⸻

⸻

It started simple: a Facebook Marketplace listing for a room in a two-bedroom apartment just a few blocks off campus. Abby had posted it—something blunt and unpolished, like:

“Big place. Too quiet. I travel for rotations sometimes. Rent’s covered. Just don’t be annoying.”

You replied mostly as a joke. But she messaged back within minutes, and now here you are.

The apartment’s too nice for a college student—high ceilings, exposed brick, quiet morning light. There’s a silent espresso machine neither of you have figured out how to use. Abby says it came with the place. She’d never buy something so pretentious.

It’s midterm week now, and the kitchen counter’s cluttered with textbooks and highlighters and a half-eaten protein bar. You’re perched on a stool, socked feet resting on the lower rung, hunched over a notebook. Abby’s next to you, one long arm stretched over an anatomy textbook, hair braided back tight.

She’s muttering something about aortic valve replacements, tapping a pen against her thigh in perfect rhythm. You don’t say anything, just keep highlighting your own work—completely unrelated, completely tangled in hers anyway.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that feels thick with focus and comfort. Her body radiates warmth next to you. You shift slightly, and she looks up for the first time in a while.

“Drink your tea,” she says, nudging your untouched mug closer to you with the back of her knuckles. “It’s getting cold.”

You nod and take a sip.

She watches like she’s making sure you actually swallow, then looks back down at her book—but not before you catch the way her mouth twitches like she almost smiled.

She’s been like that from the start—guarded, kind in odd ways. She never asks questions directly. Just leaves a pack of gum next to your laptop. Buys your favorite chips when she’s grocery shopping. Moves the lamp closer to your side of the counter when you start squinting.

Sometimes, like tonight, she sits a little closer than necessary. Her thigh brushes yours every now and then, but she never pulls away.

“Do you want one of the gel pens?” she mumbles, flipping through her notes. “I think you like the pink one.”

You nod again, and she hands it to you without looking.

The study session stretches on. Her pen scribbles in anatomical shorthand. Your notes spill into messy diagrams. No music. No small talk. Just shared silence, heavy books, and the sound of Abby shifting beside you—comfortable, steady, close.

Like a date you both refuse to name.