Chapter006
1256 Words
It had started as a drizzle. The air felt dense and gentle, as if the heavens contemplated weeping but remained undecided.
Emma hadn’t brought an umbrella.
She hadn’t planned to walk through the literature quad either, but her brain was still echoing with the aftershocks of Julian’s smile. Julian's smile was genuine. It was not the smile he bestowed upon her in a polite gesture of approval. Not the kind professors used when they wanted students to feel “engaged.”
This had been small. Private. As if he was letting her in on something he wasn’t ready to name.
She hadn’t told Clara. She hadn’t even written it in her journal. Speaking it aloud would change it—make it either ridiculous or dangerous, and she wasn’t ready for either.
So she walked. Slowly. She instinctively guided her steps along the familiar paths between buildings—past the ivy-covered walls of Bancroft Hall, around the sculpture garden where freshmen posed for photos, and finally behind the old library, a place no one ventured unless they were late or lost.
That’s when the drizzle turned to full, unapologetic rain.
---
Emma broke into a run too late. The sky opened with a heavy shudder, soaking her shoulders in seconds. She looked around wildly for cover and spotted the stone archway behind the History building—a dry, shadowed alcove barely big enough for two people.
She ducked inside, breath catching frominside, herld.
And froze.
He was already there.
Julian.
He stood on the far side of the archway, back against the old limestone wall, arms crossed. His hair was damp, and a single drop of water traced its way down his temple. His expression didn’t shift when he saw her.
She hesitated.
“Do you mind?” she asked, voice low but audibleasked, herthe patter of rain on stone.
He looked at her for a second too long. He then gave a brief shake of his head.
She stepped inside.
---
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The space was close. Not tight, but close closed. that she could hear his breathing, faint but steady. The rain outside grew heavier, like it was trying to drown out the silence between them.
She tucked her arms around her stomach.
She attempted to sound amused as she spoke. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere grading essays or… brooding near a fireplace?”
That earned the tiniest exhale from him. He nearly burst into laughter. He didn't quite manage to laugh.
“I take breaks,” he said.
Emma nodded. “Shocking.”
He turned his head slightly to look at her. “And you? Do you always wander in the rain without an umbrella? Or was this some romantic miscalculation?”
“I wasn’t trying to be romantic,” she said. “I was trying to think.”
Julian tilted his head. “That sounds romantic to me.”
Emma blinked. “Is that a compliment?”
“Not sure,” he murmured. “You tell me.”
There it was again. There was a strange rhythm between them, measured and careful, yet undeniably charged. It felt akin to the interstitial spaces in a poem, where the essence of the poem resides.
---
“I was thinking about class,” Emma said, trying to steady herself. “Your lecture on interiority.”
“Mm.”
“And how much of ourselves we let others see.”
Julian’s gaze sharpened. “Dangerous territory.”
“I know.”
He looked back toward the rain. “Most peopltowardsend their lives are stories with structure. There is a clear cause and effect in their lives. Rising action, c****x, resolution.”
“You think they’re not?”
“I think they’re noise. Fragments. Interpretenoisy.r the fact.”
Emma stepped slightly closer to the edge of the archway. The rain had lightened a bit, but not enough to leave.
“What about your story?” she asked softly.
His jaw tightened. Just slightly. “What about it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It feels like… there’s a part of you still in the middle of it. And you haven’t decided if you’re going to write the ending.”
He turned to her again. Slower this time.
“I’m not sure that’s your question to ask.”
Emma nodded. “I’m not sure I should’ve asked it.”
He watched her. “But you did.”
“I’m not sorry.”
That surprised him. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, as evidenced by the gradual uncrossing of his arms and the unwavering gaze of his eyes.
---
He spoke, finally. Quietly.
“There was someone.”
Emma didn’t breathe.
He went on, his voice even but softer. “We were engaged. Years ago. She was a poet. She was smarter than me. Braver. Reckless, sometimes. But brilliant.”
Emma said nothing.
“She died,” he said.
Not passed. Not all was lost. Just died.
A car accident occurred. I was supposed to pick her up from a reading. I was late. She took a cab.”
Another pause.
“She called me before she left. I didn’t answer. I was busy.”
The silence between them now wasn’t heavy—it was hollow. Like something sacred had been placed between them, and neither of them wanted to touch it.
Emma’s voice, when it came, was barely above the rain.
“I’m sorry.”
Julian didn’t respond to that. He looked down, then back up.
“It’s not your fault.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”
He studied her for a long moment. He then gave a slight nod.
---
“Is that what’s in the drawer?” she asked suddenly, before she could stop herself.
Julian didn’t flinch. But his gaze shifted.
She immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes,” he said, interrupting gently. “The manuscript.”
She fell silent again.
“I wrote it after she died. And then… never touched it again.”
Emma looked up. “Why not?”
His answer came so quietly she almost didn’t hear it.
“Because I was afraid it would ruin me.”
“Writing it?”
“No,” he said. “Finishing it.”
Her breath caught.
They stood there in that truth together, unmoving.
---
The rain eased into a light mist.
Emma finally stepped to the edge of the archway and looked up.
The clouds were breaking. The sun was faint behind them, but enough light filtered through to paint the puddles gold.
She turned back towards him.
“I think you should finish it,” she said.
Julian’s expression didn’t change.
But he was quiet.
And the quiet wasn’t rejection.
It was consideration.
---
They walked together for a few minutes in the damp silence that followed. They were neither too close nor too far apart. When they reached the split in the path—one towards the faculty housing, the other towards the dorms—Emma stopped.
Julian stopped too.
She looked at him. She gazed at him, not through him. She didn't aim her gaze at him.
At him.
He nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“Good night, Miss Grant.”
Her lips twitched. “We’re back to last names now?”
His voice was almost—almost—teasing. “It seemed safer.”
Emma nodded.
Emma then left without turning around.
But her heart did.
- Writer
