Three
1909 Words
There are certain kinds of intimacy that feel illegal when you’re not used to being treated gently.
After the night she let me into her apartment, Leah didn’t become suddenly soft. She didn’t wake up the next day and decide she was ready for love like it was a new outfit she’d finally agreed to try on.
If anything, she got more careful.
But she also got… realer.
She started saying things like, “I’m going to the library,” instead of “I’ll be there.” She started bringing snacks always something small and oddly specific, like those little chocolate biscuits that crumble if you breathe too hard. She started rolling her eyes at me more often too, which I came to understand was her version of affection.
And then one Friday, she did something that should’ve knocked me flat.
She called me.
It wasn’t a dramatic call. No romantic music in the background, no trembling voice confessing feelings. Just my phone buzzing with an unknown number while I stared at it like it was a bomb.
I answered too quickly. Like a fool.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, then her voice soft, familiar, and somehow unfairly calming. “It’s Leah.”
My heart did that stupid thing hearts do when they want to embarrass you.
“How did you get my number?” I asked, because apparently my brain short-circuited and forgot how to be normal.
“I stole it,” she said.
I sat up straighter. “You stole it?”
“You left your library card receipt on the table,” she replied, deadpan. “Your number was written on the back.”
“That’s not stealing,” I said, smiling despite myself.
“It’s theft-adjacent.”
“Leah,” I breathed, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Are you calling to confess your crimes?”
“No,” she said. “I’m calling because I have a question.”
My chest tightened. “Okay.”
“I have an extra movie ticket,” she said.
A movie ticket. One ticket. Singular.
My brain went through the possibilities like a frantic lawyer. Maybe she meant she had two and she was offering me one. Maybe she meant she had one and wanted me to come anyway, like we’d sit on opposite sides of the theater and pretend we weren’t together.
“Why do you have an extra one?” I asked.
Another pause. Then, like she was annoyed at herself for the effort of explaining, she said, “Because my friend bailed.”
You could’ve handed me a winning lottery ticket and I still would’ve been more nervous about this.
“What movie?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
That sounded ominous.
“It does matter,” I insisted. “What if it’s horror? What if it’s one of those films where the camera just stares at a wall for two hours and the wall is meant to represent capitalism?”
“It’s a rom-com,” she said flatly.
I blinked. “A rom-com?”
“Yes,” she repeated, like saying it once had already cost her dignity. “A cheesy one. With a predictable plot. And a man who is emotionally incompetent.”
I coughed. “So… basically a documentary about me?”
“Don’t,” she warned, but her voice sounded slightly amused.
I leaned back on my bed, grinning at the ceiling. “Are you asking me on a date, Leah?”
Silence.
Then she said, very quietly, “I’m asking you to accompany me to a public event where we will sit near each other and pretend it’s normal.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t smile too hard. “That sounds exactly like a date.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“You called me,” I pointed out. “That’s step one of dating.”
“Shut up,” she said, and I could hear the faintest smile in it, like sunlight behind clouds.
I sat up. “What time?”
Leah arrived five minutes late, which shocked me because Leah wasn’t late. She did punctual. She did controlled. She did always prepared.
Tonight she looked… different.
Not dressed up exactly. Still Leah. Still cardigan energy. But she wore a soft sweater instead, and her hair was down, and her glasses weren’t on meaning I could see her eyes without any barrier.
That should’ve been illegal.
She walked up to me with that same calm expression that always made me feel like I was the one doing too much just by existing.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I replied, trying desperately not to sound like I was auditioning.
She glanced at me. “You look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lied.
“You’re blinking too much.”
“I just have… hydrated eyes,” I said.
She stared for a second, then turned away, but not before I saw it ,the smallest shake of her shoulders, like she was holding back a laugh.
My heart did something humiliating.
We got our popcorn and drinks. Leah insisted on paying for the snacks since I was the “guest,” which felt unfair because I would’ve sold my organs to buy her popcorn if she asked.
When we found our seats, she sat one space away from me.
One empty seat between us.
A whole cushion of denial.
I looked at the empty seat, then at her. “Are we… socially distancing?”
She didn’t look at me. “It’s a precaution.”
“Against what, Covid?”
“Against you getting ideas.”
I leaned toward her. “Leah, I’ve had ideas since day one.”
She finally glanced over, eyes narrowing. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” I said softly, “you called me.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks pinked just slightly.
