Chapter 3: Michael, the Almost
1075 Words
“You always rewrite your notes like a textbook," Michael said, flipping through Sylvia's margins.
“I remember things better when I organize them."
“It's more than organized," he said. “It's art. You even color-code your stress."
Sylvia laughed softly. “Pink for panic, blue for maybe I'll survive."
They sat on a bench just off campus, textbooks open, coffee cooling between them. Around them, students rushed by in midterm chaos. But here—on this bench—they were a pause.
Michael tapped the edge of her page. “You still planning to apply to that summer program?"
Sylvia hesitated. “I... don't know."
“What? You've been talking about it for months."
“My family needs me."
He frowned. “You're not obligated to stop living your life because they don't know how to manage theirs."
“You don't know them," she said quietly.
“I know you."
She looked at him then. Really looked. Soft brown eyes, ink-stained fingers, the patience of someone who never spoke over her silence.
He smiled like he could wait forever.
She wished he didn't have to.
---
That night, in her room, Sylvia drafted the message.
> Hey, there's this coffee place near the station. You free next week? I want to tell you something.
She hovered over send. Then deleted it.
Camila had been watching her all day. Todd had asked pointed questions about Michael again. Her phone felt radioactive in her hand.
So instead, she sent:
> [Sylvia]: Don't forget the study group Friday. Bring snacks or they'll mutiny.
He replied in under a minute.
> [Michael]: Mutiny averted. I'll bring the good kind.
She smiled. Then tucked the phone under her pillow like it could keep her warm.
---
Downstairs, the house pulsed with tension.
“I don't care if she's not ovulating yet," Albert's voice cut through the air. “We're wasting time."
“She's not ready," Camila replied. “Emotionally, she's still—"
“Then break her in," Todd snapped. “Do what you have to. Just keep it clean."
Sylvia stood outside the study, heart in her throat. They talked about her like a product. A task.
She turned and climbed the stairs two at a time, locked her door, and curled around her pillow.
She'd never been in love before. But she knew this wasn't it.
Michael was. Maybe.
---
Friday came. Study group buzzed with caffeine and crumpled worksheets. Michael passed her a muffin and whispered, “I got the kind with blueberries. You like those, right?"
She nodded, smiling despite herself.
He waited until the group dispersed.
“You want to grab lunch? Just us."
Sylvia's heart stuttered. “I—I can't today."
“Okay," he said easily. “Tomorrow?"
She hesitated. “Let me check."
“Sure," he said. But something behind his smile dimmed.
She wanted to scream that it wasn't him, that it was everything else.
But instead, she packed her bag and left before her silence could give her away.
---
Back home, Todd was waiting.
“Where were you?"
“Study group," she replied. “You approved it."
“Michael was there."
“Yes."
“End it."
Her grip tightened on her bag. “We're just friends."
“You won't be anything if this continues. He's a distraction. We can't afford distractions."
“You mean you can't afford me being happy."
Todd's voice turned razor-sharp. “Do you want him to lose his scholarship?"
She went still.
“Don't test me, Sylvia. One phone call. That's all it takes."
Her voice dropped. “Why are you doing this?"
“Because I raised you. And now it's time you repay the debt."
“You didn't raise me. You tolerated me."
“Same difference."
---
Later that night, she found Julia in the sunroom, sketching wedding invitations.
“You think Albert loves you?" Sylvia asked, the words out before she could stop them.
Julia looked up, surprised. “Of course."
“He ever say that?"
“All the time."
Sylvia hesitated. “Does he show it?"
Julia smiled, a little sad. “Not in the ways you'd think. But... he's under pressure. He does what he can."
Sylvia stared out the window. “Sometimes doing what you can hurts people."
Julia frowned. “Are you okay?"
Sylvia forced a smile. “I just miss school."
“Soon," Julia promised. “Everything will settle soon."
---
Back in her room, Sylvia stared at her phone again.
Michael had sent a photo from the library bench.
> [Michael]: Reserved this spot. Thought maybe you'd show.
She typed and deleted her reply three times.
> [Sylvia]: I want to. So badly. But I'm caught in something I can't explain.
She didn't send it.
She powered off the phone, placed it in her drawer, and shut it like a casket.
---
At midnight, Albert stood outside her door.
He didn't knock.
“Sylvia."
She stayed silent.
“Open it. Or I will."
She rose slowly, unlocked it.
He stepped inside, inspecting the room like an asset. “I hear you've been distracted."
She said nothing.
“I don't like that."
She crossed her arms. “You don't like a lot of things."
He smirked. “But I always get what I want."
“I'm not a transaction."
“You are, actually," he said. “A very expensive one."
She stepped back. “If you touch me—"
“I won't. Tonight," he said. “Not until you're pregnant. But don't mistake patience for mercy."
“You're disgusting."
He leaned closer. “I'm necessary."
Then he left.
---
In the silence he left behind, she retrieved her phone again, turned it on.
One message from Michael.
> [Michael]: I don't know what's going on, but if you need help—say the word.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then she powered it off again.
For his safety.
---
The next morning, Camila handed her a pale blue dress.
“You'll wear this tonight. Albert is hosting a private dinner. The press will be nearby. Smile when spoken to."
Sylvia took the fabric.
“What happens if I refuse?"
Camila smiled thinly. “Then Julia suffers. Or Michael does. Your pick."
---
That night, Sylvia stood beside Albert at the dinner table, silent and poised like set dressing.
He leaned in and whispered, “You're learning."
She smiled for the cameras.
Inside, she burned.
- Writer
