hayffie week 2026
@hayffie-week romcom! au meeting you The film's inspiration is When Harry Met Sally. modern! au
Autumn in New York was a lie the city told itself. A beautiful, melancholic lie about how everything could be started over, how decay was also an art, and how the smell of roasted chestnuts and wet leaves could heal any wound. The streets were covered in a golden-orange carpet that, within three days, turned into a slimy mush under the feet of thousands of hurrying people. The air did smell of apples and cinnamon ā if, of course, you were standing by the right coffee shop and not next to an open subway grate, or if you visited the annual fair that could create a feeling of coziness.
In Central Park, leaves fell with theatrical grace, creating perfect backdrops for dates, breakups, and those awkward conversations no one planned, but fate, as always, decided otherwise. The city brought different people together. It was its favorite game. Sometimes it did it cruelly, sometimes with strange tenderness, but never randomly. No one just wanted to admit it.
Haymitch Abernathy trusted practically no one, and least of all fate. He believed in whiskey, in good pizza healing better than any shrink, and in the morning arriving relentlessly, no matter how hard you tried to postpone it. He lived in Brooklyn, in an apartment that smelled of tobacco and displayed the desperation of a freelance artist working as a graphic designer at a studio where his talent was valued just enough to pay the rent and occasionally for a ticket to Chicago.
And it was in Chicago, as if to spite the whole world, that Maisilee Donner lived ā an old friend, one of those rare people Haymitch had tolerated for more than a year. And not just tolerated: he valued her, because Maisilee never tried to "fix" him, never lectured him, never tried to reshape him into some imagined ideal. When she called and announced with an irrefutable tone that it was her birthday and she wasn't accepting any excuses, Haymitch rolled his eyes in resignation, swore softly under his breath ā and started checking the next flights to Chicago.
"Only an idiot would agree to fly to a party for cake," he muttered, hiding his true feelings behind sarcasm.
Maisilee warned him that Chicago would be colder than New York. Though it wasn't exactly cheerful here either: the sky hung low and gray, bringing on a melancholy mood. At the airport, Haymitch felt his old knee injury ache ā a sure sign that autumn had fully set in. He shifted from foot to foot, glancing at the baggage carousel, when he noticed her out of the corner of his eye: an unfamiliar woman in a beige coat that undoubtedly cost more than his car, standing nearby. She had perfectly styled blonde hair and an expression on her face as if she'd just stepped in a puddle and it had ruined the rest of her life. Haymitch sighed, rubbed his knee, and thought that this day was clearly not getting any better.
He didn't like the appraising look of this glamorous creature. She looked him over, missing not a single detail: his dark jeans, old sweater, coat, unshaven stubble, and slightly rumpled appearance. He was about to ask her what the hell her problem was. And she had already drawn her conclusions about him.
"You're probably having a bad day," she said in a tone that turned a statement into a question, and a question into an indisputable verdict.
"And you must be the one who'll complain about the air conditioner the whole way," Haymitch replied, and it was certainly love at first sight.
Well, or its opposite. Either way, it meant something, because their seats turned out to be next to each other.
Over the next five hours, he learned her name was Effie Trinket, that she worked at a PR agency, hated it when people chewed with their mouths open, and that her particular talent was talking nonstop, despite her conversation partner's displeasure. Haymitch, however, kept up this strange conversation, mentioning that he drank only black coffee without sugar and believed musicals were a legally sanctioned form of torture. Effie argued with him vehemently. And then something even more unexpected happened ā Trinket called Maisilee. Haymitch almost choked on his tea when he heard his childhood friend's voice. So, amid arguments and barbs, something happened that neither of them expected.
"Maisilee always threw amazing parties," Effie admitted, swept away by waves of nostalgia. "We met in university ā she was the only one who didn't laugh at my makeup experiments."
"You're serious?" Haymitch repeated, looking as if she'd confessed to an illegal hobby.
"Typical male response," Effie snorted. "And how long have you known her?"
"Maisilee and I used to sneak into other people's sheds together," Haymitch explained. "She's a pest who wasn't afraid I'd break my neck."
Effie looked at him with curiosity.
