Easy to Talk To

Devin realized he was in trouble the moment he started counting her eyelashes.

He was supposed to be proofreading her ethics paper. That’s why they were in the library. But somewhere between paragraph three and paragraph four, he’d stopped tracking her argument and started tracking the way the light caught in her eyes when she was excited about something.

“…so then my professor says the whole premise collapses if I don’t define ‘harm’ clearly enough, which I thought I did, but apparently I’m actually the dumbest person alive—are you even listening?

Devin blinked. “Yeah,” he said reflexively.

Maya narrowed her eyes. “Okay. What did I just say?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Something about… harm?”

She groaned and dropped her forehead onto her notebook. “You’re useless.”

“I got the keyword,” he protested. “That’s, like, fifty percent.”

“That is not how listening works,” she said into the page.

He laughed, the sound a little too quick. “Fine. Start again. I’m focused now.”

She lifted her head, pushing her dark hair out of her face with ink‑stained fingers. Her ponytail was falling apart, coffee stain on her sleeve, and eyes bright with frustration. She looked tired and wired at the same time.

Devin forced himself to look at his laptop instead of at her.

“Okay,” Maya said, tapping the paragraph. “I’m arguing that free expression isn’t absolute if it creates measurable harm, but he keeps saying I’m conflating emotional discomfort with actual harm, and I’m like, sir, have you been on the internet?”

“Mm,” Devin said.

“Devin.”

He dragged his eyes back up. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m listening. Promise.”

She squinted. “You do this thing.”

“What thing?”

“You look at me like…” She waved a hand. “Like I just solved world peace when I’m clearly having a breakdown about word counts.”

He shrugged, feeling his ears warm. “Maybe I just believe in you.”

“Cringe,” she said, but he could tell she was trying not to smile. “Help me rephrase this sentence.” She read it aloud. Devin listened this time, forcing himself to stay with her words instead of the way her mouth shaped them.

“It’s good,” he said when she finished. “Just swap these clauses so the definition comes first.”

She scratched out a few words and rewrote them. “Better?”

“Yeah.” He said, "Now you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

She sighed and dropped her pen, rolling onto her back on the bench, so her head almost touched his thigh. “You’re good at this,” she said, staring at the ceiling.

“At what?”

“Making my brain feel less like static.”

He swallowed. “Should I put that on my resume?”

“I’m serious,” she said, tilting her head to look at him upside down. “You’re just… easy to talk to.”

There it was.

Easy.

Devin smiled, keeping his gaze down so she wouldn’t see too much.

“Don’t make it weird,” she said, lightly kicking his shin.

Too late, he thought.

They’d fallen into the habit of “doing homework” together sometime around midterms. One shared class turned into one group project, one late‑night panic, and then somehow into this: some nights the library, some nights his place, and some nights hers. The location changed. The routine didn’t.

That night, it was her couch.

Her apartment was a little lived‑in, a little messy in intentional ways. A blanket half off the back of the couch, a stack of non-class books on the coffee table, and a candle that claimed to smell like “autumn forest” but really just smelled like cinnamon and something floral.

They’d put on a movie “for background noise.” Twenty minutes in, neither of them had opened a textbook.

On screen, a character said a line that was supposed to be serious but landed somewhere between ridiculous and sad. Maya tossed popcorn into her mouth and missed; it bounced off her cheek and into her lap.

“Tragic,” Devin said.

“Shut up,” she replied, popping it into her mouth anyway. Then she shifted, lifting her legs and dropping them across his lap without asking. He adjusted without thinking, like his body had practiced that exact movement for months.

“You know what our problem is?” she said.

His heart did something stupid. “Our problem?”

She gestured between them with the hand not holding the bowl. “Yeah. You and me. Platonic losers extraordinaire.”

He snorted. “That’s harsh.”

“It’s accurate,” she said. “We hang out too much.”

“Is that… a problem?” he asked lightly.

“Yes,” she said. “Objectively.”

“How?”

“Because,” she said, sitting up as if explaining something obvious, “if I meet a guy and have to be like, ‘Oh, by the way, I spend most of my free time watching movies and doing homework with my guy best friend,’ he’s gonna assume you’re my boyfriend.”

Devin looked at the TV so he wouldn’t look at her. “I mean, he might assume I’m gay.”

“But you’re not, are you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Exactly. Then he ghosts me. Or doesn’t even try because he thinks I’m taken.”

She sighed dramatically.

“We are,” she declared, “scaring the hoes away.”

Devin choked on nothing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, grinning. “We’re a situationship in the eyes of the public, and it’s wrecking my game.”

He forced a laugh. “Your game is fine.”

“My game is nonexistent,” she said, flopping her arm over her eyes. “Because every guy assumes I’m already with you.”

A tiny, traitorous part of him liked the sound of that.

He crushed it immediately.

“Tragic,” he echoed, because joking was easier than saying, I wouldn’t mind if they kept assuming that.