The movie started.
It was terrible.
I don’t mean normal terrible. I mean the kind of terrible that feels like a crime against literature. The male lead was painfully handsome and emotionally unavailable. The female lead was quirky in a way that only exists in films, like she’d been designed by a committee of men who thought “clumsy” was a personality.
Leah leaned toward me halfway through and whispered, “If he says ‘I’m afraid of commitment’ one more time, I’m going to throw my drink.”
I laughed. “Please do. I want to see you commit to violence.”
She turned her head slowly, unimpressed. “That was bad.”
“I know,” I admitted. “But you laughed.”
She paused. “I didn’t laugh.”
“You did,” I insisted. “I heard it.”
She looked at the screen. “No you didn’t.”
Ten minutes later the female lead tripped, spilled coffee on herself, and somehow that was meant to be charming.
Leah muttered, “Why do they always spill coffee? Is it a requirement?”
“Maybe it’s foreshadowing,” I whispered. “Maybe she’s going to form a deep emotional bond with the barista.”
Leah snorted.
A snort.
It was small, involuntary, and absolutely adorable.
I turned to look at her. “Was that a laugh?”
She glared at me. “If you bring it up, I will deny it.”
“I’ll testify under oath,” I said.
She leaned closer, voice quiet and deadly. “I will ruin your life.”
My heart fluttered in the most pathetic way.
“Promise?” I whispered.
She stared at me for a beat, then shook her head like she couldn’t believe I was real.
Halfway through the film, she reached into the popcorn bag.
So did I.
Our fingers brushed.
A fraction of a second.
But Leah froze like she’d been struck by lightning.
I held still, too. Breath caught.
The screen flashed bright colors, some generic love confession happening between the actors, but none of it mattered because my entire universe had narrowed down to the place where her fingers had touched mine.
Then very slowly, Leah withdrew her hand.
She didn’t pull away like she was disgusted.
She pulled away like she was afraid.
I pretended not to notice. Because pretending was the only way to keep her from bolting.
A few minutes later, she tried again reached for popcorn, careful this time, like she was navigating a minefield.
I waited until her fingers were in the bag.
Then, because I am an i***t, I whispered, “Truce?”
She paused. “What?”
“Popcorn,” I said. “The bag is too small. We need rules.”
Leah glanced at me, suspicious. “Rules.”
“Yes,” I said solemnly. “We alternate. You take a handful, then I take a handful. Like civilized people.”
She blinked once. Twice.
Then she whispered back, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s a good plan,” I argued.
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re just trying to make me touch you.”
I inhaled caught, and my mouth ran ahead of my caution. “Maybe I am.”
The words hung there.
Bright. Dangerous.
Leah didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I felt my stomach drop. I’d pushed too far.
“Shut up.”
When the movie ended, she stood quickly, like she needed air. Like the dark had made things too intimate. We walked out with the crowd, popcorn crumbs on our fingers, the night waiting outside like a quiet witness.
At the entrance she stopped and faced me.
Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes bright.
“I hated that,” she said.
I grinned. “You loved it.”
“I hated it,” she insisted, but her voice wasn’t convincing.
“Then why did you invite me?”
Leah stared at me like the answer was both obvious and terrifying.
“I don’t know,” she admitted finally.
That honesty, raw and simple, hit me harder than any confession.
I softened my voice. “You can know later.”
She swallowed. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I said, “you called me.”
Leah’s lips pressed together, fighting a smile.
Then she surprised me.
She reached out not for my hand, not for my chest, nothing so bold.
She brushed a crumb off my sweater.
A tiny gesture.
A nothing gesture.
But her fingers lingered for half a second too long, and my entire body went still like it recognized holy ground.
Her hand dropped back to her side quickly, as if she realized what she’d done.
“Goodnight,” she said, too fast.
“Goodnight,” I replied, voice soft.
She walked away, disappearing into the night.
And I stood there for a long time, smiling like an i***t, tasting butter and hope on my tongue.
Because we still hadn’t kissed.
We still hadn’t named it.
But she’d called me. She’d sat in the dark beside me. She’d laughed, snorted, even. She’d touched my hand and stayed for two breaths.
And in Leah's language, that was practically a love letter.
I went home and didn’t sleep.
Not because I was restless.
Because, for the first time in a long time, I felt something dangerously close to happy.
And it terrified me.
- Writer
