Chapter Twenty Nora
It’s been a week of shocks.
The first one comes during one of our fifteen-minute breaks.
Kieran arrives a little late, his steps light against the pavement. He pulls out his chair and, without thinking about it, nudges it slightly to the side before sitting, leaving a narrow gap between us.
I’ve seen it before. Every day. Every single time.
Today, I don’t ignore it.
“Why do you do that?” My gaze stays on the gap between our chairs, on the distance he creates without drawing attention to it.
He looks up, caught off guard, his brow pulling together. “Do what?”
I tilt my head slightly toward his chair. “That. You always move it away from mine before you sit. You’ve done it since the beginning.”
His gaze follows mine. He looks at the gap, at the line of space he’s created, then down at his hands resting in his lap.
For a second, I think he’s going to let it pass. Let the moment move on.
He doesn’t.
“You flinch.”
The words come out low, almost hesitant.
They hit harder than I expected. Everything in me locks up. My chest tightens. My body stills, every instinct pulling inward at once.
He doesn’t look at me when he continues, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s subtle. Easy to miss.” He pauses. “But it’s there. Whenever someone gets a little too close. You catch it, try to stop it… but it still happens.”
My fingers curl into my palms before I can stop them, nails pressing into skin.
I’ve spent years smoothing that reaction away, burying it, teaching myself how to hide it. I thought I had succeeded. I thought it belonged to me alone, something no one else could read.
He finally lifts his eyes, just for a second, enough to meet mine. “I didn’t want to be another reason for it.”
I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know what to say. Because I’m still stuck on the fact that he saw it at all.
The words stay where they fell, between us, unpicked, unexamined. But the space between our chairs feels different now.
The second shock comes in class two days later.
By now, everything about this place runs on habit. Same seat. Same notebook. Same distance from everyone else. I come in, sit down, listen, write, and leave the moment it’s over.
A year of that.
No deviations. No surprises.
Until now.
I am slipping my notebook into my bag, my fingers moving through the ritual with a mindless, mechanical rhythm. I’m already halfway to the exit in my mind, bracing for the cool air of the hallway, when I hear a voice.
“Nora?”
It takes me a second to register it. I don’t usually hear my name here.
I look up.
Familiar faces, though I’ve never spoken to them beyond the occasional glance. Same row most evenings. The one with the yellow nose ring, a tiny, sun-bright stud. The tall one who’s always borrowing pens. Another with an open, easy expression.
“Hey,” the girl with the yellow nose ring says, offering a quick smile. “So—this is kind of random.”
I pause, my hand still resting on my bag, waiting for the rest.
“We’re going to watch a movie on Saturday,” she continues, glancing briefly at the others before looking back at me. “One of our friends booked an extra ticket by mistake. We thought maybe you’d want to come?”
It takes a second for it to register.
Me?
I don’t talk in class. I don’t stay back. I don’t join conversations. I leave the moment the lecture ends, every single time.
I’ve made sure of that.
So why..?
“Are you sure?” The question slips out before I can catch it. My fingers tighten slightly around the strap of my bag. “I mean—are you sure you want to take me?” My gaze flickers between them, searching for hesitation, for the moment they take it back.
They look at each other, confused by the question. “Yeah,” the tall one says right away.
“Of course,” the girl with the nose ring adds, her tone light, as if the answer should have been obvious.
My chest loosens, just a little. A tight pull I hadn’t noticed loosens enough for me to feel it. It’s the same feeling I get at Maeve’s place—that sense that I’m allowed to be there, that I don’t have to justify my presence.
That I can just exist in the space.
“Okay,” I say. It comes out softer than I expect, almost startled. “I’d like to.” That surprises me more than anything else.
Because I mean it.
“Great,” the third girl finally says, already pulling out her phone. “We’ll text you the details.”
They start heading toward the door, falling back into their own conversation, talking over each other about showtimes and snacks and who’s bringing what.
But the girl who spoke first lingers for a second. “It’ll be nice to finally hang out,” she says, glancing back at me. “You always leave right after class.” Her smile tilts, a little uneven, but warm. “So this’ll be fun.”
My mouth curves, real and unforced. “Yeah,” I say. The word comes easier now. Lighter. “It will be.”
She nods once, satisfied, and heads after the others.
I stand there for a moment after they leave. Then I finish packing. Slower than usual. I zip my bag. Adjust the strap over my shoulder. Look around the room without rushing to escape it.
