BLURRED LINES

CHAPTER FIVE: TENSION

By the time I reached the café, my thoughts were tangled and loud that it overpowered that of the annoyingly loud coffee machine. The familiar scent of coffee grounds and baked sugar wrapped around me like a different kind of survival.

“Lan!” Marcus, my very loud co-worker, called from behind the counter. “You’re late.”

“Existential crisis,” I replied, tying my apron.

“Valid,” he said and signaled towards the impatient woman in front of him, “Later, before I get my ears beaten off.”

The café at sunset is warm; golden light slipping through wide windows, conversations layered softly over the hiss (annoyingly loud as hell sound) of the espresso machine.

I like it here but the people… not so much. Orders are simple, but people are very complex.

Milk is steamed to the temperature and no one moves my canvases on the back shelf of the store room which everyone; by everyone I mean; myself, Marcus, Hilda, but currently hasn't been to work in days and Sam, our manager, who calls it Ola's Lounge just because I always drew there when the traffic in the café is few. In Sam's Cafe and sweets, I moved on autopilot; wiping the counter, taking orders, side-eyeing the regular customers in case of any issues, and repeating the cycle.

But my mind was racing like never today. Earlier defense, New critic, Final drafts by Monday. I imagined my half-finished central piece leaning against the apartment wall.

And then, annoyingly, I imagined Ernest standing in front of it.

Not touching, just looking. That made my stomach twist in sheer horror.

Around 8:45, the crowd thinned and chairs scraped against tile as we began closing. Marcus nudged me. “You good?”

“Define good.”

He chuckled. “You look like someone just told you adulthood costs extra.”

I huffed a laugh. “Thesis moved forward,” I admitted quietly.

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” He just graduated from art school too but he majored in sculpting. He knew exactly how I was feeling.

He whistled low. “That’s savage.”

“Apparently he or she is… intense.”

“Intense how?”

“Withdraws mid-session if he’s bored.”

Marcus blinked in shock. “That’s villain behavior.”

I forced a smile. “Exactly.”

He handed me a takeaway cup. “On the house, just survive the night.” I accepted it with a small nod. Around eight-thirty, my phone buzzed from an unknown group chat. I frowned. The message preview read: “ Ernest is wild tonight!!”

My stomach dropped. I opened it anyway, It was a campus gossip group Karl had once dragged me into and I’d muted. Someone had sent a video. I pressed play and the blurry footage filled my screen with loud music and people shouting, red plastic cups. I was about to end the video until the angle tilted and… My living room. Ernest Malcolm in the center of it, laughing, with shirt sleeves rolled up and he was surrounded by people.

The coffee table was shoved to the side and my neatly stacked sketchbooks I left in a hurry on the coffee table were knocked away and crooked on the floor near the door.

The video ended with someone yelling, “Malcolm, you’re insane!” My fingers went cold and I checked the timestamp, Forty minutes ago.

Marcus looked up at me from where he was filling out the sales record book. “What happened?”

I swallowed, hastily packing up, “Nothing.” It was five minutes away from closing time. “Tell Sam I had an emergency.” Before Marcus could protest any further, I was already out the door, my pulse faster than ever.

Campus at night feels different. Quieter or rather more honest. Streetlights pooled gold across the walkway, I would have enjoyed the airy night but I had someone to screw up.

The distant rugby field lights were still on. I tried not to look. Well, I absolutely looked and it was empty. The dorm building loomed ahead, windows lit irregularly. My steps slowed as I reached our door, wishing for everything to be a lie but the music was audible before I even reached the building. The bass thudded faintly through the walls.

The door swung open to reveal the chaos. Music blasted from a speaker on the kitchen counter. Red cups littered the coffee table, the coffee table was shoved two feet off its usual position, The balcony doors were wide open letting in night bugs.

Three guys I recognized from the rugby squad were standing in the living room. Someone was leaning against the wall where my sketchbooks were left haphazardly in a pile.

And Ernest…the smug face was laughing in the middle of it. I swear if my eyes could burn, he would have been dead meat on the spot. He saw me and the laugh died mid-breath.

For a split second, no one else noticed. Then one of the guys followed his line of sight. “Ooooh,” someone said. “Roomie’s home.” That statement sent heat running up my spine.

