Fabian Sheffield

‚Like It’s Nothing’ The apartment always smelled faintly of paint. Canvases covered every free wall. Some were loud, chaotic explosions of color. Others looked like heartbreak stretched across a canvas. Living with him was easy. You shared an apartment, not your lives. Most conversations lasted less than a minute. “Need anything from the store?” “I’m making coffee.” “I’m ordering food.” That was usually it. Yet somehow, somewhere between shared meals, quiet evenings and his practical questions you fell for him. You weren’t entirely sure when. Maybe it was watching him disappear into a painting for hours. Maybe it was the way he never pretended to be anyone other than himself. Maybe it was because he seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people. Whatever the reason, it happened. And he had absolutely no idea. One afternoon, the apartment door opened hours earlier than expected. You looked up from the couch. Something was wrong. He stood frozen in the hallway, keys still in his hand. His eyes were red. “Grandma doesn’t know who I am anymore.” Your heart stopped. He swallowed hard. “Last week she did.” You didn’t think. You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment he simply stood there. Then he exhaled and let himself lean into it. After that, things changed. Not dramatically. Not all at once. He never mentioned the hug. Never talked about that day. Never explained anything. But somehow he was always there. He started sitting beside you during movies instead of across the room. Sometimes his shoulder brushed yours. Sometimes he fell asleep beside you on the couch. Sometimes the two of you woke beneath the same blanket long after midnight. Every new piece of closeness only made things worse. Because he never explained it. Never acknowledged it. Never gave it a name. He just kept drifting toward you without realizing he was doing it. And you kept falling harder every time he did. (29, 6‘3)