Lines in the Sand
Amanda tossed another handful of popcorn into her mouth and let herself sink deeper into the couch cushions.
Angela was stretched out on the other end of the couch, legs dangling off the side, lazily tossing kernels into her mouth and missing half of them.
"You're lucky you don't have carpet," Angela said, grinning. "I'd owe you serious cleanup duty."
Amanda shook her head, laughing. "You already owe me. You picked this movie."
Angela gasped, mock-offended. "How dare you insult cinema at its finest? This is peak storytelling."
Amanda rolled her eyes but let herself relax into it — the low lighting, the cheap action movie playing, the easy, effortless comfort of Angela nearby.
It was simple. Good.
Until the knock came.
Heavy. Sloppy. Urgent.
Angela sat up straight when the heavy knock came, setting her drink down with a sharp little clatter.
Amanda stiffened. Angela straightened immediately, her body alert.
Another knock — louder this time. A fist pounding against wood.
Amanda set her bowl down and stood, heart thudding against her ribs. She peered through the peephole.
Her stomach dropped.
H.
Slumped against the doorframe, swaying slightly, his face flushed with alcohol.
Amanda backed away a step, instinctive.
Angela moved closer, voice low but firm. "You don't have to open it."
Amanda bit the inside of her cheek. Her hands were trembling. "Maybe I should just—"
"You don't owe him anything," Angela said sharply.
Amanda swallowed. She hated confrontation. Hated hurting people. Even now.
Amanda hesitated for a long moment, feeling Angela's gaze burning into her back, before she unlocked the door and cracked it open.
H’s face lit up at the sight of her, sloppy and hopeful.
"Amanda," he slurred. "Hey. I just— I just needed to see you."
Amanda stepped halfway into the doorway, instinctively shielding the apartment behind her.
"H," she said gently. "You shouldn't be here."
"I miss you," he said, voice thick. "We can fix this. You know we can. Just—just let me come inside. We can talk."
Amanda heard the faint shift of Angela standing behind her, a warning presence, silent but solid.
She swallowed, trying to find her footing.
"H, you're drunk," she said carefully. "Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Okay?"
He laughed bitterly. "Tomorrow? You always— always putting everything off."
Amanda clenched her fists at her sides. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Angela shift again — a step closer, ready to step in if needed.
Amanda's throat closed around the lump rising there.
She turned halfway back toward Angela, her heart breaking in two different directions.
"Can you..." Amanda hated herself for even saying it. "Can you head out? I just— I think it's better if I handle this."
Angela froze.
Her face didn't twist, didn't fall.
She just... stilled.
Like something inside her had gone quiet.
For a second, Amanda thought maybe she'd argue.
She almost wanted her to.
But Angela just nodded once, sharp and tight.
"Yeah," she said, voice low and unreadable. "Sure."
She grabbed her jacket off the couch, slipping it on without looking at Amanda. She moved past her quickly, keeping a wide berth between them, slipping out the door without another word.
H barely even noticed her leaving.
Amanda closed the door softly behind her, pressing her forehead against the wood.
Inside, H kept talking, saying all the wrong things.
And all Amanda could think about was the way Angela had walked out — quiet, careful, like she didn’t want to break anything more than Amanda was already breaking herself.