Boundaries Are Thin
1398 Words
Savannah and I never talked about the touch.
That brief moment when our fingers met in the library, holding the same pen, just long enough for sparks to light a fire neither of us wanted to claim.
We acted like it never happened. Like we were still just two writing students, struggling through a partnership project.
But I felt it.
Every time she laughed. Every time she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Every time our knees accidentally brushed under the table.
It lived in the silence between sentences. In the quiet moments when we both paused and neither of us breathed.
Joy still hadn’t called.
I checked my phone every hour, convincing myself I wasn’t desperate. That I wasn’t counting the hours since her last text like a prisoner scratching tallies into a wall.
Her social media wasn’t much help either. She posted a picture with two of her new roommates a caption that read: “Girls who study together, slay together.”
No mention of me. No heart emoji. No nothing.
Maybe I was overthinking it. Or maybe I wasn’t.
Savannah and I kept meeting at the library three nights in a row. And somehow, every session lasted longer than the one before.
On the fourth night, she brought coffee. Black for her. Caramel macchiato for me just like I’d mentioned once, in passing.
“How’d you remember?” I asked.
She shrugged, sliding it across the table. “Writers have good memory.”
She wore a burnt-orange sweater that looked soft enough to fall asleep in, and tiny gold hoops that caught the light every time she tilted her head. Her eyes looked more tired than usual, but she still smiled at me. Like she wanted to.
We worked in silence for an hour before she spoke.
“Do you think love is supposed to feel… safe?” she asked suddenly, not looking up from her notebook.
The question caught me off guard.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Sometimes I think it’s supposed to feel like home. But lately… it just feels like waiting.”
She nodded slowly. “Like calling a number and hoping someone still picks up.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly that.”
She looked at me then. For a long time.
I felt stripped open.
Later that night, it rained. Not a dramatic storm just soft, steady rain that whispered against windows and soaked the pavement like a secret.
I walked her back to her dorm. She didn’t ask me to. I just… went.
At the steps, she paused.
“I guess this is where I say thank you for walking me back,” she said.
“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to.”
Her eyes met mine.
Then dropped.
“Martins…”
I knew what she was about to say. I could feel it.
“I know,” I whispered. “We’re just… friends.”
She nodded. But her voice was quieter than her nod. “Just friends.”
But neither of us moved.
The rain soaked the cuff of my jeans. Her hair clung to her face. Her lips parted like she might say something else something truer.
Instead, she turned. Climbed the steps.
Stopped halfway up. “Good night.”
I said nothing.
Just watched her walk away.
And hated myself for how badly I wanted to follow.
I didn’t sleep.
Joy still hadn’t replied.
And Savannah’s eyes kept playing on repeat in my head.
By morning, I felt like I was unraveling.
The next day in class, we were assigned to peer review another group’s paper. Savannah and I sat side-by-side again, but she barely looked at me. Her fingers typed fast, jaw set, eyes forward.
Maybe she was avoiding what happened. Or what almost happened.
Or maybe she was doing what I should’ve done pretending the line hadn’t blurred.
After class, I caught up with her.
“Hey.”
She slowed. “Hey.”
“We’re good, right?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
But it didn’t feel like of course.
“Do you wanna still meet later? For edits?”
She hesitated. “Yeah. Seven?”
“Same place?”
She nodded again.
And then, because I didn’t trust myself not to say something I shouldn’t, I let her walk away.
That night at the library, she showed up with snacks. Gummy worms and spicy trail mix.
“I figured I’d return the favor,” she said, placing the snacks on the table like a peace offering.
I smiled. “You remembered again.”
“I told you. Writers don’t forget.”
We worked without touching. Without flirting. Without pretending we weren’t pretending.
And then she read a line from our draft aloud:
“Distance isn’t the absence of love. Sometimes it’s just the echo.”
She read it again.
Then said softly, “Did you write this part?”
I nodded.
She looked at me, something unreadable in her eyes.
And for a moment, I thought she might say something that would change everything.
But instead, she said, “It’s good.”
When we finished, she closed her laptop and leaned back.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Anything.”
“If Joy was here, right now… would you still want to know me like this?”
I froze.
Her eyes locked on mine. No escape. No easy answer.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“That’s the problem,” she whispered.
We didn’t speak after that.
I walked her back again, but this time, she didn’t let me linger.
The next day, Joy finally texted.
Hey. Been busy. We need to talk soon.
No emojis. No “babe.” No warmth.
And those four wordsWe need to talk soon carried the weight of an ending.
That night, Savannah didn’t show up.
No text. No call. No message.
I waited in the library until closing. Checked the quad. Nothing.
The next day, she wasn’t in class.
I told myself to stay calm. That she probably had stuff to handle. That I was overreacting.
But by the third missed class, I knew something was wrong.
So I walked to her dorm building. Waited outside, unsure if I even had the right to knock.
When the door finally opened, she stood there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, eyes red, hair wild.
“Savannah”
“I’m not in the mood, Martins.”
“What happened?”
She looked away. “Nothing you can fix.”
“Try me.”
She hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
Her dorm was dimly lit. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat on her desk. Notes scattered. Books open. Her laptop glowed faintly on the bed.
She sat down, wrapped her arms around her knees. “My ex called. Said he’s visiting next week. Said he still loves me.”
I sat across from her, heart clenching.
“How do you feel about that?”
She stared at the wall. “I don’t know. It’s like… I want to be loyal to the version of us that used to make sense. But he’s not here. And someone else is.”
She looked at me.
I didn’t breathe.
“You,” she said softly.
Silence.
Then her voice broke. “This isn’t fair. We didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like the most real thing in my life right now?”
I stood up slowly.
Crossed the room.
Sat beside her on the bed.
Her eyes were shiny. Fragile. Like she might break if I moved too fast.
So I didn’t move.
I just whispered, “Because maybe it is.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t move away either.
Her head leaned slightly. My fingers brushed hers again. This time, longer. More certain.
Then the door clicked.
We froze.
Her roommate stepped in, earbuds in, barely noticing us.
I stood up like I’d been caught stealing.
Savannah looked down, blinking fast.
“I should go,” I said.
She nodded.
But just as I reached the door, she said, “Martins.”
I turned.
She stared at me for a second.
Then whispered:
“Don’t make me fall if you’re not ready to catch me.”
And before I could answer, the door closed between us.
- Writer
