I sit alone in my apartment, listening only to the buzz of the TV. The stress of working from home keeps me awake, stealing my sleep. The only thing I can focus on is the window, outside is pitch black. Today is Thursday, so Habolda is visiting family for the day while I've been working. She usually watches television with me in this very living room. Well, 'watch' is a strong word. We often ignored the TV to talk about the day's events, or sometimes nothing at all. Another sigh erupts from me as my eyes scan the room in search of banal objects. I have a cup of tea on the table, and my phone charging on the kitchen counter. Habolda's bedroom door is ajar—my eyes widen. She never leaves her room before closing the door and checking it's locked. Yet, as I see before me, today she forgot. This mistake of hers piques my curiosity; I've never seen her room before. Since day one I could never set foot, look, or even breathe in the direction of her bedroom, though she never told me why. But with her elsewhere, an opportunity to snoop arises.
I crane my neck and lean forward on the sofa for a better view. The room is too dark; Habolda insists on leaving the lights off. No location on the sofa allows me to see any clearer, I'll get closer. My heart sinks at the thought, but my curiosity can't be quelled. I gather all my courage and walk toward the ajar entrance. Each step makes me shed more sweat. The possibilities overwhelm my thoughts. What could she have in there? What if she comes home as I'm inside? Is it true what they say about dwarves and their hoarding habits? The open doorway greets me face to face. With a shaky hand, I nudge the door wide and take a step inside. Here we go.
Darkness overwhelms me as I enter. Blind as a bat, I reach for a wall, trying to find some kind of switch. Ah! There we are. It's right next to the door. Flipping it on, a soft light fills the room. I see... nothing special. Well, it is Habolda's room, all right. No pictures or decorations, an empty bookcase, small bed, desk with books, and a gray blanket. It's as plain as the hallway. Not the dwarven woman-cave I was expecting. I huff in relief at the mundane discovery and the lack of excitement. One last look reveals nothing remarkable until I notice something: a pile of papers on the table weighed down by her books. She's never spoken about those papers before. I make out Habolda's unique handwriting plastered all over them, clear and in block capitals. She was proud of how her handwriting, saying something about dwarves not usually writing that well. I pick up the manuscript, eyes locked on the title. Some end sheets fall through my fingers. She was indecisive about settling on a name; many are effaced. The last title reads: "Love Beyond Boundaries". Sounds like a romance story. I flip open to the first page and begin reading. Her story describes a friendly human man of no name as he goes on adventures with his dwarven companion. Said companion, a woman, is described as 'someone who is rough as rust but sweet as apple cider'. The writing is tolerable, but I can tell the story is an exercise in self-insertion and power fantasy. Habolda sidetracks the plot often, including sex and romance vignettes; even the development of the central relationship is spontaneous. I mean, there's at least three sex scenes in the first eight pages alone!
A chuckle escapes my lips holding her story up to my face. While all this is fine, why would Habolda choose to hide this in her room from me? We often discuss creative writing. What is it about this story of a human and dwarf falling in love with—Oh. Everything clicks into place. The way she writes about the dwarf woman's time spent with the human. The story's retreading of topics we've spoken about in real life. It's even in the title. There's no denying it. Habolda's story is about me. Me and her. The door clicks shut behind me. I freeze.
"A-Anon?" Habolda's voice is higher-pitched than usual. I spin around, her story within my clutches. She's in the doorway, eyes are wider than I've ever seen them, and I'm sure mine look the same.
"Habolda..."
Her eyes travel down to the papers in my hands, and blood rushes to her face. I drop the papers on the table and step back from the desk, my voice cracking. "Y-You forgot to close your door, and I found this." My jumbled words slip out of my frantic thoughts.
She steps closer, lips pursed into a slight frown. Her head flicks from the papers to my face, yet she says nothing. I start to speak again but stop after a second, my thought process halted. Habolda doesn't know about this. This isn't just about me finding a pile of porn in her room, but that she wrote porn about me. Porn she felt was too personal to ever tell me about. She didn't want me to know about her feelings towards me.
I shake off my haze and force myself to meet her stare.
"... Did you like it?" she whispers.
"It's, uhm, not bad. I-I'm flattered. It, uh, seems you have a lot of confidence with your writing."
Her face brightens, if only for a moment. "Thank you." It feels as if I complimented her on a drawing of flower she made, not smut.
Time for the burning question. "Why did you make this, Habolda?"
Another pause ensues. It's like I can see the gears turning in her head. She takes a deep breath, then exhales. "It started one day when we were walking through the streets together. You said that, well, you were quite bummed out by your dates going poorly and how you wanted to find someone special. I thought maybe there was a chance for something to happen, but I was scared. And then, well, I started to write to get my feelings out somehow. That's all it is. It was a mistake. A silly, harmless thing, so please don't be freaked out. You're one of my only friends and I don't want to ruin our friendship because I couldn't restrain myself around you."
Her words are sincere and her tone calm. Her eyes dart away from me, as if she's ashamed or embarrassed. It's like I'm standing in front of a wounded animal, trying to comfort it without making things worse. I manage a weak smile. "Maybe we should be more than friends."
Her pupils dilate, but she keeps herself composed. Her lips quirk, but her shoulders relax. She takes a hesitant step closer, her words still soft. "Yes. We should."
We both take another few steps toward each other until I am right in front of her. Our faces are mere inches apart, and my heart is beating faster than usual. My hands rest on her cheeks, and I tilt her face up to mine with my thumbs. Habolda's breathing grows shallow; she looks at me with pleading eyes.