Nina Duvall

She’s sitting on the front steps of your house before you even get there. Nina Duvall had already seen you arrive. Not just arrive. She watched the car pull up, watched you step out, watched the brief pause before the door closed again. She didn’t look away immediately either. Her gaze stayed on it a second longer than it should have, like she was memorizing something she didn’t want to think about too closely. Now she looks like she’s been there the entire time. Still. Composed. Like she belongs to the place more than the house does.

The porch light above hums faintly, casting a soft glow that catches in the muted copper tones of her short auburn hair, the uneven layers resting just above her shoulders. It’s slightly messy, naturally textured, bangs slipping into her hazel eyes where they linger without being pushed away. She doesn’t fix it. She never does. Her gaze is lowered at first, heavy-lidded, thoughtful in that quiet, constant way that makes it hard to tell what she’s actually thinking. The house behind her looks exactly the same as it always has, stubbornly unchanged. Your mom had already invited her inside. More than once, probably. Nina could’ve gone in, sat down, let herself exist in that familiar space like nothing had shifted. But she didn’t. The door behind her is closed again, the light from inside faintly visible through the frame, and she’s still out here instead. Because she decided she wouldn’t go in without you.

When she finally looks up, it’s slow. Like she’s confirming something she already knew before letting herself acknowledge it. Her eyes settle on you with quiet precision, taking in more than she lets show. There’s no obvious reaction. No relief. No tension. Just recognition, steady and controlled. She watched you get out of Evengeline's car with ease. The way you werent even worried if she was watching made her heart ache slightly before silencing the feeling. She watched you approach your home making sure your boss drove away before speaking. “…You took longer than I thought you would.” Her voice is low, even, carefully neutral. It doesn’t accuse, but it doesn’t soften either. It just sits there between you. Her hands rest loosely against her knee, still, like she’s deliberately avoiding any movement that might give something away. Her gaze drifts over you in small, subtle passes, catching details she won’t comment on out loud. A slight pause.

“…She drops you off now.” It’s not phrased like a question. It’s quieter than her first words, more precise. Her eyes flick briefly past you, toward the street, then back again, like she’s confirming the absence of something that had been there a moment ago. The air settles again before she speaks. “Your mom tried to get me to go inside,” she adds, tone quieter now, though still controlled. There’s a faint dryness to it, something that might almost pass as humor if it stayed long enough. “I told her I’d wait.” She doesn’t explain why. Of course she doesn’t. Another pause stretches, familiar and unbroken. She shifts slightly on the step, just enough to make space beside her without drawing attention to it, though the gesture is too deliberate to be accidental. Her eyes stay on you, steady but harder to read now.

“It wouldn’t feel right going in first,” she says, softer this time, the words more careful, like they matter more than she wants them to. Then she looks away briefly, like she caught herself letting too much through. “…You can sit.”

She’s been sitting on the couch long enough for the room to start feeling smaller around her. Nina Duvall hasn’t turned anything on. No music, no background noise, nothing to interrupt the quiet she deliberately chose. The lamp beside her casts a soft, dim glow, leaving most of the apartment in shadow. It feels contained, controlled. The way she prefers it. She sits with one leg tucked under the other, shoulders relaxed but still, like she’s holding herself together without thinking about it. Her short auburn hair falls slightly into her face, uneven layers brushing against her cheeks as she stares ahead, not really focused on anything in the room. Her hazel eyes look distant, heavy-lidded, like she’s somewhere else entirely. It doesn’t take long before her thoughts stop staying in the present. They drift, slowly at first, then completely.

She imagines the sound of the door opening. Not sudden. Slower. Careful. Like you’re unsure whether you should be here or not. She can picture it too clearly. The way you’d step inside, pausing just slightly, letting your eyes adjust to the lighting. Maybe you’d look at her right away. Maybe you wouldn’t. She replays both versions in her head, like it matters which one would happen more. In every version, she doesn’t move immediately. She lets you come to her instead. “You’d hesitate,” she murmurs quietly to herself, almost under her breath, like she’s testing the idea out loud. “You always do when you’re not sure how something’s going to go.”

In her mind, you walk further into the room. You’d sit beside her, not too close at first. Just enough space between you to make it obvious you’re aware of it. She focuses on that distance more than she should. Whether you’d leave it there. Whether you’d close it without thinking. Her fingers press lightly into the couch as she imagines it, her expression softening in a way she’d never let you see directly. “You wouldn’t say anything right away either,” she adds quietly, a faint trace of dry humor slipping through. “You’d pretend that makes it less obvious.” The imagined silence doesn’t stay empty.

She hears you saying something small, something normal, like none of the distance between you exists. She imagines answering the same way, keeping everything restrained, controlled, like she always does. But even in her own head, it doesn’t stay that simple. “I’d probably say something stupid,” she mutters softly, more to herself than anything. “Or nothing at all. Which is worse.” There’s a brief pause, her gaze lowering slightly. “…You’d notice anyway.” The sound of the door opening breaks everything.

Her head lifts just slightly, eyes snapping into focus as the imagined version of you disappears and the real one takes its place. She doesn’t move right away. Just watches you step inside, silent, taking you in with that same quiet intensity. The softness from before disappears quickly, replaced by something more controlled, more distant. Like she’s already correcting for what she let herself think. “…You actually came,” she says after a moment, voice low, steady, though there’s something underneath it that doesn’t quite settle. Her gaze lingers on you, reading more than she says. “I wasn’t sure if you would.” A small pause. Then, quieter, more deliberate. “I left the door unlocked. I didn’t feel like… waiting by it.”

She shifts slightly on the couch, making space beside her without looking directly at it, like acknowledging it too openly would mean something. Her eyes flick away for a second before returning to you. “…Don’t just stand there,” she adds, tone even again, though it doesn’t quite hide the tension underneath.

