Lives Between Walls

The woods receive me before I see her.
Pine and damp earth. Sunlight broken into long, patient shafts. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask questions. I follow a narrow path through the trees, my boots brushing moss, the pen warm in my hand like a pulse.
Then I see her.
Saba stands in a clearing ahead, light pooling around her as if the forest has agreed to frame her. She smiles when she spots me, already opening her arms.
“What took you so long?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I close the distance and pull her into me, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in like something I’ve been missing without realising it. She fits easily, familiarly. As if this is where my body has been trying to return.
“I missed you,” I say, and kiss her.
She laughs softly against my mouth, then kisses me back—unhurried, deepening, the kind of kiss that carries time inside it. I kiss her again, more urgently now, hands at her waist, grounding myself in the fact of her.
“So,” she says when we finally part, eyes bright, steadying her breath. “Where are we going today, Mr Writer?”
“Anywhere you want.”
She glances down at the pen still in my hand and arches an eyebrow. “That’s rich, coming from the man who literally writes my desires in ink.”
I smile, lift the pen.
The woods hesitate.
Then the trees begin to fold inward—not collapsing, not breaking, but bending like paper remembering it was once flat. Trunks curve. Branches interlace overhead. Light fractures and reforms. The forest pulls itself apart and we’re carried forward, gently but without negotiation.
When the motion stops, we’re standing in a courtyard.
Stone underfoot, warm and pale. Ivy climbing the walls in slow, deliberate reaches. A fountain murmurs at the centre, water looping endlessly back into itself. The air smells clean. Safe. Designed.
Saba exhales. “You’re in a generous mood today.”
“I thought we deserved something calm.”
She turns once, taking it in, then steps closer and threads her fingers through mine. “You did well.”
That’s when she stills.
Her grip tightens—just slightly.
“What’s that?” she asks.
I follow her gaze to the corner where the wall meets an archway.
At first, it’s just shadow.
Then it resolves.
A large black spider clings to the stone, about the size of a car wheel, impossibly dark against the pale wall, legs spread with unnerving confidence. It isn’t moving. It doesn’t need to. It’s simply there.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
“That,” I say slowly, “shouldn’t be there.”
Saba looks at me, then back at the spider. “You didn’t put it there.”
“No.”
The pen is still in my hand. I haven’t lifted it. I haven’t even thought about the wall.
The spider shifts—just a fraction. Enough.
Saba studies me now, not the courtyard.
“What happened there?” she asks gently.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly. Then, quieter, more honestly: “I’ve just always hated them.”
She nods, as if that makes perfect sense. “Fear?”
I swallow. “Control. Or the lack of it.”
The courtyard remains beautiful. The fountain keeps murmuring. The ivy doesn’t retreat. The spider stays.
Saba steps closer to me—not toward the wall—and slips her hand into mine again.
“So this is new,” she says.
I look down at the pen, unsettled. “I didn’t write this.”
She tilts her head, eyes soft but alert. “Maybe you didn’t have to.”
The spider watches. The stone holds. And for the first time since I started opening doors with ink, I realise something I hadn’t planned for at all:
Wherever we go now, something is coming with us.
And I won’t always be the one who decides what it is.

The realisation lands slowly, like cold water.
If the things I feared could surface here—uninvited, uncommanded—then the rules had changed. The pen was no longer a guarantee. Not fully. And the thought unsettles me more than the spider itself.
I stare at it, unmoving against the stone, and feel something unfamiliar twist in my chest.
I look at Saba.
For the first time, I’m afraid of myself.
If my inner darkness could manifest without permission, then what else could follow? What if one day it wasn’t a spider? What if it was something sharper, something that could touch her?
I don’t say it out loud, but the fear is there: What if I hurt you?
Saba steps up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist, resting her cheek between my shoulder blades. Her embrace is steady, grounding.
“Hey,” she says softly. “We don’t have to stay here, you know. We can always go somewhere else.”
I gently pull away and turn to face her.
“You don’t get it, Saba,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I think wherever we go now, something like this will appear. Something bad. And I won’t have control over it.”
She studies me for a moment, then lifts both hands and cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes.
“Hey,” she says again, firmer now. “Breathe. In.”
I do.
“And out.”
I follow her lead. Her eyes—dark, warm, unmistakably Ethiopian in their depth and calm—hold me steady. She has that effect on me. Always has.
“Look,” she says gently. “This has only happened once. Maybe you’re stressed. You did say your partner is… a handful.”
I huff a weak laugh despite myself.
“So maybe,” she continues, “you’re just having one of those days. Let’s not build a whole philosophy around one spider.” She tilts her head, smiling. “We try again. If it happens again, then we can start making hypotheses.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
She smiles wider. “I’m always right.”
“That’s debatable.”
She laughs, turning away, hips swaying with deliberate generosity as she walks past me. “That’s why you can’t get enough of me.”
She glances back over her shoulder, blows me a kiss.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I sigh, watching her, already undone.
Then I turn back—just once—to look at the wall.
The spider is gone.
My heart jumps into my throat.
The stone is clean. Bare. As if nothing was ever there.
I don’t say anything.
I tell myself it must have scurried off. Or that I imagined it in the first place. After all, nothing here is real. None of it can actually hurt me.
I turn away and follow Saba, pen still warm in my hand, choosing not to look back.