"Strange," she said. "She's friends with both of us. Coincidences like that don't happen often?"
"Thank God for that," Haymitch replied. "Can't stand all that superstitious nonsense."
Effie laughed, and Haymitch noticed that for some reason, he wanted to hear her laugh again.
But the birthday party ruined everything. Maisilee's party was held in a trendy loft where there was far too little oxygen. Maisilee never liked such ornate events, but she argued that she needed to secure sponsors to promote her chain of pastry shops. That's why she'd asked her close friends to come ā to help her get through it all. Effie, in her element, instantly turned into a real, pompous high-society princess: she laughed at jokes Haymitch didn't understand and spoke with pretentious people, winning them over to Donner's side. Haymitch preferred to keep his distance from all of it, drank whiskey, and felt irritation rise inside him like a tide.
Everything went completely to hell when Effie criticized him in front of everyone.
"Haymitch, for God's sake, you spilled sauce on the table!" she snapped, crossing her arms, her voice ringing with indignation. "And this, by the way, is mahogany!"
Haymitch leaned back in his chair, deliberately slowly surveyed the stain, then raised his eyes to Effie.
"So what, princess?" he said mockingly, and several guests immediately turned around. "You're going to make a drama out of this?"
"I'm just trying to remind you of some manners," Effie began.
"You just implied I'm a clumsy hick," Haymitch corrected her, leaning forward sharply. "That's all you wanted to say?"
"There's a lot I'd like to say," she snapped back, her cheeks flushing.
"Then say it, princess," he repeated with such contempt that even Maisilee, who had stepped toward them trying to intervene, froze in place.
"Cynic," Effie spat back. "A rude, insensitive cynic."
They parted ways in the foyer. Effie grabbed her coat, Haymitch grabbed his, and they went outside at the same time, not even glancing at each other. Maisilee shouted something after them, but the door had already closed. Chicago greeted them with a cold wind and the sound of sirens. Haymitch went left, Effie right, and both were firmly convinced they would never see that awful, unbearable, infuriating person again. Fate, however, had other plans for them.
New York turned out to be too small. Not in the geographical sense ā the city has eight million people; you could live a whole life and never run into someone you didn't want to see. But fate, it seemed, liked to play its cunning games, weaving destinies into bizarre patterns in defiance of all logic and probability.
The next time Haymitch and Effie met was three weeks later. Haymitch was standing in line at a coffee shop on the Lower East Side ā he desperately needed a pick-me-up after a night he barely remembered: fragments of memories, the hum of voices, the dim light of a barā¦ He opened his mouth to order black coffee when the door jingled with a bell and she walked in.
Effie wore a purple coat, her hair tied in a low ponytail, her makeup flawless ā as if every morning for her was a special event worthy of a parade. She froze on the threshold, meeting Haymitch's gaze. He also froze, his hand still reaching for his wallet. The barista waited patiently, shifting from foot to foot.
"You," Effie said in a tone that suggested she wanted to add a few expletives but restrained herself out of respect for the public's delicate sensibilities. Her voice was cold, with a barely noticeable edge of irritation.
"Me," Haymitch agreed, not turning around. "Want me to say I'm glad to see you? I won't. But I will say the coffee here is terrible, so you're not missing much."
"This is my favorite coffee shop," Effie replied in an icy tone, emphasizing each word.
"Then you deserve better," he tossed over his shoulder.
She ordered an oat milk latte and stood directly behind him for two minutes. Haymitch distinctly felt her presence ā like an invisible finger tracing between his shoulder blades. It was annoying. It shouldn't have bothered him. He clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the barista leisurely making his black coffee, but his peripheral vision still caught her silhouette: her straight back, arms crossed over her chest, the barely perceptible tapping of her heel.
"You were right," Effie suddenly said, and an unusual softness crept into her voice.
"I'm always right," he snorted, but without the sarcasm. "About what specifically?"
"About the table," she spoke faster, as if afraid of changing her mind. "I was wrong to pick on you, and besides, I was mistaken ā it wasn't mahogany. Maisilee told me the next morning. Iā¦ got carried away."
