Chapter 26 Almost Normal
The dining table at Naya’s house was not built for dreaming.
It was narrow, practical, scarred in places from years of hurried meals and folded laundry. Still, I sat there with my laptop open, the screen glowing white and empty like it was waiting for me to decide who I was again.
The cursor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
My fingers hovered over the keys, unsure where to land.
Outside the window, the afternoon moved on without me. A breeze nudged the curtains. Sunlight shifted across the floor in slow, patient increments. Life, apparently, did not need my permission to continue.
I exhaled and tried to focus.
“Loose hinge,” Eli said from the kitchen. “It’s been hanging on by a thread.”
The sound of metal clicking followed, then the soft scrape of wood. He had taken it upon himself to fix a cabinet door that squeaked every time it opened. Naya had laughed about it when she left for work that morning, waving him off like it was nothing.
But Eli never ignored small things.
I glanced toward the kitchen doorway. He stood with his sleeves rolled up, dark locs pulled back, one hand steadying the cabinet while the other tightened a screw. The domestic simplicity of the scene felt almost staged, like a moment lifted from a life that belonged to someone else.
“You don’t have to fix everything,” I said gently.
He didn’t look up.
“I know.”
The hinge stopped squeaking.
For a second, the house was quiet again.
The silence should have felt peaceful. Instead, it felt delicate, like glass.
I turned back to the laptop. The blank screen stared back at me, unimpressed.
The dining chair across from mine scraped softly as Eli pulled it out to grab the screwdriver he had set there earlier. His movement was unhurried, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
Our shoulders nearly brushed.
He froze.
So did I.
The space between us shrank to something thin and electric, charged with all the things neither of us were saying. I could feel the warmth of him without touching him. The subtle shift of his breath. The quiet awareness of how close we were.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Me too,” I replied, though I was not sure what I was apologizing for.
He stepped back first.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
I swallowed and focused on the table again, tracing the grain of the wood with my eyes like it might offer answers.
Eli moved back into the kitchen, returning the screwdriver to the counter. The cabinet door opened and closed silently now, obedient and fixed, as if it had never been broken at all.
“I’ll tell Naya you fixed it,” I said.
He nodded. “She’ll pretend she doesn’t care. Then brag about it later.”
A small smile tugged at my mouth.
The normalcy of it all felt dangerous.
I tried to write again. Words formed in my head, fragile and hesitant, but they refused to settle onto the screen. Every sentence dissolved before it could take shape, like mist in sunlight.
Behind me, Eli rinsed his hands at the sink.
The sound of water was soft. Steady.
When he turned the faucet off, I could sense him standing there, not quite leaving, not quite staying. His presence filled the space without making a sound.
“Need anything?” he asked.
I shook my head before realizing he couldn’t see me.
“No. I’m just… stuck.”
He stepped closer, careful not to crowd me.
“Stuck how?”
I gestured to the screen. “My brain knows what I want to say. My hands refuse to cooperate.”
He leaned over slightly, reading the empty page without comment. The closeness felt different this time. Not accidental. Chosen.
His breath brushed my cheek.
Not intentionally.
Not innocently.
We both noticed.
I straightened quickly, heart thudding louder than it should.
“Sorry,” I said again.
This time, the word felt heavier.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Eli replied. His voice was low, steady. “We’re just… adjusting.”
Adjusting.
To each other.
To proximity.
To the space we kept forgetting was still tender.
From the living room, a burst of cartoon laughter erupted.
Maya.
The sound was bright, carefree, and startlingly out of place against the tension hanging in the air. Her giggle cut through everything else, sharp and sweet, like a reminder of what still mattered.
I glanced toward the couch where she lay sprawled, feet kicking lightly as animated characters bounced across the screen.
For a moment, the world felt normal.
Almost.
Eli followed my gaze. His posture softened instantly.
“She’s got good timing,” he said quietly.
“Always has,” I replied.
The tension in the room eased just enough for me to breathe again.
I closed the laptop halfway, not ready to give up, but not ready to fight the blankness either. My attention drifted back to the small, ordinary details of the house. The faint smell of citrus cleaner. The hum of the refrigerator. The way the afternoon light caught in the dust along the windowsill.
Borrowed normalcy.
But still, normal.
Eli returned to the kitchen and began wiping down the counter, movements slow and deliberate. He did not need to. The space was already clean. This was something else. A way to stay busy without leaving.
Our paths crossed again when I stood to grab my coffee mug from the sink.
This time, our hands brushed.
Just barely.
The contact was brief, accidental, and entirely too loud in the silence that followed. Heat flared where our skin had touched, sharp and undeniable.
Neither of us spoke.
Neither of us moved.
I looked up at him, caught in the quiet intensity of his gaze. His eyes held something unspoken, something restrained, something aching.
Not desire alone.
Fear.
The kind that comes with wanting something badly enough to risk losing it.
“I should check on Maya,” I said softly.
Eli nodded immediately, stepping back without hesitation.
“Yeah. Of course.”
The moment dissolved, but the weight of it lingered in the air, pressing against my ribs.
Maya was still laughing when I reached the living room, eyes glued to the screen, blissfully unaware of the undercurrent running through the house.
I sat beside her, letting her warmth and easy joy ground me.
Behind us, Eli moved quietly, giving us space without truly leaving.
The house settled again.
Not peaceful.
Not tense.
Just suspended.
As Maya’s laughter filled the room, something inside me shifted.
This fragile normalcy.
This quiet companionship.
This almost-life we were standing in.
I wanted it.
Not cautiously.
Not halfway.
Badly.
Badly enough to risk what it might cost.
For the first time in a long while, that risk felt worth considering.