“Exactly,” she said. “We are sabotaging each other.”

“Each other” implied symmetry. Equal loss. Devin swallowed that thought with another handful of popcorn.

“We could hang out less,” he said, aiming for casual and missing.

She dropped her arm to squint at him. “Ew. No. Don’t be dumb.”

“Right,” he said. “Terrible idea.”

She smiled, satisfied. “See? We’re stuck with each other. Unfortunately for the hoes.”

He smiled back, feeling something tight and complicated coil a little tighter in his chest.

Unfortunately for the hoes.

Unfortunately for him.

By the time Halloween rolled around, he’d almost convinced himself he could live with it.

Almost.

“Come on,” Maya said, standing in her doorway with one hand on her hip and a plastic costume‑store bag in the other. “You can’t be lame on Halloween.”

“I’m not lame,” Devin said. “I’m just not—”

“You’re trying to skip a party to finish a paper due next week,” she said. “That’s lame behavior.”

“It’s called being responsible.”

“It’s called being boring,” she countered. “Now get in here; I need help.”

He stepped into her bathroom and stopped. The counter was covered in makeup palettes, brushes, a bottle of fake blood, and two torn‑open costume bags. One had a vaguely medical logo. The other just said “Victim (Unisex)” in bold letters.

“We’re going to look like we died tragically,” she said. “It’ll be hot.”

“Interesting definition of hot,” he said.

“Relax,” she added, already rolling up his sleeves. “It’s not a couple’s costume.”

He laughed too quickly. “Didn’t think it was.”

She popped the cap off the fake blood and gestured at the tub. “Stand there.”

He did, mostly because she’d already nudged him back against the tile. The light was bright and unforgiving, reflecting them in the mirror: him in a white T‑shirt he’d resigned himself to sacrifice, her in a tank top and shorts, hair pulled up messily.

“Okay,” she said, lifting the bottle. “Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you at all.”

“You should,” she said. “I’m an artist.” She grinned and tipped the bottle. Cold, sticky red slid over his shoulder and down his chest.

“Jesus—”

“Hold still,” she said, laughing. “You look sick.”

She stepped closer, dabbing at the blood with a sponge, smearing it to make it look less like a spill and more like a wound. Her face was close enough that he could see freckles he usually only noticed in sunlight.

“Stop breathing weird,” she murmured.

“I am breathing extremely normally.”

“You’re doing the speech‑breathing thing again.” He swallowed, which probably didn’t help.

“Okay, your turn,” she said, pressing the bottle into his hand. “Make me look like I survived something traumatic.”

He hesitated. “I feel deeply underqualified.”

“Fake it till you make it,” she said, tugging the strap of her tank top aside to bare more shoulder. “Go for it.”

He poured a little onto his fingers and touched her skin.

It was warm.

He tried to focus on the pattern the blood should make, but his brain cataloged everything else instead: goosebumps under his fingertips and the tiny hitch in her breath.

“Too gentle,” she said. “Commit.”

“Right,” he said, his voice rough. He added more, letting it drip toward her collarbone.

“Okay, that’s actually kind of perfect,” she said, checking the mirror. “In a good way.”

“Guess I’m an artist too.”

She laughed, then frowned at his shirt. “It’s still too clean,” she said. “Get back in the tub.”

“What?”

“Trust the process,” she said, yanking the curtain aside.

He stepped in. She followed, closing it halfway so they were cocooned in tile and plastic and harsh light.

“This is absurd,” he said.

“This is commitment,” she corrected.

She raised the bottle again. For a second, he thought about stepping back, saying something, and breaking the spell. Instead, he stood there while she poured another line of fake blood over his shoulder, watching it run in rivulets down his chest.

She laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls. He took the bottle and tipped it gently over her arm. The blood streaked down, weaving between freckles.

“Okay, this is officially a crime scene,” she said.

“Mission accomplished.”

They both went still.

They were too close. He could feel the heat of her, the faint stickiness of drying fake blood where their arms almost brushed. In the mirror, they looked like some tragic pair from a horror movie—red, ridiculous, and entirely too intimate for something that was technically a joke.

“Wait,” she said softly.

Her hand rose, fingertips brushing just below his jaw as she smeared a line of red there. Devin stopped breathing.

Her touch lingered half a second longer than it had to. Then she stepped back, dropping her hand.

“Okay,” she said brightly. “Now we’re done.”

The moment dissolved, wiped away as easily as the fake blood would be later.

He stepped out of the tub, lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with the smell of corn syrup and dye.

It took another party to break him.

Not a big one. Just a cramped apartment, bad lighting, people drifting in and out of the kitchen. He wasn’t sure why he’d come. Habit, maybe. Or because Maya had said, “You’re going, right?” in that way that made “no” feel less like a decision and more like a betrayal.

He found her without meaning to.