Haymitch slowly turned around. It was the first time he'd seen her less than perfect ā without her armor and cold confidence. Something human emerged in her: weariness at the corners of her eyes, genuine regret, even a hint of confusion. He wanted to say something cutting ā because that was easier than admitting he almost liked her this way, vulnerable and real. But instead, he said quietly:
"I got carried away too."
She looked at him suspiciously, squinting slightly, as if trying to decipher a hidden motive.
"I didn't expect that from youā¦" she said cautiously.
"It's just stating a fact," he shrugged, trying to appear indifferent.
"Your coffee's ready," Effie smiled, nodding toward the counter.
Haymitch took the cup, nodded at the barista, and walked outside. The door clicked shut softly. And only then, out in the cold wind, did Haymitch realize: he hadn't asked for her number. And that, damn it, annoyed him more than it should have. He stopped, clutching the cup in his hand, staring at the sidewalk, and swore under his breath. Why did it matter so much?
Then came the encounters in the subway: Effie, out of breath with strands of hair escaping, running late for work; Haymitch, hurrying to the studio. Collisions at the grocery store happened just as often: she would reach for a pack of low-alcohol drink on the top shelf, and at that same moment he would grab for a bottle of cold beer on the bottom. And glances in the crowd, cast as if by accident, became less and less accidental ā they already noticed each other before they came face to face.
Each time, Haymitch and Effie stayed to talk ā sometimes for only five minutes, until the train announced their station, sometimes for a full hour, forgetting about time and errands. Haymitch learned that Effie hated dirty dishes and would wash plates immediately after dinner just to avoid seeing them in the sink until morning, but that she loved rewatching Love Actually on New Year's, wrapped in a blanket and sipping cocoa with two teaspoons of ice cream stirred in.
Effie, for her part, found out that among Haymitch's friends were musicians, one of whom was the famous lead singer Burdock Everdeen. And that while Haymitch preferred to maintain a reputation as a perpetually grumpy and discontented type, he actually wasn't devoid of many positive qualities.
They argued about everything: politics, movies, whether you could eat pineapple on pizza.
"It's pineapple, Trinket, and you're making such a debate out of it as if I'm committing a war crime," Haymitch insisted, waving a slice of pizza.
"It is a war crime, Abernathy, and you'll soon see that," Effie parried with inimitable seriousness, but in the end she would devour the pizza with just as much appetite.
Eventually, their verbal battles lost their sting. Something new appeared in them ā a strange tenderness that both carefully masked with their usual sarcasm. They clung to phrases as if to shields, because sincerity scared them more than any scandal.
Once, Effie broke up with a boyfriend. How exactly it happened, Haymitch didn't find out until three days later: she didn't call, didn't text, and the darkest scenarios began swirling in his head ā from a sudden departure to some kind of misfortune. He'd almost convinced himself that she'd simply decided to disappear from his life without explanation when, at two in the morning, his phone vibrated softly on the nightstand. The screen lit up the semi-dark room. "Hey," she wrote. That was all. One short phrase. A period. Haymitch stared at the screen for a full minute, then, without another second's hesitation, he dialed her number.
"Are you drunk?" he asked instead of a greeting.
"Worse. I'm sober," she replied. Her voice was strange ā not tearful, no, but hollow, as if someone had turned off the lights all over the world at once. "I called by mistake. I meant to text Posy."
"Posy ā who's that?" Haymitch asked.
"My little sister," Effie sighed. "But she's having a crisis right now, too, soā¦"
"So you texted me," he finished for her, already feeling for his jeans in the dark and pulling them on. "Address."
"What?" genuine confusion sounded in her voice.
"Address, Trinket. Where do you live? You never told me. Or you did, but I wasn't listening. So come on ā address," he repeated firmly, buttoning his jeans.
She dictated the address. An apartment on the Upper East Side, as he'd suspected ā a neighborhood where even the air seemed to have a price tag: expensive and screaming of status. Forty minutes later ā despite the nighttime traffic jams that infuriated him in this city at any hour ā he stood at her door. In his hand, a bottle of red wine, her favorite. He'd remembered because she'd drunk red wine at Maisilee's birthday. Next to it, a box of pizza. It had cooled down on the way, but still smelled enticingly of melted cheese and fresh basil.
