Chapter 4:Fault Lines
688 Words
College buildings have a way of showing their age. The cracks in the walls, the faded outlines where posters used to cling, the groan of doors older than most of the students who opened them. I found comfort in those imperfections—places where the structure admitted its history, instead of hiding behind a polished façade.
Which is probably why I noticed the tremble in Celine’s voice before she did.
It was Friday afternoon, and the sun was doing that thing where it painted everything gold for exactly twelve minutes before disappearing behind the west dorms. We had claimed one of the design studios—normally reserved for third-years—and spread out reference boards, sound samples, and sketches across two folding tables.
Harper had just left, promising to email us the color temperature charts, and Jonas was across the room trying to fix a flickering monitor while humming off-key to himself. Celine stood near the open windows, scrolling through her phone with a tight jaw and tapping her foot against the wooden floor.
“You keep doing that,” I said, not looking up from my sketchpad.
“Doing what?”
“The foot. The tapping. It’s like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off.”
She paused, as if she hadn’t noticed. “Just... nervous energy.”
I nodded, but something felt off.
“You didn’t add the soundscape edits we discussed.”
Celine shrugged. “Didn’t get around to it.”
“Didn’t get around to it or forgot?”
She looked at me then—really looked. Tired eyes, clenched jaw, and something else. Her lips parted like she was going to snap, but then she faltered.
“I had to visit my mom last night. I didn’t get much done.”
It was the first time she mentioned her family in a way that wasn’t sarcastic.
“Oh.”
Silence stretched, broken only by Jonas muttering at the computer.
“I can still do it,” she added quickly. “Tonight. If I stay up.”
“No,” I said. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
She gave a dry laugh. “Is that your way of saying I look like crap?”
“No. Just that you’re not a machine.”
Her eyes flicked toward the window again. I followed her gaze. Below, a couple walked by holding hands, sharing headphones. Just for a moment, her expression changed. Softer. Sad, maybe.
“You ever have one of those days,” she said quietly, “where you can’t tell if you’re about to fall apart or just bored?”
I closed my sketchbook slowly. “Yeah.”
She rubbed her neck. “I’m sorry I snapped yesterday.”
I blinked. “You didn’t really—”
“No, I did. I was rude, and I’ve been... distant. I guess I thought if I kept it all messy, no one would expect consistency.”
“That's not how collaboration works,” I said. “We don’t need you to be perfect. Just present.”
She smiled, a small one. “That almost sounded nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
From across the room, Jonas called, “If you two are done emotionally undressing, I think I fixed the screen!”
Celine threw a paperclip at him.
After that, something shifted. Not dramatically. But there was a new quiet between us—less charged, more aware.
We worked for another hour, and when we left, Celine walked next to me. Not ahead. Not behind.
“I like old buildings,” she said.
I glanced at her. “Why?”
“They don’t pretend they’re not broken.”
We reached the fork where our dorms split, and for a second, she lingered. Her hand brushed mine when she turned.
“Night, Iris.”
“Night.”
And when I got back to my room and opened my camera roll, I found a photo I hadn’t meant to take: Celine, backlit by sunset, laughing at something Harper said. The shot was slightly blurred, off-center. Not perfect.
But honest.
- Writer
