The lines between us

CHAPTER TWO_ Adjustment period

If someone had asked me what living with Isa was like, I would’ve said fine.

That was the word I used most often.

Fine meant she didn’t talk much. Fine meant she kept the room clean. Fine meant she had a habit of noticing things that didn’t seem worth noticing—like how late I came back, or how often I forgot to lock the door.

Fine didn’t mean comfortable.

The first week passed in routines. Naomi left early for labs. Isa studied in silence. I came and went between lectures, the greenhouse, and wherever else the day took me. We spoke when necessary—about shared chores, about who bought what, about the weather when silence felt too sharp.

Still, I was aware of her.

Not in a way I wanted to examine too closely.

She was quiet, but not distant. Sometimes I’d catch her watching me from across the room, her gaze lifting when she thought I wasn’t looking. When I noticed, she never looked away. She simply returned to whatever she’d been doing, like nothing had happened.

It bothered me more than it should have.

One afternoon, I came back with dirt still under my nails. Isa glanced at my hands, frowning slightly.

“You should wash those properly,” she said.

“I will.”

“You say that a lot.”

I paused. “Are you keeping track?”

Her expression didn’t change. “You forget.”

I laughed it off. “You sound like my mother.”

She didn’t smile.

That night, Naomi invited a few people over. Nothing wild. Just friends sitting on the floor, talking too loudly, sharing snacks. I leaned against my desk, laughing with one of the guys from my class. Easy conversation. Familiar energy.

Isa stayed by her bed.

She didn’t join in, didn’t comment, didn’t complain. She just sat there, reading, occasionally glancing up when the room got too loud.

When the guests finally left and Naomi went to shower, Isa spoke again.

“You don’t like quiet, do you?”

I shrugged. “It’s not my favorite.”

She nodded, like she’d confirmed something for herself. “That makes sense.”

“Why?”

“You surround yourself with noise,” she said. “People. Distractions.”

I frowned. “You make it sound like a diagnosis.”

She closed her book. “Observations aren’t judgments.”

I didn’t know why that annoyed me.

Later, I noticed my things had been rearranged on the shared shelf. Not moved far—just aligned differently.

“You reorganized,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t ask.”

She met my gaze. “You didn’t say not to.”

I exhaled slowly. “Isa, you can’t just—”

“I didn’t throw anything away,” she interrupted. “I made space.”

“For what?”

She hesitated. Just for a second. “For balance.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t thank her either.

That night, lying in bed, I tried to convince myself I was imagining the tension. That this was just what happened when strangers shared a room. Different habits. Different personalities.

Still, I found myself listening for her movements. Not because I cared—but because awareness had already settled in.

And I didn’t like how hard it was to ignore.