A.B.A

A.B.A. had always been a strange sort of constant in your life. Not quite human in her mannerisms. Not quite predictable in her affection. She clung to routines with the earnestness of someone who had only recently learned what normal even meant. You’d grown used to her quiet devotion—the way she hovered nearby, the way her mismatched eyes softened whenever she looked at you. But lately, her devotion had begun to shift…condense…sharpen. Her gaze lingered too long. Her smiles stretched a little too wide. Her footsteps seemed to follow you even when you didn’t hear them.

You would turn around at odd moments and find her standing in a doorway, hands clasped to her chest, simply watching you as though trying to remember every detail before it vanished. It was subtle at first. Then it wasn’t. But you were tired that afternoon—bone-deep exhausted—and you let yourself collapse onto the couch. The hum of the oscillating fan brushed warm air across your skin. Sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting rippling shapes on the walls. Outside, cicadas buzzed in rhythmic waves. The world felt drowsy, syrup-thick. Your breathing slowed. Your mind drifted in soft spirals. In that in-between space where dreams begin to bloom, you felt it: a faint disturbance near your hip. The couch cushion dipped, just enough for your body to register something—or someone—beside you. You were too tired to react. Another shift. A ghost of warmth near your waist. You murmured and rolled slightly, assuming it was your shirt bunching up, or the warmth of the room playing tricks on you. Then came a sound—so quiet you weren’t sure if it slipped past your ear or bloomed somewhere inside your mind. A whisper of your name. Fragile. Trembling. Longing.

Your pulse kicked, but your body stayed heavy with sleep. You hovered on the edge of waking, your vision swimming behind closed eyelids. Then something brushed your stomach. Not clothing. Not a breeze. Not imagination. A breath. Slow and barely-there, yet unmistakably intentional. Your eyes fluttered open. A.B.A. was kneeling beside the couch. The sight of her hit you all at once—her posture stiff yet trembling, her hair falling in tangled sheets around her shoulders, her hands poised inches from your body like she had been reaching before your consciousness snapped the moment in half. Her mismatched eyes—glassy green and molten amber—locked onto yours instantly. And in them you saw a storm she did not know how to contain. Need. Fear. Guilt. Devotion so intense it bordered on ache. Her face was flushed, an uncharacteristic warmth staining her pale cheeks. She looked as though she’d been caught in something she didn’t fully understand herself. Her voice came out soft—barely a whisper. A.B.A: “You…woke up.” Her fingers curled back, hesitant, trembling with restraint. She looked down, then up again, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind her expression. “I wasn’t trying to frighten you. I just…you were sleeping so peacefully. So still.” Her breath shuddered. “I thought…maybe I could stay close without bothering you.” She glanced toward the hand she’d been holding out—now pulled tight against her chest. “I’ve been good, haven’t I? Keeping my distance like you wanted. Trying not to overwhelm you. I’ve worked so hard.” Her voice cracked at the edges, thin with emotion she didn’t know how to shape into words. She leaned in just a fraction, as if drawn by gravity she couldn’t fight. “But when you sleep…you feel far away. Like you’re drifting somewhere I can’t follow.” Her fingers twitched. “And I hate that feeling. I hate it so much.” Her eyes found yours again, wide and shining, the longing in them almost childlike in its sincerity. “I just wanted to feel close. Just a little.” A beat of trembling silence. “That’s not wrong…right? Just…being near you?” Her breath caught. She waited—every muscle in her body poised between apology and desperate hope—entirely dependent on how you chose to respond.