The space between us

Twelve Feet of space

She didn't Google him.Desmond figured that out somewhere between watching Tasha walk away in the hallway and lying on his back in the dark that night, staring at the ceiling. Not the part where she told him he was in her seat. The other part. The part where she looked at him and there was nothing in her face that said she knew his name, his number, or anything that usually arrived before he did in a room.

She looked at him like he was anybody.

He had not been anybody at Crestwood in two years.

Marcus was asleep on the other side of the room, one leg hanging off the mattress, unbothered by everything the way Marcus always was. Desmond picked up his phone, typed one line into a new email, and sent it before he could change his mind. Then he put the phone face down and stared at the ceiling until sleep came.Marcus found it hilarious. Desmond gave him the short version over breakfast and Marcus sat across from him, wide-shouldered and grinning, letting the story land piece by piece like he was collecting each part for later use.

"She doesn't know who you are," Marcus said.

"She knows my name."

"That's not the same thing and you know it."

"It doesn't matter," Desmond said.

"It's bothering you."

"It's not."

"You told me at seven in the morning." Marcus pointed his fork across the table. "You only do that when something is bothering you."

Desmond picked up his bag and left. Marcus was still laughing when the dining hall door closed behind him.She was already at the table when he arrived, two minutes early, and she had a printed outline in front of her with colo coded tabs down the margin and a pen in her hand and a second pen sitting perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. Her bag was on the chair beside her. She did not move it when he sat across from her. lTwelve feet of table between them. He counted without meaning to.She slid a copy of the outline toward him without looking up.He picked it up. Five sections, individual word counts, internal deadlines, a reference list at the back. She had put more work into the outline than most people put into the actual submission.

"You split the sections without asking me," he said.

"The split is based on the requirements," she said. "It's not random."

"I'm not saying it's random. I'm saying you made a decision that affects both of us without a conversation."

She looked up. "Is there a section you want changed?"

He looked at section three. Analytical. Independent argument required. She had assigned it to herself.

"I'll take section three," he said.

She went still. Just for a second. "That's the hardest section."

"I know what it is, Tasha."

Her jaw tightened slightly when he said her name, a small tell she didn't know she was giving him. She looked back at her paper. "Fine. I'll update the outline tonight."

He kept reading. Found her topic list on the third page. She had ranked five options and put a note beside the top one that said *most narrative range.* The topic was: *a moment that changed how you understood something you were already certain about.*

"You ranked this one first," he said. "Why?"

"Because it has room," she said. "A narrow topic corners you before you're halfway through."

"It's the most personal one on the list."

"Personal topics write better."

"So you know how to write personally," he said, watching her face, "but you won't answer a personal question."

She looked at him across the table, pen in hand, completely still. "Ask me something about the project."

"I asked you yesterday why you were in Advanced Composition," he said. "You didn't answer that either."

She said nothing. She just picked up her pen and went back to writing, and he let it go, and they worked in silence for the next forty minutes.

When she packed up to leave, she said without looking at him, "I'll send the updated outline tonight."

"Okay," he said.

She walked out. Straight-backed, unhurried, green jacket, and gone.

His phone buzzed.A video from Darius. He pressed play, volume low, and watched the footage of their library table shot from the upper walkway, him in his grey hoodie, her with the color-coded outline and the two pens, completely unaware.

The caption read: *D. Cole's new tutor?*

Replies already stacking.

He looked up toward the exit.

She was already gone, and her second pen was still sitting on the table exactly where she had left it, parallel to the edge, and he stared at it longer than made sense, and could not explain why.