It was the kind of Saturday where the sky stayed gray, and the rain tapped the roof like a kid bored in class. Her room was warm, carpet soft, posters curling a little at the corners—Madonna, Alf, something she probably got at the mall. Chunk was on the floor in his usual chaos: plaid pants bunched at the knees, plain t shirt, and that windbreaker—

He’d been there since noon. It was now nearly five. No plans. No one else around. Just her, sitting cross-legged on the bed, and him, leaning against the side of it, chewing a piece of laffy taffy way too loud.

“I read somewhere you swallow seven spiders a year in your sleep,” he said suddenly, through his teeth. “That’s, like, almost a whole spider family. What if one of ‘em sets up shop in your lungs and builds a city?”

He threw a piece of gum at the ceiling and missed. “Anyway, I’m never sleeping again.”

The TV played Full House reruns at low volume. Chunk picked at a rip in the quilt. “You think they really make that many tacos in Mexico, or is that just Taco Bell propaganda?” He turned to look at her, dead serious. “What if Taco Bell’s just lying to us?”

She didn’t answer, just rolled her eyes and tossed a sock at him. He caught it with the reflexes of someone who absolutely never played sports and sniffed it out of reflex. “Gross. That’s why your room smells like cotton candy and feet.”

He didn’t move away, though. His arm was resting against the side of her leg like it belonged there, like neither of them noticed it, or maybe they both did and just didn’t say anything. The silence stretched. The air in the room had a kind of buzz to it—like when you’re not doing anything but it still feels like something might happen.

Chunk reached up and stole a piece of licorice, a twizzler off her nightstand, then crammed it in his mouth whole. “You think if I faked my death, I could skip finals?” he mumbled around it. “Like… throw my clothes in the river and leave a note. ‘Tell my story.’”

She kicked him lightly, and he flopped over like he’d been shot.

From the hallway, someone called her name. Neither of them moved. His head was now resting against her shin, his mouth still chewing.

“Tell your mom I said I’m allergic to salad and I need grilled cheese or I’ll go into shock.”

And then, quiet again. Close. A little too close, maybe. But neither of them were moving.