6 close quarters
Thursday settles in quieter than the rest of the week, not because anything around me is actually calmer but because I've started adjusting to it, finding a rhythm in the chaos that makes it easier to move through without feeling like I'm constantly catching up, and by the time I'm back in the room after classes and a long study session with Nola, I feel that familiar pull toward something that isn't structured or scheduled or academic.
I drop my bag onto the chair, kick my shoes off, and reach under my bed for my guitar without really thinking about it, because it's one of the few things that still feels like mine in a way that isn't affected by where I am or who I'm sharing space with, and when I sit back against the wall, legs stretched out across the bed, fingers finding the strings automatically, something in me finally loosens.
I don't play anything specific at first, just letting the sound fill the room in a soft, steady way, something simple and repetitive that lets my mind settle instead of spiral, and for a few minutes it's just that, just me and the quiet and the rhythm of something familiar.
The door opens behind me.
I don't stop.
I don't even turn right away, just keep playing like I didn't notice, even though I did, because I'm not about to make it a thing, not when we've both been careful about not making anything a thing since Sunday.
"Didn't know you played," Jackson says, his voice casual, like it doesn't matter.
I glance over my shoulder briefly before looking back down at the strings. "Didn't know you paid attention."
"I don't," he says immediately, and I can hear him dropping something onto his bed. "Just hard to ignore."
"That sounds like a you problem."
"Yeah, probably," he mutters.
I almost smile, but I keep my focus on the guitar, fingers moving a little more confidently now that I know he's there, not because I'm playing for him but because I'm suddenly more aware of how it sounds, which is annoying and something I don't want to think about too much.
He doesn't say anything else.
I can feel him in the room though, the shift in the space that happens when someone else is there, even if they're quiet, and after a few seconds I glance over again without meaning to.
He's on his bed, phone in his hand, looking like he's completely focused on it.
Not paying attention.
Obviously.
I look back down, but something feels off, like the silence isn't as empty as it was before, and a few seconds later I glance again, quicker this time.
His eyes flick away from me back to his phone like it didn't happen.
I raise an eyebrow slightly.
"Thought you weren't paying attention," I say, still playing.
"I'm not," he replies.
"Then why were you staring?"
"I wasn't staring."
"You were literally staring."
He exhales through his nose. "You're playing in the middle of the room, Coleman, where else am I supposed to look?"
I stop for a second, then narrow my eyes at him. "Your phone."
"I was on my phone," he says.
"You were not."
He finally looks up properly, one eyebrow raised. "You keeping track now or what?"
"Apparently I have to."
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head before dropping his gaze back down. "You missed a chord, by the way."
I blink. "You're definitely listening."
"Yeah," he says without looking up this time. "Hard not to when you're right there."
"That's not what you said earlier."
"I changed my mind."
"That was fast."
"I'm adaptable," he mutters.
I watch him for a second longer than I should, then look back down at the guitar, but my playing shifts slightly, less automatic now, more intentional, because even if I don't want to admit it, I'm aware of him listening.
And that changes it.
I play longer than I planned to, until my fingers start to ache slightly and the room feels different again, quieter in a way that isn't empty but settled, like we've both adjusted to being in it together without forcing anything.
I set the guitar down beside me and slide off the bed, stretching my hands.
"Done?" Jackson asks.
"For now."
He hums something that might be acknowledgment, still on his phone, and I don't push it, just grab my notebook and sit at my desk, flipping it open, trying to focus even though my mind feels softer than it did before.
Time passes quietly. Then-
"Are you serious right now?" Jackson mutters from his bed, frustration clear in his voice.
I glance over.
He's sitting up now, notebook open, pen in his hand like it personally offended him.
"What the fuck is this?" he adds, louder, flipping the page.
I bite my lip.
Then I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it.
He looks up immediately, narrowing his eyes. "You wanna explain what's so funny?"
"You," I say, still smiling slightly. "What are you even doing?"
"Homework," he says flatly, like that should be obvious.
"Clearly."
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "English was supposed to be a walk in the park."
That makes me laugh again, softer this time but still there.
"It is," I say.
He stares at me. "That sounded judgmental as hell."
"It wasn't," I reply, standing up before I overthink it. "It just... usually is."
"Well this is not," he says, gesturing at the notebook. "This shit makes no sense."
I hesitate for a second, then walk over anyway, sitting on the edge of his bed like it's not a big deal even though I'm very aware that it kind of is.
"Let me see."
He slides the notebook toward me, watching me like he's expecting me to either laugh again or tell him he's screwed.
I scan the page.
It's basic.
"You actually don't get this?" I say before I can stop myself.
He glares at me. "Wow. Thanks. Super helpful."
"I didn't mean it like that," I say quickly, leaning forward slightly. "It's just-okay, look."
I point to the paragraph, explaining it the way I understand it, breaking it down into smaller parts, trying to make it make sense without overcomplicating it.
He watches me for a second.
Then frowns. "You lost me already."
I blink. "I just started."
"Exactly."
I exhale slowly. "Okay. Slower."
I restart, simpler this time, walking him through it step by step, watching his face for any sign that it's clicking.
He nods.
Then his attention drifts.
His eyes flick from the page to me, then back, then somewhere else entirely.
"Are you listening?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"You're not."
"I am."
"You just asked me the same thing again."
He frowns. "Did I?"
"Yes."
"Fuck," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "This is so stupid."
"It's not stupid," I say, a little more firmly. "You just need to focus."
"I am focusing," he says, but he sounds more frustrated than convincing.
"You're literally not."
He leans back slightly, exhaling. "I hate this shit."
I look at him for a second, really look this time, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's trying to brush it off but clearly isn't.
"Okay," I say, softer now. "We'll take it slower."
He glances at me, something shifting slightly in his expression, less defensive.
"Fine," he says.
I nod and turn back to the notebook, starting again, even simpler, even slower, keeping my voice steady even when he interrupts or gets distracted again, even when it takes longer than it should.
And somewhere in the middle of it, it stops feeling like I'm just helping him.
It feels like something else, mike we're actually doing something together.
Even if he still doesn't fully get it.
"Still hate English," he mutters eventually, leaning back against the wall.
"I noticed."
"Thought it was supposed to be easy."
"For some people, it is."
He glances at me. "You."
"Me."
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
"Don't get used to this," he adds after a second.
"Helping you?"
"Yeah."
I shrug slightly, standing up. "Wouldn't dream of it."
But when I sit back down at my desk, I can still feel it, that shift in the room again, subtle but there, like something just changed without either of us saying it out loud.
And this time, I don't try to fix it.