Lives Between Walls

By the time we reach the villa, the night has softened everything.

The door closes behind us and the house seems to inhale, stone and timber settling into quiet. I don’t say anything. Neither does she. Saba studies my face the way one studies weather—reading shifts before they arrive. Her hand finds the centre of my back, steady, grounding, fingers pressing just enough to bring me back into my body.

The room receives us without ceremony. Indifferent.

High ceilings loom overhead, shadowed and patient. The chandelier glows low and warm, light slipping across tiled floors, catching on carved edges and worn wood. The villa feels old in the way that knows how to keep secrets. The harbour glimmers through the windows like a distant thought.

Saba turns to me.

Something in my face must give me away.

She steps closer. No words. Just that look—concern threaded with desire. I desire her—but the desire is threaded with something else: a need to assert control as the utopia I built begins to unravel. She reaches for me, and I pull her in hard, too fast, backing her into the wall. The frame behind us rattles softly. She gasps—not in protest, but surprise—and then her hands are in my hair, gripping, pulling me closer instead of away.

Heat. Friction. Breath everywhere. Rafters moaning and sighing above the ceiling.

My mouth finds hers again, rougher this time. Urgent. Her back arches instinctively into me. Offering herself to me. The house creaks once, as if startled, then stills. My hands slide to her wrists, pinning them briefly above her head—not to trap, but to feel resistance, to feel in control.

She meets my eyes.

Not afraid.

Aware.

She doesn’t speak. She simply watches me, breathing steady, letting me see exactly what I’m doing. The moment stretches. Something in her gaze cuts through the urgency like a blade through tension.

Slowly, deliberately, she slips one wrist free.

Then the other.

She takes my hands in hers and lowers them, pressing them flat against her waist. Her touch is firm. Certain. She steps closer, closing the distance again, but this time on her terms. Her forehead rests against mine.

I feel the shift before I understand it.

My breath stutters. The tightness eases.

She smiles—small, endearing, devastatingly calm.

It’s okay.

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t need to.

Her fingers lace with mine. Our movement slows. Touch becomes intentional again. The heat doesn’t disappear—it deepens, settles, spreads instead of burns. The villa relaxes around us, light steady, walls leaning back.

She smiles, her hand sliding down my torso, lingering lower than expected, then withdrawing just as deliberately. “Let me freshen up,” she says. “I’ll come back and finish what you started.”

I nod, unable to restrain a boyish smile as she slips away to the bathroom, shuffling backwards, her eyes still on mine till the door swallows her. The room remains warm, altered. Steam follows her voice as she murmurs a quiet “wow, look at this bathroom” behind the door.

I stand by the window alone.

The harbour breathes below, boats rocking gently, lights blinking like distant signals. And without warning, my mind drifts back to the dock. To the sailor’s voice. The audacity of it.

My jaw tightens.

I had felt powerful moments ago. Anchored. Desired. And yet something darker stirs now—resentment, ownership, the urge to reclaim ground I didn’t realise was slipping.

The villa creaks faintly overhead, wood adjusting.

Listening.

And for the first time that night, I know the danger isn’t the world unraveling.

It’s the part of me that wants to hold on too tightly when it does.

---

Later, she sleeps—deep, unguarded.

White sheets are drawn loosely around her, doing more to suggest than to conceal. Her body rests easily in their folds, one shoulder bare, the rise and fall of her breathing slow and even. Her frizzy hair has claimed the bed entirely, spilling across the pillow in soft, untamed arcs, as if sleep has released her from all discipline.

I watch her for a long moment. She is beautiful in every way that matters, and sometimes I find myself wishing—quietly, dangerously—that she were real.

There’s a faint smile on her mouth, the kind that lingers after trust has been given freely. The room is still warm with the afterglow of our deeds. The villa holds the silence respectfully, beams settled, light dimmed, as though it knows not to intrude.

I smile too.

I created her, I think—briefly, instinctively—before the thought unsettles me in ways I don’t yet want to name.

However, the room and I are not able to sleep.

I tell myself I need air.

The docks are quiet at night, lamps throwing long reflections across black water. I walk slowly, hands in my pockets, the sound of my footsteps keeping me company. Somewhere ahead, I hear movement—steady, rhythmic.

A man is on a boat, mopping the deck.

I recognise him instantly.

“What’re you mopping this late for?” I call out, my voice sharper than I intend.

He looks up, squinting, then recognition flickers across his face. “Ah. You.” He shrugs, not defensive. “Spent the whole day drinking. Too drunk to do it earlier.”

I smirk despite myself.

He pauses, then adds, “Hey, mate—no hard feelings about earlier. Me and your girl. I was out of line. Drunk. We good?”

I stare at him, jaw tight. Part of me wants to nod, to let it go. Another part—the darker, louder one—doesn’t want to give anything back.

I glance up at the sky instead. “Beautiful night, innit?”

He goes back to mopping, nodding. “Yeah. None a’ that bloody rain for a change. Been monsoon-like these past weeks. Bad for fishing.”

I nod too. The normalcy of it disarms me. I created this world and everything wthin it. Except him. Who was he? And where was his consciousness coming from?

“See you around,” I say, turning away.

“Name’s Bill,” he calls after me. “Tell the lassie I’m sorry as well.”

That does it.

Something inside me loosens, collapses. The apology drains the poison I didn’t know how to release. If he hadn’t apologised—if he’d doubled down—I don’t know what I would have done.

And that frightens me.

Because I’d told myself this world wasn’t real. That nothing here could truly matter. But Bill mattered. His apology mattered. His autonomy mattered.

My breathing eases as I walk back toward the villa, the lamps thinning out behind me.

I understand it now.

There’s no escaping myself here. No writing my way around the hard parts. If I’m going to stay in this world—if I’m going to keep opening doors—I’ll have to face what comes through them.

Even when it’s me.

---

I slip back under the covers quietly, assuming Saba’s asleep.

The sheets still hold her warmth. The room smells of soap, old timber, and the sea drifting in through the open window. I exhale, trying to let the night settle.

Then, softly, from the dark—

“Have fun at the docks?”

I freeze.

“How would you know?” I whisper.

She shifts closer, still half-asleep. “You smell like salt,” she murmurs. “And fish. And… distance.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “You’ve got me.”

She turns toward me now, eyes open, reflective in the low light. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks. “Or were you catching up with your friend from earlier?”

I scoff under my breath. “Your knack for understatement is lethal, Saba.”

That gets her attention. She studies my face, concern softening her features. “I hope you didn’t,” she says gently.

“Didn’t what?”

There’s a pause. The villa listens.

“…lose yourself,” she says.

I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “If I did, it was probably to boredom.”

She doesn’t smile.

Instead, she wraps her arms around me, holding me with deliberate care, as if steadying something that had gone too far out. Her voice is close now, serious.

“Please don’t disappear in here,” she whispers. “Because whoever you become here—you’ll carry him back with you. Good or bad.”

She’s right. I know she is.

“Relax,” I say softly, trying to reassure both of us. “I’m not going to lose myself.”

She hums, unconvinced. The knife in the kitchen seems to hum back—still warm from our little excursion to the docks.

I lie awake long after her breathing evens out, staring into the dark.

That knowledge of how fine a line I treaded this evening drapes over me now like a heavy cover.

This world doesn’t excuse me from myself.

And understanding that—fully, finally—is what keeps me still.