Ernest straightened immediately. “Alright. Out.”

“What?” one of them laughed.

“I said, we’re done.”

Groans followed from almost everyone in the room.

“Bro, it just got good..”

“Out,” he repeated, firmer.

The music cut and there was some muttering, some exaggerated sighing, but slowly they shuffled toward the door. He was their captain…well an irresponsible one if he allowed this to happen without informing me first.

One of them paused near me, gave me a once over from my glasses down to my joggers. “Didn’t know Malcolm had supervision,” he joked.

The door shut behind the last one and Silence settled in the apartment, thick and charged.

I didn’t move from the doorway. My eyes swept the room. The table was displaced, the rug was skewed, shoes were by the couch. There was a faint ring of condensation on the wooden surface of the kitchen counter I’d polished three days ago. I sighed and got my body moving. I closed the windows, took my sketchbooks to my room which luckily was not tampered with because I locked it. Then, I took out the insecticides and sprayed the whole living area. I didn't as much as glance at Ernest but he followed me out to the balcony as I waited for it to fizzle down.

We stood in silence at the either ends of the balcony rail.

By the time I reached the café, my thoughts were tangled and loud that it overpowered that of the annoyingly loud coffee machine. The familiar scent of coffee grounds and baked sugar wrapped around me like a different kind of survival.

“Lan!” Marcus, my very loud co-worker, called from behind the counter. “You’re late.”

“Existential crisis,” I replied, tying my apron.

“Valid.” He said and signaled towards the impatient woman in front of him, “later before I get my ears beaten off.”

The café at sunset is warm; golden light slipping through wide windows, conversations layered softly over the hiss (annoyingly loud as hell sound) of the espresso machine.

I like it here but the people… not so much. Orders are simple but people are very complex.

Milk is steamed to the temperature and no one moves my canvases at the back shelf of the store room which everyone; by everyone I mean myself, Marcus, Hilda but currently hasn't been to work in days and Sam, our manager, who calls it Ola's Lounge just because I always drew there when the traffic in the cafe is few. In Sam's Cafe and sweets, I moved on autopilot; wiping the counter, taking orders, side-eyeing the regular customers in case of any issues, and repeating the cycle.

But my mind was racing like never today.

Earlier defense, New Critic, Final drafts by Monday. I imagined my half-finished central piece leaning against the apartment wall.

And then, annoyingly, I imagined Ernest standing in front of it.

Not touching, just looking. That made my stomach twist in sheer horror.

Around 8:45, the crowd thinned and chairs scraped against tile as we began closing. Marcus nudged me. “You good?”

“Define good.”

He chuckled. “You look like someone just told you adulthood costs extra.”

I huffed a laugh. “Thesis moved forward,” I admitted quietly.

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” He just graduated from art school too, but he majored in sculpting. He knew exactly how I was feeling.

He whistled low. “That’s savage.”

“Apparently he or she is… intense.”

“Intense how?”

“Withdraws mid-session if he’s bored.”

Marcus blinked in shock. “That’s villain behavior.”

I forced a smile. “Exactly.”

He handed me a takeaway cup. “On the house, just survive the night.” I accepted it with a small nod. Around eight-thirty, my phone buzzed from an unknown group chat. I frowned. The message preview read: “ Ernest is wild tonight!!”

My stomach dropped. I opened it anyway. It was a campus gossip group Karl had once dragged me into and I’d muted. Someone had sent a video. I pressed play and the blurry footage filled my screen with loud music and people shouting, red plastic cups. I was about to end the video until the angle tilted and… My living room. Ernest Malcolm in the center of it, laughing, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and he was surrounded by people.

The coffee table was shoved to the side and my neatly stacked sketchbooks I left in a hurry on the coffee table were knocked away and crooked on the floor near the door.

The video ended with someone yelling, “Malcolm, you’re insane!” My fingers went cold and I checked the timestamp, Forty minutes ago.

Marcus looked up at me from where he was filling out the sales record book. “What happened?”

I swallowed, hastily packing up, “Nothing.” It was five minutes away from closing time. “Tell Sam I had an emergency.” Before Marcus could protest any further, I was already out the door, my pulse faster than ever.