She was across the room, talking to a guy he’d never seen before. Tall, easy smile, hands in his pockets as if he belonged everywhere. Maya laughed at something he said, her head tipping back slightly.

Devin knew that laugh. It still slowed something in him.

The guy leaned closer. She didn’t pull away. Devin looked down into his cup.

“You good?” A voice asked, his friend Marcus appearing at his elbow like he’d been summoned by the tension in Devin’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” Devin said.

Marcus followed his gaze, then made a small, noncommittal sound.

“You ever gonna tell her?” Marcus asked, not unkindly.

Devin let out a short laugh. “Tell her what?”

Marcus gave him a look that said, "Don't insult both of us." Devin stared into his drink like it might offer an answer.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he said.

“Sure,” Marcus said lightly. "Is that why you look like someone just canceled your future?”

Devin didn’t respond. Across the room, the guy touched Maya’s arm. Quick. Casual. Exactly the way she touched Devin all the time.

It looked different from here. More loaded.

Devin’s throat felt tight.

He thought about how long he’d been waiting—for the right moment, for a sign, for anything that would make saying it feel less like stepping off a ledge.

The party noise swelled and receded around him. Marcus nudged his shoulder. “Dude. At some point, not telling her is still a choice.”

Devin swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

They walked back to campus together later, like they always did. Except this time, they weren’t alone.

The guy from the party—Kale, according to his shouted introduction—had fallen into step with them as they left, hands in his pockets like he’d always been there.

“We actually have a lot in common,” Maya said, nudging Devin’s arm. “We argued about horror remakes for, like, forty minutes.”

Kale laughed. “I won.”

“You absolutely did not,” she shot back.

Devin managed a smile. “Riveting.”

They cut through side streets he knew by muscle memory. The air had turned colder, with breath fogging in small clouds. Their footsteps echoed against quiet houses.

Maya walked in the middle, her shoulder brushing Devin’s on one side and Kale’s on the other. From a distance, they probably looked like three friends heading home from a party.

From where Devin was standing, it felt like watching his own role shrink in real time.

“So you both go here?” Kale asked.

“Yeah,” Maya said. “Same major. We suffer together.”

“She copies my notes,” Devin said.

“I improve his notes,” she corrected.

Kale smiled. “That’s cute.”

Devin’s chest tightened at the word.

They reached the edge of campus quicker than Devin wanted. The path split: one way toward his place and the other toward the off‑campus apartments.

Maya slowed.

“Okay,” she said, turning toward Kale. “You’re that way, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, pointing. “Just across.”

“I’ll walk you,” she said easily.

Devin opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Cool if I—?” she asked, looking at him now.

“Yeah,” he said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’m just heading straight back.”

“You sure?” she said.

He forced a shrug. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Text me when you get home,” she said automatically.

“Same,” he replied.

Kale lifted a hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

“Yeah,” Devin said. “You too.”

Maya gave him a quick, familiar smile, the same one she’d given him a thousand times at the end of nights like this.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

He hesitated half a second too long.

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”

She didn’t seem to notice the crack in it.

“Don’t fall in a ditch,” she called, already turning with Kale toward the crossing.

“No promises,” he said.

They walked away together, voices blending into something he couldn’t make out. At the corner, Maya said something that made Kale laugh, then lightly touched his elbow as they crossed.

Devin stood there longer than he needed to, watching their silhouettes shrink. Eventually, he turned toward his own place. Without her next to him, the route felt unfamiliar. Lampposts hummed, pooling light in circles on the sidewalk. He stepped through each one alone.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Part of him hoped it was Maya, but it was Marcus. Reluctantly he answered

“Yo. You alive?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah. Walking home.”

“You head back with her?”

He stared at the ground. “She’s with that Kale guy,” he finally said. “They live the same way.”

"Ah" came through. Then, after a pause, "You good?”

Devin looked up at the empty path ahead.

Streetlights. Brick. The distant glow of dorm windows. The kind of quiet that made his thoughts louder.

“Yeah,” he lied into the phone. “I’m fine.”

He hung up the phone and slid it back into his pocket and kept walking, the want pressing against his ribs with every step—still there, still unspoken, with nowhere to go. He went the rest of the way home without checking it again.

In his room, the silence hit harder. No movie humming in the background, no half-finished assignment between them, no Maya sprawling across his bed to complain about her day. Just the glow of his desk lamp and the faint noise of someone’s TV through the wall.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Maya: “Home! Eli walked me up. He’s actually really sweet lol."

A second message followed almost immediately.

Maya: “Thanks for coming tonight. It’s always more fun when you’re there.”

Devin stared at the screen until the words blurred. He typed slowly.

Devin: “Glad you got back safe.”

He didn’t mention Kale. He didn’t mention the walk. He didn’t mention the way the space beside him on the sidewalk had never felt so empty.

He set the phone face down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the want sit in his chest like a weight. He had no idea how long it would take to fade, or if it would.