Fragile Obsession

Chapter 2 Negative Space

Abby Littman

The day unraveled differently than I planned, which should have been impossible.

I woke before my alarm, heart already beating like I'd missed something important. For a moment, I lay there disoriented, fingers curled into the blanket, listening to the apartment breathe. The radiator clicked. A siren wailed somewhere far away. Nothing was wrong.

That knowledge didn't settle me.

I sat up slowly, waiting for the dizziness. It lingered longer than usual, a gray veil drifting across my vision. I held still until the room sharpened again. When it did, I counted it as discipline. Proof that I was still in control.

The mirror watched, as always.

I avoided it.

Instead, I dressed quickly-black leggings, another oversized sweater, this one navy and worn thin at the cuffs. I tied my hair back without looking, relying on muscle memory. The less time I spent acknowledging my body, the better. Bodies asked for things. They made demands. I preferred silence.

Coffee again. Black again. The ritual steadied me, even as my hands trembled around the mug.

My phone sat face-down on the counter.

I didn't flip it over.

Outside, the city felt louder than yesterday, sharper around the edges. People brushed past me on the sidewalk, careless with their proximity. I shrank instinctively, shoulders folding inward, breath tightening. Taking up less space wasn't just habit-it was instinct. Like flinching before a blow.

At school, something was off.

It wasn't obvious at first. Just a subtle shift in the air, like pressure before a storm. Voices carried further down the halls. Groups clustered tighter, heads bent together, words exchanged in quick bursts.

I slid into my seat at the back of my first lecture and opened my notebook. Pen aligned. Margins straight. Control restored.

Or so I thought.

"Did you hear?"

The whisper came from two rows ahead of me. I didn't look up. I never did.

"Hear what?"

"About the transfer. Mid-semester."

Transfer.

The word snagged, sharp and unexpected. I told myself it didn't matter. People came and went all the time. The world rearranged itself without asking my permission. This was normal.

Still, my pen paused.

"They're saying he's-"

The professor cleared his throat, and the rest dissolved into silence. I forced myself to focus as the lecture began, eyes on the board, hand moving automatically across the page. Notes formed without meaning. Words blurred together, slipping through me without leaving a mark.

A transfer student wouldn't change anything. Nothing ever did.

Between classes, the hallways buzzed louder. Lockers slammed. Laughter ricocheted off the walls. I kept my head down, navigating familiar paths, sticking to the edges where I belonged.

That's when it happened.

I turned a corner too quickly and collided with someone solid enough to stop me cold.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs. I stumbled back, pulse spiking, every nerve screaming apology before my mouth could catch up.

"I-sorry-"

The words tangled on my tongue.

Strong hands caught my elbows, steadying me before I could fold in on myself completely. The contact sent a jolt through me, electric and unwelcome. I froze.

"It's okay," a voice said. Low. Calm. Close.

Too close.

I pulled back immediately, heart racing, eyes fixed somewhere around his collarbone. Dark jacket. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that took up space without trying.

"I wasn't looking," I added quickly, as if that explained everything. As if fault mattered.

"You okay?" he asked.

The question startled me more than the collision. People didn't usually ask. They apologized and moved on, relieved to escape the inconvenience of another human being.

I nodded. Too fast. "I'm fine."

He didn't move right away.

I risked a glance upward and immediately wished I hadn't.

He was watching me-not in the casual, dismissive way most people did, but with something like focus. As if he were actually seeing me, not just the outline I presented to the world. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and they held mine longer than was comfortable.

I felt exposed. Measured.

Instinct screamed retreat.

"Well," he said finally, stepping back to give me space, "guess I should watch where I'm going too."

A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought: "I'm-"

"Abby," I cut in, panic flaring. Names were anchors. They made things real. "I mean-I have to go."

I slipped past him before he could finish, disappearing into the flow of students with my heart pounding against my ribs. I didn't look back.

I didn't need to.

I could feel his gaze like a weight between my shoulder blades long after I'd gone.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. I missed half of what my professors said. My notes grew sloppy, margins uneven, numbers crowding too close together. The loss of precision unsettled me more than it should have.

In the library, I couldn't focus. Words swam on the page, refusing to settle into meaning. My stomach clenched, sharp and insistent, but I ignored it, jaw tightening as I forced myself to keep reading.

Control, I reminded myself. But control felt thinner now.

When my phone buzzed in my bag, I flinched.

Mom again.

I didn't answer.

By evening, exhaustion wrapped around me like fog. I walked home slower than usual, replaying the moment in the hallway despite myself. The feel of his hands. The way he'd looked at me. The unfinished introduction hanging between us like a loose thread.

I hated it.

At the apartment, the silence pressed in, heavier than the night before. I dropped my bag and leaned against the door, breathing hard as if I'd run the whole way home.

I pressed my palms into my eyes until stars bloomed behind my lids.

Why did it matter?

It shouldn't have.

I changed into pajamas and curled up on the couch, pulling my sweater tighter even though I was warm. My phone lit up again on the coffee table.

A text this time.

Mom: I know you're busy, Abby, but I'd really like to see you this week. Dinner? Just us.

The words sat there, gentle and dangerous. An invitation disguised as concern. I imagined her careful gaze, the way she pretended to noticed everything even when she couldn't.

I typed back slowly: Maybe. I'll let you know.

It was a compromise. A delay. My specialty.

Later, lying in bed, sleep refused to come. My mind replayed the day in fragments-the whispers about the transfer, the collision, the question Are you okay? echoing louder than it had any right to.

No one ever asked that.

Not really.

I turned onto my side, curling inward, counting breaths again. In. Out. Smaller. Quieter. Safer.

Tomorrow, I told myself, things would return to normal.

They always did.

But somewhere in the negative space I'd carved around my life, something had shifted-just sli

ghtly. Enough to be felt. Not enough to be named.

And for the first time in a long while, disappearing didn't feel quite as effortless as it used to.