Effie opened the door. She was wearing pajamas with a faint star pattern, and Haymitch saw her for the first time like this: without makeup or perfect hair. Her hair was tangled, her face pale, her eyes red ā as if she'd held back for a long time before allowing herself any weakness. When she saw him, she didn't say a word ā just silently stepped aside to let him in.
He entered. The apartment was exactly as he'd imagined it: perfect order, furniture arranged according to feng shui, coaching and self-help books neatly lined on shelves, scented candles ā everything in its place. But now there was no familiar coziness: the candles weren't lit, heavy drapes were tightly drawn, and a rumpled blanket lay on the sofa ā clear signs of prolonged lying in the fetal position, as if she'd tried to curl into a ball and hide from the whole world.
"I didn't cry," Effie said, sitting on the sofa and pulling her knees to her chin.
"I didn't ask," Haymitch replied curtly, setting the wine and pizza on the low coffee table.
"I know," she looked up at him, and something vulnerable, almost childlike, flickered in her gaze. "That's why you're here."
Haymitch silently nodded, took off his jacket, and sat down next to her, unsure what to say. An unfamiliar silence hung in the air.
"What was his name?" he asked finally.
"Seneca." She winced, as if the name tasted sour. "He said I was tooā¦ infantile."
"You're too infantile?" Haymitch repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You ā a woman who can argue for three hours about the proper way to fold towels and is used to keeping everything under control. Even your emotions."
"Is that supposed to cheer me up?" Effie crossed her arms.
"It's supposed to remind you that Seneca is an idiot," Haymitch said firmly. He opened the bottle of wine, the pop of the cork echoing in the quiet apartment, and poured the dark red liquid into the first mug he found ā a plain ceramic one with a chipped edge. "To the idiots we loved," he raised the mug in a short toast.
Effie took the mug, twirled it in her hands, studying the uneven chip. She was silent, staring somewhere past him, then finally took a sip. Haymitch involuntarily thought of his ex ā Lenore Dove, now singing on another tour, her voice carrying through stadiums, and he always wondered: "Is that really the girl I was supposed to marry right after graduation?" An image flashed before his eyes: her standing on stage in the blinding light of spotlights, while he stayed home, thousands of miles and years of silence between them.
"I didn't love him," Effie confessed, looking into her mug.
"His loss," Haymitch replied, not immediately realizing how sincere his words sounded.
She suddenly laughed out loud. And then Effie suddenly moved closer. So close that he could feel the warmth of her breath. Haymitch froze, catching the faint scent of her shampoo: something floral, light, with a barely noticeable hint of jasmine. And suddenly realized he'd never before inhaled anything cozier, anything moreā¦ domestic.
"Thank you for coming," Effie said softly, dropping her gaze to her intertwined fingers.
"I was going for pizza," Haymitch replied, trying to keep his usual casual tone. "You just happened to be in the way."
"You're awful," she shook her head, but a smile already trembled at the corners of her lips.
"But you still love me, right?" he asked.
It was a joke. Their usual game. But when the words hung in the air, both felt that the joke had ceased to be one. Effie looked at him with a long, piercing gaze ā as if seeing him truly for the first time. Her eyes held a mixture of confusion, vulnerability, and something else, something neither of them dared yet to name.
"Unfortunately, yes," she whispered, almost inaudibly. And then, as if frightened by her own sincerity, she hastily added before he could reply, "I love you like a friend, you idiot. I'm sure you're damn happy about it."
But Haymitch wasn't happy. He sat there thinking that the word "friend" had just sounded like a sentence, and that he, damn it, didn't know if he was happy about it or not. So they became "friends." With quotation marks that grew every day.
They went to the movies ā and gradually it became their little tradition. Effie invariably dragged Haymitch to musicals, eagerly anticipating his predictable reaction. He grumbled every time that he'd rather watch Bad Boys again, sighed in annoyance at the posters, and muttered something about "songs instead of a proper plot." But during intermission, he'd still buy her chocolate candies in bright wrappers, caramel popcorn, and a cup of strawberry milkshake. And then he'd pretend he didn't notice how, at the end of Les MisĆ©rables, she would surreptitiously wipe away a tear, sniffle, and try to dab her eyes with a tissue without being seen.
