CHAPTER FOUR — LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED
828 Words
“How was your night?”
I paused. Just long enough. “Fine.”
She didn’t look away. “That’s it?”
My hand found the door handle, fingers curling around the metal, cool against my skin. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.” The blanket slipped off her knee as she shifted, pulling it back up without looking.
“Something that sounds like you.”
I watched her for a second. Then I pulled the door open. “It was just a night, Lydia.”
She pushed herself up from the couch, the cushion dipping, then rising behind her. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I stepped out. “I’m fine.”
The door clicked shut before she could answer.
The air outside hit cooler than I expected. It caught against my skin, sharp enough to pull a breath from me before I could stop it.
I moved too fast at first, then slowed a little, not enough to linger.
People moved around me, clusters and pairs, voices overlapping. Laughter broke somewhere to my left, too loud, then cut off halfway. A car passed, headlights sweeping briefly across the pavement before disappearing.
I kept my eyes forward. Someone brushed my shoulder. I didn’t turn.
Fragments of conversation rose and fell as I moved—names, complaints, money, plans. The words slipped past before they could settle.
I let it blur together.
By the time the campus gates came into view, the noise had thinned. The space opened up, wider, quieter. My steps evened out. Manageable.
“Careful.”
I looked up.
The pipette in my hand had tilted. The liquid inside trembled at the edge.
I steadied it. “Sorry.”
“Focus,” my supervisor said, already turning away.
“I am,” I muttered.
I adjusted my grip, sliding my fingers higher along the stem.
Around me, glass touched glass in soft, controlled sounds. Measured movements. Low voices, questions, confirmations, nothing unnecessary.
I reset.
I exhaled, then moved.
The pipette steadied between my fingers. I watched the meniscus settle before continuing.
For a while, it held.
The rhythm came back. Familiar. Precise. Enough to keep everything else out.
Then my hand closed around the wrong reagent.
“Elara.”
I stopped.
My fingers tightened slightly around the bottle before I set it back exactly where I’d picked it up. Reached for the correct one. Checked the label once. Then again.
“Right,” I said under my breath.
No one said anything. Still, the space beside me shifted. I continued, slower now. Each step checked before the next.
By the time I finished, my shoulders had tightened, a dull weight settling across them. I rolled one slightly, then cleaned up my station.
Everything in place. No mistakes left behind.
The apartment door gave way as soon as I pushed it.
Unlocked.
I paused just inside, then closed it.
Lydia was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass in her hand she hadn’t touched. Her arms were loosely crossed. When she saw me, her fingers tapped once against her sleeve.
“You’re late.”
“I had things to finish.”
She nodded once. Slow.
“How was your day?”
“Normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes.”
Her head tilted, her gaze holding on me. “Nothing at all?”
I dropped my bag onto the chair. It landed harder than I meant, the strap slipping off the side.
“It’s school, Lydia.”
She didn’t answer. Just watched.
“I expect you to not look like you’re somewhere else,” she said.
I bent, adjusting the bag where it had slipped. “I’m here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I straightened and walked past her.
“You’re overthinking it.”
“Am I?”
I didn’t slow down.
The water ran steady, filling the bathroom with a soft, constant sound.
I stood under it, letting it hit the back of my neck, then my shoulders.
My hands braced lightly against the wall. The tile was cool under my palms.
I stayed like that. Longer than necessary.
When I stepped out, the air felt colder. I reached for the towel, drying off in slow, practiced movements. No pauses. No hesitation.
Routine.
Clothes, same order. Same pace.
Later, my notes lay open in front of me.
A line caught my attention. I read it. Then again.
My eyes moved over the words, tracing each one. Nothing held.
I blinked.
Leaned back.
Then forward again, closer this time. My finger traced the sentence slowly.
I exhaled under my breath.
Focus. I tried again.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling.
The fan turned slowly above me, each rotation steady, predictable.
My hands rested against my stomach. Still.
My eyes stayed open. I turned onto my side, pulling the pillow closer, tucking it under my arm. And stayed there.
- Writer