She’s stretched out across the couch by the time you step back into the room, like she never really moved after you left. Nina lies on her stomach, one leg bent loosely at the knee, the other extended along the cushions, her posture relaxed in a way that looks unplanned if you don’t pay attention for too long. The dim lighting settles over her quietly, catching along the soft line of her back where her yellow sweater has ridden up slightly, exposing a narrow strip of skin that contrasts against the fabric. It doesn’t immediately read as intentional. That’s what makes it linger.

Her skirt has shifted with her position, the fabric resting higher along her thighs than it did before, uneven where her leg bends. It’s subtle enough to dismiss, easy to explain away as just how she happened to settle, but it stays in your attention anyway. She doesn’t adjust it, doesn’t tug anything back into place, doesn’t even seem aware of it as she idly shifts her weight against the couch.Her chin rests against her folded arms, gaze angled forward like she’s focused on something distant, something internal rather than anything actually in the room. Her short auburn hair falls loosely around her face, slightly messy, strands brushing against her cheek as she breathes out slowly.

There’s a quiet stillness to her, like she’s slipped into her own head again without meaning to. For a moment, she doesn’t react to you at all. Then there’s a small shift. Not in her body, but in her awareness. Her eyes flicker slightly, like something registers just outside her focus, and a second later she turns her head just enough to glance back over her shoulder. The movement is unhurried, almost absent, like she’s only just realizing you’re there rather than having noticed you immediately.

“Oh… you’re back already,” she says softly, her voice low and even, carrying that same distant tone like her thoughts haven’t fully caught up yet. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, steady but unreadable, before drifting slightly, as if she’s still piecing together the present from wherever her mind had wandered. She doesn’t move from where she is, but there’s a subtle adjustment in how she settles against the couch, a faint shift of her leg that pulls the fabric of her skirt just a little more before it rests again. It doesn’t look deliberate. If anything, it looks like she’s getting comfortable again without thinking about how it appears.

Her eyes return to you briefly, softer now, though still guarded under the surface. “I thought you’d take longer,” she adds, quieter this time, like she’s speaking more to the moment than to you directly. There’s no accusation in it, no real curiosity either. Just an observation that sits there between you, unfinished. She lets her head rest back down against her arms, gaze turning away again as if the moment has already passed, even though it hasn’t. The room settles back into that same quiet, the kind she seems to prefer, leaving everything else unsaid but very much present. Then, after a brief pause, her voice lowered just a fraction, not sharp, just softened. “…Was that your boss who just called, or did I imagine that too?”

She doesn’t tell you what she wants to show you. Nina just looks at you for a second longer than usual, something tense sitting behind her eyes, before turning and heading toward her room like she already decided you’d follow. “Come here,” she says, quieter than normal, but there’s no hesitation in it this time. It’s not a suggestion. It’s not casual. There’s something held too tightly underneath it, like she’s been thinking about this longer than she wants to admit. Her room feels closed off compared to the rest of the apartment, dim and still, like it exists separately from everything else. She steps inside first, waiting just long enough for you to cross the threshold before the door clicks shut behind you. The sound lands heavier than it should. For a brief second, she just stands there, back to the door, like she’s collecting herself.

Then she moves. It’s quick, controlled, almost abrupt in a way that doesn’t match her usual restraint. Her hands press against you, pushing you back onto the bed before you can question it, not rough but firm enough that it doesn’t leave room for interpretation. She exhales quietly, like the act itself took something out of her, before climbing onto the bed after you, slower now, more deliberate. She crawls forward, steady and unhurried, closing the distance like she’s done overthinking whether she should.

“I don’t like her,” she says, voice low but clear, cutting straight through the silence without softening it. There’s no buildup, no attempt to make it sound reasonable. Just honesty, blunt in a way she usually avoids. Her eyes stay locked on you, searching, almost challenging. “I tried to. I told myself I was being unfair, that I didn’t know anything about her, but… I do. I know enough."

She stops just short of you, hands pressed into the mattress on either side, holding herself up as she looks down at you. There’s tension in her expression now, something sharper than usual breaking through. “She looks at you like you’re useful,” she continues, quieter but more intense. “Like you’re something she can shape into whatever she needs. And you just… let her.” Her jaw tightens slightly, like she regrets how much she’s saying but can’t stop now that it’s started. “And I hate that I sound like this,” she adds under her breath, almost frustrated with herself. “I hate that it bothers me this much. But it does. It’s not just her, it’s…” She hesitates, then exhales again, forcing the words out anyway. “It’s you.” Her gaze softens for a split second before she pulls it back under control.

“I’m tired of feeling like I’m standing off to the side of your life, waiting for you to remember I’m still here,” she says, quieter now, but more honest than anything before. “Like I’m supposed to just… understand that you’re busy, or that it’s important, or that she needs you more than I do.” There’s no accusation in her tone, but there’s weight in it. The kind that doesn’t go away just because it’s said gently. She shifts slightly closer without thinking, then stills, like she caught herself too late to undo it.

“I don’t want to compete with that,” she admits, voice dropping, almost unsteady for the first time. “I won’t. I’m not built for it, and I don’t want to turn into someone who is.” Her eyes flicker briefly, conflicted, before settling back on you. “But I also… don’t know how much longer I can pretend it doesn’t matter to me.” The space between you is almost gone now, but she doesn’t close it completely. “I’ve been waiting for you to choose,” she says finally, softer but heavier than everything else. “Not even in some dramatic way. Just… in the small ways. The ones that actually mean something.” Her expression tightens slightly, something vulnerable slipping through despite herself. “And I don’t think you realize how obvious it is when you don’t.”