way she couldn’t afford. I would have to be careful, meet her in town when she came to visit, always keeping her at a safe distance from the truth.

"I have a huge apartment my mother bought for me, and I could really use a friend." Sarah’s words hit me like a tidal wave, unexpected and overwhelming. I hadn’t anticipated such an offer, especially not so soon after meeting her. There was something about Sarah that radiated kindness, a warmth that was both comforting and disconcerting.

She seemed like the kind of person who genuinely wanted to help others, who saw a need and immediately sought to fill it. But despite her good intentions, the offer made me uneasy. We had only just met, and while I appreciated her generosity, it felt like too much, too fast. My life had taught me to be cautious, to question motives, to be wary of kindness that came without strings attached. I couldn’t help but wonder why she was so eager to help me, a complete stranger.

I glanced at her, trying to gauge her sincerity. There was nothing in her expression that suggested anything but genuine kindness. Yet, there was a nagging doubt at the back of my mind. Who was Sarah, really? Her name was familiar, like something I had heard in passing but couldn’t quite place. Her face, too, stirred a sense of recognition, but I couldn’t pin down where I had seen her before. It was as if she was a puzzle piece that almost fit but didn’t quite click into place. And that uncertainty made me hesitate.

Accepting her offer would mean stepping into a world I didn’t fully understand, one where I might not belong. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. But on the other hand, the idea of living in a proper apartment, of not having to worry about the rent each month, was undeniably tempting. It was a chance to escape the cramped, dingy room I was currently stuck in, to have a semblance of the life I wished I could afford.

"You don't have to do that." The words slipped out of my mouth before I could fully process them, a knee-jerk reaction to an offer that felt too generous, too overwhelming. I was caught between gratitude and discomfort, unsure how to navigate the unexpected kindness that Sarah was extending to me.

It wasn't just about accepting a place to stay; it was about the implications of that acceptance, about what it might mean for our relationship and for my own sense of independence.

But Sarah was having none of it. Her resolve was clear, her determination palpable in the way she squared her shoulders and met my eyes with unwavering intent.

"I want to," she said, her voice firm yet kind, as if she had already made up her mind and wasn't going to let me talk her out of it. "And since I have made up my mind, there's no way you're going to make me change it."

There was a part of me that wanted to trust her, to believe that this was as simple as she made it out to be—a friend helping a friend, nothing more, nothing less. But then there was the other part, the part that had been through too much to accept anything at face value, that questioned everything and everyone.

"It is a huge apartment," she continued as if she sensed my hesitation and was determined to eliminate any reason I might have for saying no. "And I have no roommate. My mother bought it for me, and she said I could do anything I want with it, and that also includes having a roommate." Her words were casual, almost offhand, but the offer she was making was anything but. I could hear the sincerity in her voice, the genuine desire to share what she had, to make her home a little less empty by inviting me into it.

"But I don't have money for rent," I blurted out, the truth hanging between us like a barrier I couldn't see a way around. I wasn’t about to let pride get in the way of practicality, but I also couldn’t imagine living in someone’s house for free, becoming a burden, a charity case.

The thought of it made my skin prickle with unease. I wasn’t raised to accept handouts; my mother had always taught me to work for what I wanted, to earn my keep, and this felt like the opposite of that. But Sarah waved away my concern with a laugh that was both light and dismissive as if I had said something completely ridiculous.

"What for? Brianna, you are my friend now, and I'm not going to ask my friend to pay rent." There was a firmness in her tone that told me she wasn’t just being polite; she truly meant what she was saying. "I told you that the apartment is mine, I'm not paying rent, and you're not going to either."

Her generosity was overwhelming, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. My mind raced, searching for a reason to refuse without offending her, but Sarah wasn’t done yet. She seemed to sense my internal struggle, the war being waged between my pride and my need for a stable place to live. "I know you don't want to live in my house free of charge," she said, her voice softening, "but I'm also not going to allow you to pay rent. I'm offering you a place to stay. That's what friends do—help each other."

