Fragile Obsession

Chapter 5 Familiar Distances

Abby Littman

I see him again three days later.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just the way some presences return—quietly, without asking permission.

I’m halfway across the quad, head down, counting my steps between cracks in the pavement, when something in the air shifts. It’s subtle, almost imagined, but my body reacts before my mind can catch up. My shoulders tense. My breath stalls, just for a fraction of a second.

Awareness.

I look up.

He’s leaning against the low brick wall near the science building, phone in hand, jacket unzipped despite the cold. The wind moves around him without touching him, as if even it knows better. He looks exactly the way he did in my memory—composed, deliberate, anchored. Like he exists on purpose.

People pass him without stopping, without lingering. They curve around his presence instinctively, like water around stone. Occupied space.

My first instinct is to turn away.

I don’t.

The decision feels small, but it isn’t. It settles somewhere deep, like choosing not to shrink when every instinct tells me to. I straighten my spine just a little. Keep walking.

As if sensing me, he looks up.

Our eyes meet.

There’s no surprise there. Just recognition. A quiet acknowledgment that we remember each other, that the moment in the hallway wasn’t imaginary or insignificant.

“Hey,” he says.

The word is soft. Unclaimed. It doesn’t demand anything from me.

“Hi,” I reply, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice sounds.

He pushes off the wall, standing fully now. “I owe you something.”

I blink. “You do?”

“A name,” he says. The corner of his mouth lifts—not a smile, exactly. “I didn’t finish last time.”

Right. I had noticed.

“Adriano,” he continues. “Adriano Vega.”

The name settles into me like it belongs there. Strong and deliberate, just like him. It makes the memory sharper somehow—less abstract.

“I’m Abby,” I say, even though he already knows.

“I know, you told me.”

There’s no claim in it. No familiarity he hasn’t earned. Just fact.

We stand there in the open space between buildings, close enough to acknowledge each other, far enough to breathe. The distance feels intentional. Carefully chosen.

“I won’t keep you,” he says after a moment. “I just didn’t like leaving things unfinished.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

A pause stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

“See you around, Abby,” he adds.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He walks away without looking back, his steps unhurried, confident.

I stand there longer than necessary, heart thudding quietly against my ribs.

Then I exhale.

The rest of the day refuses to settle.

Noah finds me before our next class, waving like we’ve known each other longer than we have. “There you are. I was starting to think you didn't exist.”

I almost smile before I stop myself. Almost.

“I exist,” I say.

“Good to know,” he grins. “Come on. I need help figuring out if this building is secretly a maze.”

We walk together, his stride easy, his presence light. Our shoulders come close but never quite touch. He talks—about a show he’s halfway through, about how he still doesn’t understand the grading system here, about how mid-semester transfers should come with an emotional adjustment guide.

I listen. I answer. I don’t feel like I’m performing.

It’s easy. Too easy.

“What about you?” he asks as we slow near the stairs. “Any hidden talents?”

I hesitate. “I read.”

“Just read?”

“Yes.”

He laughs, not unkindly. “Fair enough. Reading’s underrated anyway.”

There’s something grounding about how he accepts what I give him without trying to dig deeper. Like he understands boundaries without needing them explained.

When we part ways, he says, “See you tomorrow, Abby,” like it’s a given.

After classes, the sky has already begun to dim. I walk home slower than usual, replaying fragments of the day—Adriano’s name, Noah’s laugh, the way I didn’t disappear when either of them looked at me.

The hallway outside my apartment smells faintly of cleaning solution and burnt toast.

“Abby?”

I stop.

Mrs. Stewart, my neighbor stands in her doorway across the mine, cardigan wrapped around her like a second skin. She’s maybe fifty, with soft gray at her temples and eyes that miss very little.

“Yes?”

“Did you eat today?” she asks casually, like she’s asking about the weather. The question throws me.

“I—yeah,” I say after a second.

She hums, unconvinced but kind. “I made too much soup. Again. I’ll leave some by your door.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. She always does this.

“I know,” she replies, smiling. “I want to.”

Before I can respond, she adds, “You look thinner.”

The words aren’t accusatory. Just observant.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

She studies me for a moment, then nods, as if filing the information away for later. “If you need anything, Abby. Anything at all.”

Inside my apartment, I sit on the bed longer than necessary.

People are noticing me. That thought is unsettling.

Later that evening, as I was doing my daily evening exercise to reduce the little weight I added that day, I see a girl.

She’s sitting on the front steps, notebook balanced on her knees, shoulders hunched inward like she’s trying to fold herself into the concrete. Her hair hangs in her face, hiding her eyes until she looks up abruptly.

“Oh—sorry,” she says immediately. “I didn’t mean to be in the way.”

“You’re not,” I tell her.

She nods quickly, relief washing over her face. “Okay. Good.”

She reminds me of myself. Too much.

“I’m Abby,” I say.

“June,” she replies. “June Carter.”

Her smile is tentative, like she’s unsure she’s allowed one.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she says softly.

We sit in silence for a few moments before I stand to go inside. She watches me like she’s memorizing the way I move.

Lying in bed later, the day plays back in fragments—Adriano’s steady presence, Noah’s easy warmth, Mrs. Stewart’s careful kindness, June’s quiet reflection.

So many people entering my orbit.

I’ve spent so long perfecting distance that I don’t know what to do with proximity. Somewhere between familiar distances and occupied spaces, the edges of my solitude begin to blur.

And for the first time, I don’t feel the need to rush to sharpen them again.