Campus at night feels different. Quieter or rather more honest. Streetlights pooled gold across the walkway, I would have enjoyed the airy night, but I had someone to screw up.

The distant rugby field lights were still on. I tried not to look. Well, I absolutely looked and it was empty. The dorm building loomed ahead, windows lit irregularly. My steps slowed as I reached our door, wishing for everything to be a lie but the music was audible before I even reached the building. The bass thudded faintly through the walls.

The door swung open to reveal the chaos. Music blasted from a speaker on the kitchen counter. Red cups littered the coffee table, the coffee table was shoved two feet from its usual position, The balcony doors were wide open letting in night bugs.

Three guys I recognized from the rugby squad were standing in the living room. Someone was leaning against the wall where my sketchbooks were left haphazardly in a pile.

And Ernest…the smug face was laughing in the middle of it. I swear if my eyes could burn, he would have been dead meat on the spot. He saw me and the laugh died mid-breath.

For a split second, no one else noticed. Then one of the guys followed his line of sight.

“Ooooh,” someone said. “Roomie’s home.” That statement sent heat running up my spine.

Ernest straightened immediately. “Alright. Out.”

“What?” one of them laughed.

“I said, we’re done.”

Groans followed from almost everyone in the room.

“Bro, it just got good…”

“Out,” he repeated, firmer.

The music cut and there was some muttering, some exaggerated sighing, but slowly they shuffled toward the door. He was their captain…well an irresponsible one if he allowed this to happen without informing me first.

One of them paused near me, gave me a once over from my glasses down to my joggers. “Didn’t know Malcolm had supervision,” he joked.

The door shut behind the last one and Silence settled in the apartment, thick and charged.

I didn’t move from the doorway. My eyes swept the room. The table was displaced, the rug was skewed, shoes were by the couch. There was a faint ring of condensation on the wooden surface of the kitchen counter I’d polished three days ago. I sighed and got my body moving. I closed the windows, took my sketchbooks to my room, which luckily was not tampered with because I locked it. Then, I took out the insecticides and sprayed the whole living area. I didn't as much as glance at Ernest, but he followed me out to the balcony as I waited for it to fizzle down.

We stood in silence at either ends of the balcony rail.

“They stopped by to see me,” Ernest said, breaking the silence that had lasted for too long. I glared at him. The audacity to defend himself rather than apologize. “It wasn’t a party.”

“It was loud enough to trend.”

His head turned sharply. “Trend?”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and held it up, pressing play. The video filled the space between us, music, shouting, the living room reduced to background scenery. Ernest watched himself on my screen. The clip ended and his jaw tightened.

“Campus gossip group,” I said evenly. “Congratulations. So because I wasn’t physically present, my boundaries expired?”

His eyes flashed. “Don’t twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything. You ruined my sketchbooks.”

“I made room for people to stand.”

“You made room for strangers.”

He exhaled sharply. “They’re not strangers. You’re acting like I disrespected you on purpose,” he said.

“You did.”

His tone sharpened. “You think I did this to spite you? It got out of hand,” he muttered. “They were just coming over after practice.”

“Practice doesn’t require red cups.”

He exhaled through his nose, then ran a hand over the back of his neck. For once, there was no smirk. “You’re right.”

The admission startled me more than the party. “I won’t do it again,” he added, quieter.

I didn’t respond. Because what was there to say? Sorry, didn't unshuffle furniture. Sorry didn’t unknot the tightness in my chest every time something in my space moved without permission. We stood there. Two stubborn people in a room that no longer felt neutral.

“You embarrassed me,” I said quietly.

His expression shifted. “How?”

“Your friend made a joke.”

“What joke?”

“About supervision.”

His jaw ticked.“I shut it down.”

“You laughed at first.”

“I didn’t…”

“You did.”

He looked like he was about to argue. Then stopped, because maybe he did.

“I can’t fight you every time I breathe,” he said, voice lower now.

Silence again. He shook his head once, like he was done. “Whatever, Olandria. I'm sorry”

After a moment, he pushed off the railing. “I’ll clean the rest.” I stood there in

the quiet aftermath.

The music is gone. The room is still slightly out of place and the air smells like strangers.