Fun.
I walk out last, the word still sitting with me, unfamiliar and new.
The final shock almost knocks me off balance.
I’ve been coming here long enough that Maeve’s parents’ house no longer feels unfamiliar.
I know the step near the top of the staircase that creaks if you put your weight on the edge.
I know the kitchen cupboard that sticks unless you lift it slightly before pulling.
I know Maeve’s dad hums the same off-key tune while chopping vegetables, and that her mom hears it every time, even when she pretends she doesn’t, a private smile tugging at her mouth.
I know which chair at the table is mine.
I know that Maeve’s mom will cut the bread unevenly, apologize every single time, and then laugh when no one cares. I know Maeve’s dad will reach over at some point and refill my water before I even realize it’s low.
And I know, with absolute clarity, that I’m not allowed to work here.
It doesn’t matter how often I offer. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been part of this space. If I stand up to clear a plate, someone steps in, takes it from my hands, and guides me back to my seat.
“Sit.”
Always the same word.
Always kind.
Always final.
I argued at first. Tried to insist. Tried to earn my place here in the only way I understood how.
It didn’t work. So I stopped.
And somewhere along the way, I learned something I’m still adjusting to—that here, I don’t have to earn anything.
Myra drops into the chair across from me, already grinning, energy spilling out of her.
“Okay,” she says, leaning in. “Would you rather.”
I feel my mouth lift before I think about it. It’s become routine between us. Easy. Light.
“Go on,” I say.
“Would you rather travel somewhere new every year,” she begins, “or stay in the same place forever?”
I don’t answer right away.
The old answer rises first. The safe one. The one that keeps everything contained and known and manageable.
But that answer doesn’t feel right anymore.
“Travel,” I reply.
I want to make the choice for myself. I want to travel, to step into it and see how it feels, to decide from experience instead of fear. And if it doesn’t fit me, if it doesn’t feel right, I want to be the one who walks away from it.
Her brows lift. “Really?”
I nod, more sure of it now that it’s out there.
She scrolls on her phone, already moving to the next. “Okay. Would you rather have a job you love but barely get paid, or a boring job that pays a lot?”
I think about the pieces of my life that are finally mine. The quiet hours. The sense that I’m building something that belongs to me, even if it’s still fragile.
“A job I love.” I don’t hesitate this time. “I’ll figure the rest out.”
Maeve meets my gaze. A flicker of curiosity passes through her, approval in it. I answer with a slight lift of my shoulder.
Myra leans back, thinking. Her eyes glint with mischief. “Okay.” She draws the word out, stretching it thin. Her signature move right before she drops the big one. “Last one.”
I stop mid-reach for my cup.
“Would you rather,” she starts, her voice dropping to a playful murmur, “go on a date with Kieran… or keep pretending you don’t think about him like that?”
Everything inside me stalls.
My mind reaches for something—anything—to fill the space the question opened, and finds nothing there. No hidden thought. No buried realization waiting to surface. Just a blank stretch where an answer should be.
I’ve never thought about Kieran that way.
Not once. Not in passing. Not in the quiet moments when I’m alone. He’s never lived in that part of my mind.
He exists somewhere else. In a place that feels separate from all of that. A place that isn’t complicated.
He’s safe.
He’s safe in a way that never asks anything from me.
He’s someone who sees the parts of me I don’t explain and lets them stay untouched. Someone who sits beside me without filling the space, without turning it into something I have to navigate or survive.
That’s where he exists. That’s all he’s ever been.
The room rushes back in all at once.
The scrape of a chair cuts through too loudly. The clink of cutlery lands harder than it should. Laughter spills out from the kitchen, bright and sharp, grating against a nerve inside me that’s suddenly too aware.
Everything feels closer.
Too close.
My skin feels too aware of everything. The air. The table. The space beside me.
The question sits there, unanswered, stretching out, waiting.
I can feel it pressing in from every side, asking for something—anything.
But there’s nothing to give.
“That’s enough,” Maeve says, voice low but carrying a clear edge.
Myra looks at her, eyes wide. “What? It’s just a—”
“No,” Maeve cuts in. “It’s not.” She reaches over, taps Myra’s shoulder. “Go help Dad with the dessert.”
Myra opens her mouth to argue, hesitates, then sighs, and slides out of her chair. “Fine.”
She disappears into the kitchen.