Chapter 6: walls with windows
827 Words
Chapter 6: Walls with Windows
Kaeynna didn’t sleep that night.
Not because she was restless—but because something inside her had finally settled. Like a part of her that had always lived in survival mode was now breathing air for the first time.
She lay on her bed, phone on her chest, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
He wasn’t asking for forever. Just now.
It was terrifying.
And oddly beautiful.
She had spent so long building walls, but Calix... he wasn’t trying to tear them down. He was finding the cracks and whispering through them until she wanted to open a window.
---
The next morning, Kaeynna did something she rarely did:
She invited someone over.
She texted him simply:
Kaeynna: Coffee. My place. One hour. Don’t be late.
His reply came in seconds:
Calix: Bringing croissants. Chocolate or almond?
Kaeynna: Both. I don’t share.
Calix: Understood.
She stared at her phone, a strange smile tugging at her lips.
---
Her apartment was a reflection of her: minimalist, neutral, and pristine. But this morning, it felt too clean. Too guarded.
She lit a candle. Moved her favorite mug out of the cabinet. Left her sketchpad on the table like she hadn’t planned any of it, even though she had.
When Calix arrived, he was holding a small paper bag in one hand, and flowers in the other.
She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You said coffee. I assumed I had to fight my way in.”
She took the flowers without comment. But he saw the corner of her lips twitch.
Inside, he wandered slowly through her apartment like someone in a museum—quiet, reverent, noticing every detail.
“You like open space,” he observed.
“I like room to think.”
He nodded. “But your walls are full.”
She paused. “Yeah. I guess... I don’t like silence that much.”
Calix turned to a framed print above her reading nook. It was abstract, full of chaotic color and texture.
“This is loud,” he said.
“It’s how my head feels most days.”
He glanced back at her, then nodded. “Thanks for letting me in.”
She sipped her coffee. “Don’t get used to it.”
He smiled. “Too late.”
---
They ate on the floor, plates balanced on knees, as the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains.
“Did you take any of these?” he asked, gesturing toward a series of black-and-white street photos hanging on one wall.
“No. They’re from a local photographer I used to admire.”
He looked closer. “They’re good. But they’re not you.”
She tilted her head. “What does that mean?”
“They’re beautiful. But they’re distant. Like whoever took them never stepped into the frame.”
Kaeynna blinked, surprised.
“You take photos?” she asked.
“Sometimes. But I’m more interested in moments than technique.”
“That’s why you never showed me the picture again.”
He nodded. “I wanted you to feel it, not analyze it.”
She stared down at her coffee, fingers tight around the mug.
“I hate that you’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Reading me.”
“I’m not reading you,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”
---
Hours passed without them noticing.
They sat on the couch, her feet tucked under her, his arm stretched along the backrest—not touching her, just there.
Comfortable. Steady.
At one point, she picked up her sketchbook and started drawing without thinking. He didn’t interrupt. Just watched quietly as her pencil moved—fast, loose, alive.
When she realized he was watching, she froze.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. I just... like the way your face changes when you create.”
She looked at him, skeptical. “That’s a weird thing to say.”
“Maybe. But it’s true.”
He moved closer. Just slightly.
“You don’t have to let me all the way in,” he said. “But I’d like to sit at the doorway, if you’ll let me.”
Kaeynna’s throat tightened.
No one had ever said something like that to her.
No one had ever meant it.
Before she could think herself out of it, she turned her sketchpad around to show him the drawing.
It was of him.
Not perfect. A little rough. But unmistakably him. Camera slung across his chest, half-smile in place, eyes too honest for fiction.
“You’re in my head,” she said simply.
He looked at the sketch, then at her.
“And you’re in mine.”
---
When he left that afternoon, he kissed her forehead.
Not her lips. Not her cheek.
Her forehead.
It was the most intimate thing she’d felt in years.
Not desire.
Not possession.
Just presence.
And she realized...
She didn’t want to run anymore.
- Writer
