Chapter Two: Lines We Pretend Not to Cross
484 Words
By the third day of Nelson living next door, I had memorized the sound of his footsteps.
That realization annoyed me more than the noise itself.
He walked with confidence—long, unhurried strides that suggested he wasn’t afraid of taking up space. Every step seemed deliberate, like he knew the world would adjust around him. I, on the other hand, preferred moving quietly, carefully, as though life might shatter if I stepped too hard.
We were opposites. And opposites, I reminded myself, clashed.
That morning, I was halfway through reorganizing my kitchen cabinets—my preferred method of regaining control—when a knock interrupted me.
Three sharp taps.
I froze.
Another knock followed, slower this time, almost teasing.
“Elizabeth?” Nelson’s voice filtered through the door. “I know you’re home. Your lights are on, and you reorganize loudly.”
I opened the door just enough to glare at him. “Do you always announce yourself like this?”
“Only when I’m desperate.”
That was my second warning.
He held up a small saucepan, looking almost sheepish. “I burned my breakfast. Do you… cook?”
I stared at him. “That depends. Do you return borrowed items?”
He placed a hand over his chest. “I am deeply offended by that assumption.”
Against my better judgment, I let him in.
Nelson’s presence filled my apartment instantly. He noticed everything—the books on my shelf, the way my furniture was arranged, the small framed quote above my desk.
“You like things neat,” he observed.
“I like things calm,” I corrected.
He smiled. “Same thing, different language.”
Cooking together was unexpectedly easy. He chopped vegetables with unnecessary flair, narrating his actions like a cooking show host, while I tried—and failed—not to laugh.
“Relax,” he said softly when I caught myself smiling. “I don’t bite.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“But you thought it.”
I definitely did not deny it.
As we ate, conversation shifted from playful to personal without either of us noticing. He spoke about moving often, about never staying long enough to feel rooted. I talked about routines, stability, and how silence sometimes felt safer than people.
There was a moment—quiet and unguarded—where our eyes met, and the air changed.
Not dramatically. Not suddenly.
Just enough to make me uneasy.
Because lines were forming. Invisible ones. And for the first time, I wondered which of us would cross them first.
When Nelson finally stood to leave, he paused at the door.
“Thanks for the food,” he said. “And the company.”
I nodded, my voice failing me.
After he left, my apartment felt too quiet.
And I realized with a sinking feeling that calm, once broken, was hard to reclaim.
- Writer