The sincerity in her eyes was undeniable, and it made it that much harder to push back against her offer. She wasn’t just being kind; she was being adamant as if she had already decided that this was happening, and all I had to do was say yes. "Look at it this way," she continued, leaning in slightly as if to make sure I was really listening. "I'm helping you with a place to stay, and you're helping me by giving me a roommate—which is you."

The logic of her argument was hard to refute. She wasn’t just offering me a place to live; she was offering companionship, and the chance to build a friendship in a way that was meaningful to both of us. It was an exchange, not charity, and in that light, it seemed less daunting, more manageable. "I told you that I could use a roommate. And a friend." Her final words hung in the air between us, laden with a vulnerability that I hadn’t expected. It made the offer feel less like a handout and more like an invitation—one that I found increasingly difficult to refuse.

I can never win this argument. Sarah’s determination to keep the scales of our arrangement tipped in her favour was as unyielding as a mountain. It was frustrating, yes, but there was also something deeply endearing about how much she cared, how much she wanted to help. Still, I wasn’t the type to accept something for nothing; it went against everything I’d been taught, against the very fabric of who I was.

"Fine," I conceded, my voice tinged with resignation. If I couldn’t win this battle, I could at least negotiate the terms. "At least allow me to do something then. I was going to look for a job so that I could get money for rent. I can do the cleaning and cooking as a way of paying for rent. How does that sound?"

I waited, hoping that this would be enough to satisfy both of us, to give me a sense of contributing while still respecting her boundaries. But Sarah, in her ever-present calm and collected manner, was quick to dismiss even this small concession. "There's no need for that," she said, her tone gentle but firm, the kind of voice one might use to soothe a stubborn child. "I have housekeepers already. Besides, I would never be comfortable with you doing everything for me. You're my friend."

She emphasized the last word as if it were the most important point of all, as if the very idea of our friendship outweighed any practical concerns. Her words hung in the air, settling around me like a soft blanket, warm and comforting but also a little suffocating. I could see that there was no room for further negotiation, no space for me to carve out a role that would make me feel less like a charity case and more like an equal.

Let’s just say I lost the argument, and that is why I found myself in Sarah’s car, her victory sealed by her unwavering kindness. The drive to my place was a blur, my mind too preoccupied with the rapid turn my life had taken to fully register the scenery passing by. We pulled up to the small, worn-down rental where I had been staying, a place that was more a necessity than a home. The walls were thin, the furniture sparse, and the overall atmosphere tinged with the kind of weariness that comes from years of being a last resort for people like me—people who didn’t have many options. Now, as I gathered my few belongings, stuffing them into bags that seemed far too empty, I felt a strange mix of relief and sadness. Relief that I was leaving this place behind, and sadness that I had ever had to be here in the first place.

As soon as we were done packing, Sarah took the bags from my hands with a smile that suggested I should let her handle it. I didn’t argue. Not anymore. She drove us to her apartment, the journey filled with a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. I wasn’t sure if she was giving me space to process everything or if she simply understood that I didn’t have the words to express how I felt at that moment. Either way, the quiet was welcome. We passed a few buildings, beautiful buildings for that matter, each one more luxurious than the last. It was the kind of area where everything seemed to shine, where even the smallest details—like the perfectly trimmed hedges or the pristine sidewalks—screamed wealth and privilege. It was a far cry from the run-down neighbourhood I had been staying in, and as we drove deeper into this world of affluence, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of awe.

Some people are really living the life, I thought to myself, my eyes wide as I took in the grandeur around me. It wasn’t just the buildings or the cars parked along the street, though those were impressive enough. It was the air of ease that seemed to permeate everything, the way people walked with a confidence that came from never having to worry about where their next meal was coming from or whether they could afford the roof over their heads. It was the kind of life I had only ever seen from the outside, through the tinted windows of cars like the one I was in now. And yet, here I was, about to step into that world, not as a visitor but as a resident.