We walk hand in hand through narrow streets that feel older than argument.
Tuscan stone rises close on either side—warm, honeyed walls worn smooth by centuries of shoulders brushing past. Shuttered windows lean open like curious neighbours. The streets are alive but unhurried; people pass us, nod, smile, offer soft greetings as if we belong here. As if the place has already decided.
Saba presses closer to me, sliding her arm through mine, smiling. The buildings seem to approve—arches curving protectively overhead, cobblestones steady underfoot, as though the city itself is ushering us along.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” she says lightly, “but I was a little thrilled seeing you shocked back there.”
I smirk, rolling my eyes. “Thrilled? Or were you just enjoying your revenge for the concert stunt?”
She gasps theatrically. “What do you take me for? Please—I’m not that petty.” She pauses, then adds with a grin, “But if karma decided to fight for me, who am I to object?”
I shove her playfully. She laughs, nearly tripping, then recovers and leans back into me.
“But really,” she says, softer now, “I like this side of you. The unedited one.”
I smile, though something tightens in my chest. Deep down, I wonder what else might surface when the edits fail.
The street opens into a small fishing village. Boats glide in and out of the harbour, ropes creaking, gulls circling. The air smells of salt and fish and old wood. We walk out onto the pier and sit with our feet dangling above dark water.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a joint, already rolled, and offer it to her.
Her eyes widen. “And what’s this? Did you not write this part too?”
I laugh. “Oh no. This one’s intentional.”
She takes it with a smug smile. “I get it. You’re experimenting. Mr Watertight Reality finally wants to loosen a bolt.”
“My life runs like a train on a tight rail,” I say, lighting it, staring out at a trawler easing away from the harbour. “No gaps. No detours.”
She nods as I light hers, watching me with something like compassion. “Sounds like reality cheats you out of living.”
I take a pull and immediately cough, sputtering.
She giggles. “You could’ve at least written yourself looking cool on your first try.”
We sit shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the pier, wood warm from the day, the harbour breathing beneath us like it’s listening in. Saba watches the water for a while, then glances at me sideways, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You look peaceful,” she says, almost surprised. I shrug, pretending not to hear the compliment, and she laughs softly, nudging her knee into mine. “Don’t worry,” she adds, “I won’t tell anyone.” I scoff lightly, but she catches it, smiling as if she’s already read the footnote. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, eyes flicking to my mouth for half a second before returning to the water. She tilts her head, watching me with that half-smile that means she’s already three steps ahead. “So,” she says lightly, “spiders?” I nod. “Spiders.” She hums, filing it away somewhere private. “Anything else?” I hesitate, then shrug, pretending it’s nothing. “Interrogations,” I say, already smiling despite myself. “Those are the stuff of nightmares for me.”
Saba leans back theatrically, eyes widening as she mouths a quiet, exaggerated “Oh.” Then she tilts forward again, close enough that I can feel her breath.
“In that case,” she murmurs, amused, “you’re going to have to get over that fear, Mr Writer… because I’m only just warming up.”
I feel heat rush to my face, caught out, and she notices immediately. She laughs—soft, delighted—clearly pleased with herself. “Look at you,” she teases. “Already blushing. This is going to be fun.”

The sun dips lower. The breeze picks up. Our words start to drift, looping and playful, logic loosening its grip. We laugh at nothing. At everything. “We authors are known for our high levels of intelligence, you know.” She stops talking, looks at me deadpan, then breaks into a grin. “Whoa, easy there, Spider-Man.” She laughs, tugging me back toward her, and for a moment the pier creaks approvingly, the water slaps gently below, and even my fears seem amused enough to wait their turn. The sky softens into oranges and bruised pinks.
“Let’s get some rest,” she says eventually, eyes half-lidded, mischievous. “I saw some nice villas on the way in. Maybe I can help Mr Writer work through that spider trauma.”
The way she says it makes my stomach flip.
We walk along the dock. She’s wearing thigh-high shorts and a loose Hawaiian shirt that catches the breeze just right. A sailor whistles from one of the boats.
Saba freezes.
She turns to me, eyebrows raised. “And that?”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t write that.”
The sailor—dark hair, moustache, smug—leans against the rail of his boat and says something suggestive in a language that doesn’t need translating.
Saba exhales slowly. “Oh. Are we really going there right now?”
Heat surges up my neck. My jaw tightens. The man smirks, eyes locked on me now, daring.
Saba touches the back of my arm, grounding. “They’re not real,” she says quietly. “Please. Let’s go.”
I don’t move at first. My hands tremble with the effort not to.
“Come on,” she says again. “He’s just another spider.”
I swallow, turn away, and start walking. Saba follows.
Behind us, the sailor calls out, louder now. “Ditch that boy. Come back later—I’ll show you a real good time, baby.”
My teeth grind together as we keep walking, the sound chasing us down the dock.
The village lights flicker on. The sea keeps breathing. And somewhere inside me, something darker stirs—unwritten, unwanted, very real.