Chapter 3
1148 Words
Chapter Three: Lines in the Sand
Thursday – 7:02 PM
Stella’s Apartment
The kettle whistled sharply, steam clouding the tiny kitchen as Stella poured boiling water into her chipped black mug. Her fingers hovered over the tea box, then curled into a fist. She wasn't in the mood for chamomile.
She wasn’t in the mood for anything.
Across the small room, Julien sat on her couch, flipping through their mock trial packet. He wore a navy T-shirt and black joggers, like he hadn’t just turned her living room into his personal study space for the third time that week.
He didn’t ask if he could come over today. He just texted “On my way. Bring snacks.”
She brought glares instead.
“What?” he asked now, catching her stare as she walked back to the couch.
“You’re awfully comfortable here.”
He shrugged. “You have better lighting. And better snacks. That almond chocolate thing? Revolutionary.”
She rolled her eyes and dropped beside him, careful to keep distance. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”
He looked at her then—not amused, not smirking. “More than you think.”
Stella’s throat tightened. She took a sip of her tea to avoid answering.
Julien leaned his head back, stretching his arm across the top of the couch. Not touching her. Just close enough to make her hyper-aware of the space between them.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?”
“Do you ever relax?”
She scoffed. “Relaxing is for people who aren’t clawing their way out of mediocrity.”
Julien turned his head toward her, studying her in that unnervingly quiet way. “You think you’re mediocre?”
“No. But this world does.” She set her mug down too hard. “I wasn’t born with a safety net or a family name that opens doors. I don’t get to float through school with charm and a wink. I have to earn everything. Twice.”
He didn’t respond right away. The silence made her stomach twist.
Then he said, “You know I lost my scholarship once, right?”
She blinked. “What?”
“In second year. I failed organic chemistry.”
Stella stared at him. “You—failed?”
Julien gave a humorless laugh. “I was going through stuff. My mom was in hospital, rent was overdue, and I couldn’t fake being okay anymore.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I worked three jobs that semester. Slept on a friend’s couch. I had to beg the dean to let me retake the exam. You think charm saved me? It didn’t. Desperation did.”
Stella swallowed. She had no witty comeback.
Julien turned to her, voice softer now. “I don’t float, Stella. I swim like hell to keep from drowning. Same as you.”
Friday – Campus Coffee Bar – 10:43 AM
Julien didn’t show up for their morning meeting.
No call. No message.
At first, Stella told herself it didn’t matter. That she’d just work alone, like she always did.
But by noon, she’d checked her phone five times and reread his last text from the night before:
“Send me your edits. I’ll finish my section tonight. Don’t stay up too late, lionne.”
Lionne. Lioness.
The nickname irritated her more than it should. Mostly because she didn’t hate it.
She hated wondering why he was late.
She hated how she noticed he’d started writing "J." instead of signing his full name in shared documents, like it was a private joke only she could read.
Most of all, she hated how absence could take up so much space.
Saturday – Julien’s Apartment – 5:17 PM
Stella didn’t knock. She just banged her fist once, sharp and fast, before the door swung open.
Julien blinked at her, groggy-eyed and shirtless. His hair was a mess. His sweatpants were slung low on his hips.
Stella’s brain short-circuited for half a second.
Then she snapped, “Are you dying? Because otherwise, ghosting me isn’t cute.”
Julien rubbed his eyes. “Migraine. Slept all day. Didn’t check my phone. Sorry.”
His voice was hoarse. Raw.
And then she saw it—his kitchen was dark, cluttered. Empty coffee mugs on the counter. A pile of laundry on the floor. The windows closed tight, curtains drawn.
It looked nothing like the boy who always seemed like he had it together.
“Are you okay?” she asked, softer now.
He hesitated.
Then, without a word, he opened the door wider and walked back inside.
Stella followed, unsure why.
Julien sank onto the couch, pressing his palms against his eyes. “I get these sometimes. Bad ones. When I’m burnt out.”
She hovered in the doorway, arms crossed. “What helps?”
“Silence. Darkness. And someone not talking at me.”
“Well,” she said, “two out of three.”
To her surprise, he chuckled—just once. Then he said, “There’s ginger tea in the cabinet. Left side.”
She made the tea.
An Hour Later – Same Apartment
Julien was curled up under a blanket now, sipping slowly. Stella sat beside him, laptop open, typing edits with silent fingers.
The room felt strangely peaceful. Not romantic, not tense. Just... quiet.
“You don’t have to stay,” Julien murmured, eyes half-closed.
“I know.”
A pause. Then:
“Thanks.”
She didn’t respond.
But she stayed.
Sunday – Law Faculty Courtyard – 2:22 PM
Julien was back to normal. Mostly.
They were sitting under the sycamore tree near the faculty building, spreading their mock trial notes across the grass. The autumn sun filtered through the leaves, casting gold on their pages.
“I was thinking,” he said, tapping his pen, “what if we flipped the opening argument? Lead with judicial bias instead of precedent?”
Stella glanced up, surprised. “You read my email?”
“I always read your emails.”
She blinked.
Julien looked away, his voice casual. “Even the ones that say ‘attached please find.’ Very professional. Very terrifying.”
“You’re not supposed to read subtext into emails,” she muttered, cheeks warming.
He grinned. “Too bad. Your subtext is my favorite part.”
She turned to her notes to hide her face.
That Night – Stella’s Apartment
Her phone buzzed.
Julien: I rewrote the opener. Take a look. Also—tomorrow. My place. Pizza and prep?
Stella: Fine. But no olives this time.
Julien: Deal. You bring the fire, I’ll bring the cheese.
She stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
Stella: Don’t flirt.
Julien: Wasn’t. Just hungry.
She set her phone down and exhaled slowly, unsure whether the flutter in her chest was annoyance.
Or something else.
- Writer
