We were back at the apartment. After the chaos and intensity of the canteen, the silence of our home felt heavier than usual.
Fran was sprawled across the sofa, channel-surfing with a bag of snacks in his lap. His feet were stretched out, his posture looking completely relaxed—almost as if nothing had happened today. I was on the floor, my textbooks spread out on the coffee table as I tried to focus on my assignment.
If someone looked through the window, they'd think things were still the same. We had spent thousands of nights exactly like this over the years. We still sought out each other's presence, even now. But the difference was the silence. It wasn't the comfortable quiet of the past; it was a wall.
What does Fran actually want? Every time I try to explain myself, every time I try to bridge the gap, he walks away before I can get a word out. He refuses to listen, yet he refuses to leave.
The frustration made my throat feel dry. I moved to stand up, but my foot caught on the edge of the rug. I lost my balance, stumbling backward. I braced for the floor, but instead, I slammed into something firm and warm.
Fran had reached out, catching me by the waist.
The position was... dangerous. I was pinned against him on the sofa, our faces only inches apart. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin and the ghost of his warm breath against my lips. I looked into his eyes and saw him freeze. His pupils were blown wide, and for the first time, he looked genuinely nervous. He was staring at me with an intensity that made my skin tingle.
My heart hammered against my ribs, the sound so loud I was sure he could hear it. The air between us felt electric, charged with a thousand things we hadn't said. Panicked by the feeling, I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping again in my haste to straighten my shirt.
"Sorry," I stammered, my face burning.
Fran stayed frozen in place, staring at the spot where I had just been. I didn't wait for him to recover; I rushed into the kitchen, my hands shaking.
What am I doing? What was that?
I downed a glass of water, trying to cool the heat in my chest. When I finally walked back into the living room, I sat back down on the floor, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my textbook. I couldn't look at him.
A moment later, I heard the sofa creak as Fran shifted from lying down to sitting up. He let out a small, awkward cough.
"Ahem. Ahm."
He was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. I looked back at him, my expression a giant question mark.
"Sorry," he muttered, looking everywhere but at me. "About my friend. What he said today."
I blinked, stunned. The "Apologetic Fran" was a version I hadn't seen in months. "Oh. It's okay. Don't mind it."
He didn't say another word. He just stood up, avoided my gaze, and disappeared into our bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
I sat there in the silence, my assignment completely forgotten. He had apologized. He had caught me. And for a split second on that sofa, he hadn't looked like he hated me at all.
The clock was nearing midnight. I was still buried in research for my assignment, my brain feeling like mush. My stomach let out a loud growl, so I wandered into the kitchen to cook some instant noodles. Just as the water began to bubble, the bedroom door opened.
Fran stood there, staring at the pot for what felt like an eternity. He looked frozen. I knew that look—he'd smelled the familiar scent. Back then, midnight noodles were our "thing."
"You want some?" I asked softly. "I'll make another pack."
I expected him to ignore me, but after a tense silence, he gave a slow, curt nod. He walked to the dining table and sat down.
My heart did a little somersault. I couldn't stop the wide smile from spreading across my face as I energetically tore open another package.
Maybe he's finally opening up again, I thought. We ate in silence, the only sound being the clinking of forks against bowls, but I didn't care. For the first time in months, the air didn't feel like ice.