Emmie saw the note when she'd wrestled her hair into a low bun at the nape of neck and brushed her teeth, wandering back into her room and skating by the window with a nonchalant sort of curiosity. The girl was gone and a brightly colored sticky note was pasted to the abandoned portrait. Through the rain-speckled glass, it was hard to see clearly, but she could read the short note well enough. She laughed, squinting at the portrait from where she stood. It seemed her neighbor was quite talented. It was odd though, to see so much care placed into capturing her likeness, and Emmie found herself playing with a loose strand of her hair absently. She almost felt a touch self-conscious. It was a bit of a marvel to be placed in such a pleasant context. She wondered if her life looked quite so peaceful from her neighbor's vantage point, or if that was what they called artistic license.<br/><br/>She took her post card out of the window frame and scratched out her old note.<i>It's lovely.</i>She wedged it back against the glass. Perhaps, tomorrow, she'd make sure to ask the girl's name when she went by the shop for coffee. It only seemed polite, at this point.<br/><br/>Emmie shrugged into a worn shirt with almost as many holes as the one she'd been lounging in and a pair of jeans with approximately equal distress. A lived-in leather jacket and some old tennis shoes achieved the general height of her eye for fashion. She took a deep breath before she left her room. It never really felt like the rest of the apartment qualified as home. Her father was like unpredictable weather and she, a ship in his roiling sea. Lately, their exchanges had been shallow and glassy-eyed. It was better than the volatility she was used to expecting. She still held her breath whenever they ended up in the same space. Today, he was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper in hand, half-eaten breakfast and cold coffee gossiping that he'd been there for quite some time. He looked miserable, massaging his brow and blinking blearily at the austere black post characters. "Rough night, Dad?" she asked, walking over to take his plate and mug. She scraped his leftover food into the waste bin and refreshed his cup with the stale, but warm, pot of coffee still sitting on the counter. He didn't look up at her, mumbling something she took as an affirmative under his breath. "Alright. Well, try to drink some water. And go take a shower." She instructed, setting the mug back in front of him. He glanced at her then, and she almost thought he flinched. He didn't like looking her in the eye much. She just looked too much like Mom.<br/><br/>She smiled at him, weary already, and was quick to leave him to nursing his paper and his hangover. She thought of the painting the girl had propped in the window. How very serene. Emmie thought it would have been nice to exist in that canvas. In a strange sort of way, it made her a bit homesick for a place, she supposed, hadn't ever really existed.