Chapter 17
1546 Words
✨ An Evening Borrowed from Fear ✨
Flora pov
Flora realized the room was closing in on her when she began counting the cracks in the wall.
There were seven above the bed. Three thin ones near the window. One that looked like it had been painted over and then given up on halfway through. She traced them with her eyes, again and again, until the numbers stopped soothing her and started pressing in.
The boardinghouse was louder in the evenings. Not aggressive—just alive. Doors opened and closed. Someone laughed downstairs. The radio played too loudly and then cut off mid-song. Every sound reminded her she was alone among people who were not hers.
Her chest tightened.
She stood abruptly, the decision arriving before courage could argue it away.
“I can’t,” she whispered to no one. “I can’t just sit here.”
She grabbed her jacket and bag, checked them twice, then paused with her hand on the door. Fear flared immediately—sharp and familiar.
What if she got lost?
What if she didn’t know how to get back?
What if something happened and no one knew her name?
The fear waited, expectant.
Flora opened the door anyway. She locked her door twice to be certain
The evening bus smelled like oil and worn seats and the faint sweetness of someone’s cheap perfume. It wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either—just enough people to make her feel anonymous instead of watched.
She sat near the window, clutching her bag in her lap, eyes flicking to the windows as the town slid past. At night, it looked softer. Streetlamps blurred the rough edges. Buildings leaned into shadow like they were tired of standing.
She told herself she was inspecting the town.
Learning its shape.
Really, she was proving to herself that she could move without permission.
The bus stopped again.
Someone got on.
Flora felt it before she saw him—space shifting, the way air does when someone familiar steps into it. She looked up.
Nasir.
He paused when he saw her, surprise flickering across his face before smoothing into something warmer. Curious.
“Running away again?” he asked lightly as he took the seat across from her.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she laughed—a quiet, startled sound. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have a look,” he said. “Like the walls started arguing with you.”
She huffed. “They were winning.”
He leaned back, relaxed, like the bus belonged to him. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Somewhere.”
“Bold.”
“Terrifying,” she corrected.
They rode in silence for a moment, comfortable and strange. Flora noticed how he didn’t stare—not really. How his attention felt present without being heavy.
“You live here?” she asked.
“For now.”
“That sounds temporary.”
“Everything is.”
She smiled despite herself. “That’s not comforting.”
He glanced at her. “You came anyway.”
The bus turned, rattling slightly.
They talked about nothing.
About how the bus always lurched at that one corner. About the way the streetlamp near the bakery flickered like it was winking. About coffee—how she liked it sweet, how he drank it black and pretended that meant something about his character.
“It means you enjoy suffering,” she told him.
“It means I don’t trust things that hide their bitterness.”
She laughed again, fuller this time like she hadn't in a while.
They didn’t notice when the bus emptied.
They only realized how far they’d gone when it stopped near a small coffee shop, its windows glowing warmly against the dark.
Nasir stood. “This is my stop.”
Flora hesitated. Then, surprising herself, she stood too.
“Mine too,” she said, though she hadn’t known that until the words left her mouth.
The coffee shop was narrow and warm, smelling of roasted beans and sugar. Only a few people lingered—students, night workers, a woman reading with her feet tucked beneath her chair.
They sat across from each other at a small café table, cups between them, steam rising like something trying to escape.
Nasir stirred his coffee once. Didn’t drink it.
Flora noticed.
“You’re judging it,” she said.
He looked up. “I’m considering whether it deserves me.”
She snorted. “It’s coffee, not a proposal.”
“I take my commitments seriously.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug, smiling despite herself. “You look like someone who pretends not to care about things he absolutely cares about.”
“That’s a dangerous assumption.”
“Is it wrong?”
He paused. “No.”
She took a sip, then winced. “Too hot.”
“You say that every time?”
“I like to be consistent.”
He finally drank his coffee. “You don’t ask many questions.”
Flora shrugged. “I’m tired of answers.”
That earned her a look—careful, searching—but he didn’t push.
Instead, he said, “Why the bus?”
She thought about it. “It moves even when I don’t know where I’m going.”
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t,” she said, then added, “I think.”
He smiled faintly. “Fair.”
A comfortable silence settled. Not empty.
Just… there.
Flora traced a small chip in the edge of her cup. “Do you ever feel like places expect something from you?”
“All the time.”
“What do they expect from you?”
He leaned back slightly. “Competence. Distance.”
“And do you give it to them?”
“Enough.”
She nodded, like that made sense. “I think places expect me to be quiet.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” she said, surprised by how easily the word came.
They sat with that for a moment.
“You’re brave,” Nasir said, like it was an observation, not praise.
She laughed softly. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you got on a bus without a plan.”
“That’s not bravery,” she said. “That’s panic with better timing.”
He smiled. “Sometimes that’s all courage is.”
She glanced at the clock and frowned. “How did it get so late?”
“Time behaves differently around good conversation.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Now that sounds rehearsed.”
“Touché.”
They talked more.
About books neither of them finished. About music that reminded her of driving nowhere.
About the town—how unfinished it felt, like it was still deciding who it wanted to be.
“You fit that,” Nasir said.
She blinked. “Fit what?”
“The unfinished part.”
Her chest fluttered uncomfortably. “I don’t know if that’s an insult.”
“It’s not.”
They checked the time at the same moment again.
Flora startled. “Oh—oh no. I missed the last bus.”
Nasir frowned, then pulled out his phone. “I’ll have my car brought.”
Her heart leapt into her throat.
“Oh. I—” She hesitated. Fear surged fast, loud.
Alone. Car. Enclosed space. Rules she didn’t know.
He noticed immediately.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” he said. “I can walk you back if you’d rather.”
She nodded too quickly. Then stopped herself.
“No,” she said, swallowing. “I want to try.”
While they waited for the car to arrive and they stood outside, the night cool and quiet, Flora hesitated.
“Thank you,” she said. “For not asking things.”
“Thank you,” he replied, “for talking anyway.”
The car arrived—dark, quiet, larger than she expected.
Flora’s hands shook as she slid into the passenger seat. The door shut with a solid click that made her chest seize.
She began counting.
One breath. Two. Three.
Nasir spoke calmly, evenly. “Look at me.”
She did.
“Five things you can see.”
“The dashboard,” she whispered. “The clock.
Your hands. The streetlight. The… crack in the windshield.”
“Good. Four things you can feel.”
“The seat. My jacket. The door. My heartbeat.”
“Still with me,” he said.
Her breathing slowed.
By the time they reached the boardinghouse, the fear had softened into something quieter.
Something new.
She stepped out of the car and turned to him, unsure what to say.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “For… tonight.”
He smiled faintly. “Anytime, Flora.”
She watched the car disappear down the street before going inside.
She smiled—small, real—and turned toward the boardinghouse.
For the first time since she’d arrived, the night did not feel like it was closing in.
It felt like it was opening.
As she walked away, she realized something quietly astonishing.
For once, conversation hadn’t felt like a test.
It had felt like air.
And she needed air.
- Writer