Haymitch, in turn, took Effie to action movies with endless explosions and car chases. She'd sit beside him, skeptically raise an eyebrow, and inevitably comment within ten minutes:
"That's completely unrealistic. No one can run that long after falling from the third floor."
"It's Hollywood, Trinket, relax," he'd wave her off habitually.
"I can't relax when the movie's logic is falling apart at the seams," Effie would retort, but after half an hour she'd start yawning anyway.
By the end of the screening, Effie would invariably fall asleep on his shoulder ā curled up in a ball, her lips slightly parted, her face relaxed. Haymitch wouldn't wake her, even when his shoulder began to ache from the awkward position. He'd just sit still, carefully hold her elbow to keep her from sliding, and watch the end credits, listening to her steady breathing.
They shared their failures. Effie told him about clients who thought she was pushy; Haymitch about projects that were rejected because he was "too dark." At two in the morning, theyād send each other absurd, ridiculous, sometimes not even funny memes ā yet somehow they always made them smile. Links to strange articles about the origins of pizza or conspiracy theories about Christmas lights. And short, one-word messages: "asleep?" ā hoping the other was also suffering from insomnia, that somewhere out there, behind the phone screen, they too were staring at the ceiling, waiting for an answer.
They laughed. And they fought. Sometimes Effie stormed out, slamming the door. Sometimes Haymitch didnāt answer his calls for three days. But someone always made the first move. Most often it was Effie: she couldnāt wait, couldnāt stay angry for long, couldnāt stand the feeling of a wall growing between them. Sheād send a message: "Sorry, I overdid it" ā or simply show up on his doorstep with two cups of coffee and a guilty smile. Sometimes Haymitch would be the one to give in. He knew how to wait ā to endure, to stay silent, to bottle things up inside. But at some point, he couldnāt go on without her anymore. Then heād call or write: "Busy?" ā and in that simple phrase lay more meaning than in any long explanation.
And somewhere between their third New Year together ā when, defying all traditions, they didnāt go to a party but stayed home, wrapped in one blanket, watching old comedies ā and a random kiss in a taxi that they both blamed on "fatigue and alcohol," everything changed. They fell in love. Truly. Not according to some script, not in a perfect moment, but gradually ā through arguments, reconciliations, late-night conversations, shared weaknesses, and support on the worst days.
But they didnāt confess to each other. Neither wanted to ruin what they had: that fragile, living connection where friendship intertwined with something more. They were afraid to say it out loud ā worried that the word "love" would become a point of no return, that the confession would spoil everything. So they kept joking, needling each other, and pretending nothing had changed. Though both already knew the truth.
Effie started dating Mark ā a boring, reliable, proper banker who had his own apartment in a prestigious neighborhood and no habit of waking up at three in the morning with an anxious stare at the ceiling. He gave her thoughtful gifts, took her to expensive restaurants, and never argued about whether you could eat pineapple on pizza. And Haymitch started dating Lena ā bright, loud, free Lena, who danced barefoot in the kitchen at two in the morning and laughed so hard the neighbors banged on the radiators. She never asked why he looked away when his phone rang with the ringtone heād once set specially for Effie ā sheād just put an arm around his shoulders and offer more wine.
They honestly tried to build relationships with these people ā getting used to new habits, learning to smile at someone elseās jokes, pretending everything was going as it should. But somewhere deep down, each of them knew: something wasnāt right.
Then Christmas came.
New York in December is a different city. Not golden and cozy like in autumn, but sharp, cold, glittering with lights that promise miracles but most often disappoint. The garlands on Fifth Avenue blinded the eyes, department store windows displayed perfect family idylls, and the smell of hot chocolate and cinnamon mixed with exhaust fumes and a feeling of loneliness.
