Fragile Obsession

Chapter 4 Shared Air

Abby Littman

The next day begins with resistance.

My alarm goes off at exactly 6:30, and for a moment I pretend I don't hear it. I lie still, eyes closed, counting the sounds in the apartment instead-the hum of the refrigerator, the distant hiss of traffic, the radiator ticking like it's keeping time without me. My chest feels tight, like I've slept wrong, like something settled there overnight and refused to leave.

I know what it is.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall, replaying the hallway again without meaning to. The corner. The impact. The way his hands had steadied me before I could disappear completely. The way he'd asked that question-Are you okay? as if it were normal. As if it were allowed.

I don't like how easily the memory surfaces.

I sit up slowly, waiting for the dizziness. It comes, familiar and unwelcome, and I let it pass before standing. Control first. Always.

I don't look at the mirror.

By the time I leave the apartment, I've convinced myself yesterday was an anomaly. A fluke. Two strangers occupying the same space at the wrong time. That's all.

Still, my shoulders stay tight all the way to campus.

My first class is already half-full when I slip inside. I take my usual seat-third row from the back, near the aisle. Easy exit. Minimal visibility. I set my notebook down, align my pen, straighten the corner of the page until it feels right.

Then the door opens again.

"Sorry I'm late," a voice says, light and unapologetic.

I don't look up at first. I don't need to. Late arrivals always come with a ripple-heads turning, chairs shifting, the subtle recalibration of attention.

"This is Noah," the professor says. "He'll be joining us for the rest of the semester. Mid-term transfer."

Transfer again?

My pen stills.

"Hey," Noah says easily, offering a small wave to the room. There's no tension in him, no guardedness. He smiles like he expects to be smiled back at, like the world usually does.

A few people murmur greetings. Someone laughs when he makes a joke about getting lost on campus.

I keep my eyes on my notebook.

When he starts down the aisle, I shift instinctively, making myself smaller. There's an empty seat beside me. I hope-quietly, uselessly-that he won't choose it.

He does.

"Is this taken?" he asks, already setting his bag down.

I shake my head. "No."

"Cool. Thanks."

He settles in without fuss, spreading out just enough to be comfortable but not invasive. There's an ease to him that immediately sets him apart. He doesn't scan the room like he's mapping exits. He doesn't brace himself like he's waiting for something to go wrong.

He exists like he belongs.

"I'm Noah," he whispers once the lecture starts. "I know the professor already did the whole introduction thing, but-yeah."

"Abby," I reply quietly.

He smiles again. "Nice to meet you, Abby."

The way he says my name is casual. Unloaded. Like it's just information, not a commitment.

I nod and turn back to my notes.

He doesn't push. That surprises me.

Throughout the lecture, he leans over once or twice to clarify a point, or to ask what page we're on. He smells faintly like citrus and laundry detergent. Clean. Ordinary. He laughs under his breath at something the professor says, then catches himself and grins like he's been caught doing something mildly illegal.

It's... nice. Too nice.

And that's when my mind betrays me.

Because I wonder-briefly, involuntarily-how the other guy I met yesterday would look sitting here. He never told me his name. How different the space beside me would feel if it were occupied by someone so composed, so deliberate. Someone who noticed too much.

I tighten my grip on my pen.

Don't.

When class ends, Noah packs up quickly. "Hey," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Do you know where the student café is? I'm starving."

I hesitate. "Uh-yeah. It's across the quad. Left of the library."

"Perfect. Thanks." He pauses, then adds, "You wanna-"

My heart jumps.

"-walk that way together?" he finishes.

Relief loosens something in my chest. "Sure."

We join the flow of students heading outside. Noah talks easily-about his old school, about how confusing the campus map is, about how mid-semester transfers should come with hazard pay. I respond when required, offering small, careful pieces of myself.

It's... easy.

There's no pressure in the silence when it falls. No weight behind his questions. He doesn't look at me like he's trying to figure me out. He doesn't look at me like I'm something fragile or unfinished.

I realize how rare that is.

At the café, we split up. He waves and says, "See you next class, Abby."

I watch him go, feeling oddly lighter-and then immediately guilty for it.

As if lightness is something I'm borrowing.

The rest of the day moves quickly. I manage to stay present through my lectures, my notes neater than yesterday's. The world feels a little more balanced. Less sharp.

Until my phone buzzes.

Mom: Still good for lunch today? I can step out between patients.

I stare at the message longer than necessary.

Yes, I type back. We're still on.

We meet at a small café near the hospital-neutral territory. She's already there when I arrive, coat still on, phone face-down but close enough that I know she's watching it.

"Abby," she says, standing to hug me. Her arms are warm. Familiar. Brief.

"You look tired," she adds immediately.

I smile. "So, do you."

She laughs, sitting back down. "Occupational hazard."

She tells me about work as soon as we order-about a difficult case, about a patient who reminds her of someone else, about how short-staffed they are. She talks with her hands, eyes bright with focus. Purpose.

I listen. I always do.

"And how are classes?" she asks, finally, as if remembering the question halfway through a thought.

"Fine," I say.

She nods, satisfied. "Good. You've always handled school well."

That's it.

No follow-up. No pause. No Are you okay?

Something sinks quietly in my chest.

I tell her about a professor I like. About a paper coming up. About nothing at all. I don't tell her about the dizziness, or the tightness, or the way I sometimes feel like I'm fading at the edges.

She wouldn't see it even if I did.

Her phone lights up halfway through my sentence. She glances at it, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I might have to head back early."

"It's okay," I say automatically.

And it is. It always is.

When we hug goodbye, she presses a kiss to my temple. "We'll do this again soon, okay?"

"Okay."

I watch her walk away, coat already shrugging back into her role, her world snapping neatly into place without me.

By the time I get home, the apartment feels too quiet again.

I drop my bag, sit on the edge of my bed, and let the day replay itself in fragments-Noah's easy smile, the other guy's steady hands, my mother's distracted affection.

Occupied space. Empty space.

I curl inward, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to decide which feels more dangerous.

Somewhere between the noise and the silence, I fe

el it again-that subtle shift. Like my carefully controlled world is making room for something new.

And I don't know whether to brace myself...

Or let it happen.