Chapter Eight
Julian checked his phone first.
He didn't mean to. It was one of those unconscious movements, like scratching an itch you didn't realize you had until your hand was already there, and the screen lit up just long enough for me to catch the name at the top before he locked it again.
Hannah.
I pretended not to notice. He pretended it hadn't happened. We were very good at that.
"Walk you home," he said, adjusting the strap of his bag like this was a routine decision and not something he'd just chosen without thinking.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
That was how it always went. Offers made without obligation, accepted without ceremony.
Halfway down the block, his phone buzzed again. He ignored it this time. I noticed that too, and still didn't say anything, because some things were better left floating where they were.
"You're quiet," he said.
"So are you."
"Touché."
We walked a little longer, the silence comfortable but alert, like it was waiting for someone to poke it. A group of teenagers passed us, laughing loudly, one of them bumping into Julian's shoulder without apologizing, and Julian instinctively reached out, steadying me even though I hadn't stumbled.
"Careful," he said.
"I was fine."
"I know."
His hand dropped back to his side like it had never been there, and we kept walking.
At my building, I stopped, turning to face him. "You sure you're not late for your very intentional evening."
He smiled. "I still have time."
"For now."
He laughed. "You sound like her."
"That's upsetting."
"Extremely."
His phone buzzed again. This time he looked at it, sighed, and shook his head.
"She's persistent."
"Is that a complaint," I asked.
"No," he said honestly. "Just an observation."
"Careful," I teased. "She knocked emotionally."
He laughed, really laughed, head tipping back for a second, and that sound did something to the moment, softened it, reminded me why we worked so well together without trying.
"I'll text you later," he said.
"About what."
"Nothing," he replied. "Something."
I smiled. "Compelling."
He stepped back, hesitated like he might say something else, then didn't, lifting a hand in a small wave before turning away.
Upstairs, I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my shoes, phone already in my hand before I realized I'd picked it up.
No messages.
I set it down on the counter and busied myself with nothing, tidying things that didn't need tidying, checking the fridge like it might have changed its mind since morning.
My phone buzzed.
Julian.
Made it home.
I smiled at the screen.
Alive and well?
Barely.
A pause.
She's funny, he typed.
I noticed.
Another pause.
You'd like her.
I already do, I replied. In small doses.
He sent a laughing emoji. Then nothing.
Across town, Hannah flopped onto Julian's couch like she owned it, kicking her shoes off and grabbing a cushion, already comfortable, already settled.
"You're distracted," she said.
He glanced up. "I'm listening."
"You say that a lot."
She turned onto her side, propping her head up with one hand. "You text her more than you text me."
He didn't deny it.
"That's not a problem," she continued, studying him. "Yet."
Julian frowned. "What's that supposed to mean."
"It means," she said lightly, "I don't like competing with ghosts."
"She's not a ghost."
Hannah smiled. "Exactly."
Back in my apartment, my phone buzzed again.
You still awake? Julian asked.
Barely, I replied. You?
Same.
We sat in our separate spaces, miles apart, both staring at screens, both smiling at nothing in particular, both pretending that notifications didn't mean anything more than they ever had.
Outside, the city carried on, loud and busy and full of people choosing things without realizing it, and somewhere between unread messages and unanswered questions, the quiet fantasy of us, unchanged and yet not quite the same, stretched a little further, settled a little deeper. And no one said a word about it.