That year, Mark left to spend Christmas with his parents in Connecticut, explaining to Effie that it was a family tradition. Trinket, of course, understood. Lena flew off to Miami, unable to turn down a great travel deal ā even though it was meant for a single person. Haymitch should have been upset, but he felt absolutely nothing. Not even when they said goodbye at the airport.
"Just for a week ā sun, sea, warmth!" Lena whispered, hanging around Haymitchās neck. "Donāt miss me too much, honey."
And so both Effie and Haymitch found themselves alone in the emptied city, as if forgotten by everyone during this most magical and loneliest of seasons.
They hadnāt planned it. It just happened somehow: a short call, an awkward silence on the line, then her hesitant voice:
"Haymitchā¦ Are youā¦ are you busy for Christmas?"
"No," he answered too quickly. "Why?"
"Oh, nothingā¦ Just thoughtā¦ maybe we could meet up? What else is there to do, after all."
"Yeah," he smiled, feeling something warm inside. "What else is there to do."
They planned to celebrate at her place. Effie decorated the tree, hung the garlands, baked cookies that were burnt on the bottom but looked perfect on top. Haymitch arrived with a bottle of port, a bag of spices, and an announcement:
"Tonight, Iām teaching you how to make mulled wine. The real kind. Not that swill you serve at parties."
"That was Cahors with cinnamon, and everyone liked it," Effie protested, but her robe was soft and red, and she looked so domestic that Haymitch forgot he was supposed to argue.
They worked as a team. Haymitch deftly sliced oranges ā the wedges dropped into the pot with a dull thud ā while Effie gently heated the wine over a low flame, stirring occasionally. He tossed in cloves, she added star anise, trying not to drop any of the little stars. The spicy aroma filled the kitchen, creating a festive atmosphere. After the third sip of the fragrant drink, theyād both forgotten whose ingredients were whose ā just passing spices to each other, laughing at something, and refilling their mugs. At some point, Effie, engrossed in telling a story about yet another unbearable client, poured in too much rum ā the liquid sloshed over the edge, leaving a dark stain on the countertop.
"Thatās not mulled wine anymore," Haymitch said with mock horror, examining the resulting concoction. "Thatās a crisis. International relations are at stake."
Effie laughed and, in a burst of merriment, jerked her hand awkwardly. Wine splashed out, a few drops landing on Haymitchās plaid shirt.
"Youāre a goof," he said without malice, more stating a fact, and smirked.
"I was going to give you a sweater," Effie shot back instantly, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "but now you can say I did it on purpose."
"You bought me a sweater?" Haymitch froze, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
Effie hesitated slightly, glanced briefly at the tree, then shrugged and reached under the fluffy branches. A moment later, she pulled out a perfectly wrapped package. The gift paper was almost too beautiful to tear, not to mention the ribbon and bow. Inside was a sweater. More precisely, a ridiculous sweater ā with reindeer that glowed in the dark with a dull green light, and a large inscription on the chest: "I survived Christmas in New York."
Haymitch looked at the sweater. Then at Effie. Her cheeks were red ā whether from the mulled wine or embarrassment, he didnāt know ā and she clearly doubted her gift.
"I can return it if you donāt like it," she said quickly.
"You want to return a sweater that glows in the dark?" Haymitch repeated. "Trinket, this is the best thing Iāve received in the last ten years." He pulled off his stained shirt right in front of her and put on the new sweater. Effie turned away, but not too fast. "Well? How do I look?"
"Utterly ridiculous," Effie said, but she was smiling.
"But you still love me, right?" he said.
That phrase again. Another pause.
"Unfortunately, yes," she replied, as always.
At midnight, they stood by the window and watched as a light-up reindeer garland flickered on in the neighboring building. Effie pressed her shoulder against his arm, and Haymitch didnāt pull away. The city hummed below ā Christmas had arrived.
"You know," Effie said, not looking at him, "I like it when youāre around. Even when youāre being awful, or when you drink my oat milk and argue with me."
"Youāre right, that is awful behavior," Haymitch noted, thinking she was joking, but Effieās voice was serious.
"Donāt interrupt, please." She took a breath. "I like it when youāre around. Because when Iām with you, I stop being afraid of tomorrow."
"Me too," he admitted suddenly. "I like being with you. Even when you spend half an hour doing your lips before taking out the trash. Or when you correct my grammar in texts. Or when you say we have a āstrange connectionā in a tone that makes it sound like a diagnosis."
"It is a diagnosis," Effie whispered.
"Then I donāt want to be cured," Haymitch replied.
They looked at each other longer than usual. In the darkness of the room, the garlands reflected in her eyes ā tiny golden lights that Haymitch feared more than the emptiness in his own soul. He leaned in. The kiss was awkward ā too much mulled wine and too much anticipation ā but when Effie cupped his face in her hands, everything became right.
Then came the night. The very night that both would later remember with pain and tenderness. He smelled of smoke and cinnamon, she of jasmine and chocolate. They spoke in whispers, laughed at the clothes strewn in opposite directions, and Haymitch ā who had never been gentle ā suddenly realized with surprise that he could be gentle when he was with Effie.
In the morning, Effie woke first. Sunlight streamed through the window, turning the garlands into cheap tinsel. She looked at the sleeping Haymitch, at his hand resting on her waist, and her heart clenched with fear. What had they done? It wasnāt just cheating ā they were still in relationships with other people ā but it was also the end of everything that had bound them together. Effie tried to calm herself, but couldnāt. Even her usual morning routine didnāt help her figure out what to do next. And when Haymitch woke up, Effie, of course, was already dressed, her hair done, drinking coffee, trying to act as if nothing had happened.
"Good morning," she said, too brightly. "I made some for you, too. The way you like it. Black, like your soul, Haymitch."
Haymitch sat up in bed, squinting against the light. Her joke put him on edge.
"Morning," he replied in the same tone, trying to figure out what was wrong.
As it turned out: everything. Effie had chosen to run away from her own feelings, and he was no better. They didnāt talk about what had happened that night. Didnāt discuss the passionate kisses, the sincere words, or how Effie had cried with happiness into his shoulder. They pretended it had all been a mistake. And then mutual resentment crept between them like a crack in the ice, growing wider every day. Both silently concluded that they had ruined their friendship by giving in to a fleeting desire.
After a week, Effie stopped answering messages. After two, Haymitch stopped writing. They disappeared from each otherās lives, as if they had never existed, as if everything that had connected them had been a dream. Maisilee called them both, yelled at them, demanded explanations, but neither told the truth.
Six months passed. Six months in which New York traded snow for drizzling rain, rain for timid first greenery, and then plunged headlong into a sweltering summer. The city transformed: storefronts displayed summer collections, sidewalk cafƩs set up tables on the pavements, ice cream trucks appeared everywhere, and the asphalt heated up instantly in the sun.
Effie dated a young architect with a charming smile and a habit of being half an hour late. She didnāt even remember his name, despite three dates. He talked too much about himself, laughed too loudly, and didnāt notice her glancing at her watch. After they broke up, Effie stood for a long time at the window of her apartment, looking at the city lights, and thought: "Why does everything feel soā¦ flat? Why doesnāt a single conversation ignite that spark inside?" Though she knew the answer perfectly well and understood that she had been a coward, used to pushing away genuine feelings in favor of fleeting fakes so she wouldnāt end up with a broken heart. But in the end, she did end up with a broken heart ā and she wasnāt the only one.
Meanwhile, Haymitch sat in his favorite bar, the one where he and Effie had once argued about musicians. He ordered whiskey, took a sip, and tasted nothing. The drink just slid down his throat, leaving behind neither warmth nor pleasure. He absently twirled the glass in his hands, studied the patterns on the wooden counter, and caught himself thinking that he was waiting ā not for the bartender with another round, but for a message from her. He brushed the thought aside, telling himself that Effie always came back again and again, like a pesky fly. But that was before. Now they lived apart, in a way neither of them wanted.
And then Maisilee called. She announced, leaving no room for argument:
"Iām getting married this autumn. Youāre coming. And sheāll be there too. Iām not taking no for an answer, and I donāt care about your personal dramas multiplied by your inability to talk things out."
The wedding took place in Vermont, in a tiny chapel surrounded by forest. Autumn had painted the trees red and yellow ā too bright, too festive, as if nature were mocking the fact that inside Effie, everything was gray. She came alone, in a new dress, with perfect makeup and a frozen smile that cracked when she saw him at the entrance.
Haymitch stood among the guests, in an unfamiliar blazer instead of his leather jacket, holding a glass of champagne he clearly wasnāt drinking. He looked as unhappy as she did. But when their eyes met, Effie forgot how to breathe and turned away. She acted like a child, deliberately avoiding him. Probably she didnāt want to hear the harsh truth: that the train had left, and Haymitch was now happy with someone else.
The ceremony was beautiful. Maisilee was radiant, the groom was handsome, and everyone around smiled at the young couple. Effie sat in the third row and felt Haymitchās gaze on the back of her neck. She didnāt turn around. She was afraid that if she saw his face, sheād break ā rush to him and say what should have been said six months ago.
When it was over, the guests drifted toward the reception hall, and Effie slipped outside into the garden, where the air smelled of wet leaves. She stood by an old apple tree, shivering in her thin dress, watching the sky begin to darken.
"Youāll freeze," came a voice behind her.
She didnāt turn around, knowing the owner of that voice very well.
"None of your business," she replied.
"Effie," he said wearily.
"What, Haymitch?" Effie spun around sharply, and her eyes were full of tears. "Did you come to tell me I was wrong? That weāre idiots? Or thatā¦ that we shouldnāt haveā¦"
"Iām tired of our stupid games," he said, cutting her off. He stood three steps away, gripping his glass so hard it might shatter. "I want us to be together."
Effie froze. The wind tousled her hair, pulling strands loose from her perfect updo.
"Butā¦ you agreed with me back then that weād made a mistake," she said. "And you said I drive you crazy."
"You annoy me a lot, Trinket," Haymitch nodded. "You piss me off like hell. Especially when you call me your friend. And donāt get me started on your musicals and the way you say ālovelyā when everythingās awful." He stepped closer. "And yes, I want us to be together. Because without you, I hate the whole world even more. And with you, Iā¦ I donāt even know what to call it."
"Live for real?" Effie suggested, her voice wavering.
"Live," Haymitch agreed. "Princess, I donāt know how to say things beautifully. And I canāt promise I wonāt drive you up the wall. But I can show up at two in the morning with pizza and wine. I can teach you how to make mulled wine. I can put up with your idiot boyfriends because I know ā youāll come back to me anyway." He took the final step, and now they stood face to face. "So yes. I love you."
Effie looked at him through her tears. She could have said something clever, made a snide remark, asked why he hadnāt confessed earlier, why theyād wasted six months. Though she knew she was just as much to blame. But instead, Effie laughed.
"I love you too," she admitted, and it was so simple and not at all as frightening as it had once seemed. Her head spun. "Even when youāre being awful and arguing about pineapple on pizza."
"I was right about the pineapple, by the way," he noted.
"Shut up," Effie snorted.
"I will if you kiss me, princess," Haymitch said with a smug grin.
She kissed him. The garden smelled of autumn, of wet leaves, and of something else ā something you canāt buy in stores or find in happiness guides. In the distance, music played, someone laughed, and New York remained far away, but none of that mattered now. Because a second chance had brought them together. And finally, theyād stopped resisting.
Back in the hall, Haymitch and Effie sat side by side, and when Maisilee saw them, she just shook her head.
"Finally," she said, raising her glass. "I was about to lock you two in a room myself."
"Wouldnāt have helped," Haymitch smirked, looking at Effie. "Sheād have found a way out. Sheās a princess."
"And heād have broken down the door like a real barbarian," Effie parried, laughing along with Haymitch. "We really are made for each other."
It wasnāt a perfect ending. It was a beginning. In New York, the leaves were falling again, and the city was preparing a fresh batch of coincidences for other people. But Haymitch and Effie no longer needed any of that. They had everything they needed: a love that had started with hatred, and a stubbornness that wouldnāt let them give up. And that damned pineapple pizza, which they now ate together on Sundays. After all, autumn in New York is a beautiful season ā for those who didnāt let their happiness slip away.
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