Chapter 3 — Frayed Edges

Marisa Bennett

Marisa stood in the center of the living room, hands on her hips, surveying her makeshift studio. The morning sun angled through the window, catching the glint of paint tubes scattered across the coffee table and highlighting the chaotic sprawl of her art supplies. To her, it was a comforting kind of chaos—a sign of life, creativity, and resilience. To Dylan, she imagined, it probably looked like the apocalypse.

Her smirk at the thought faded as her eyes moved to the beige walls. Their stark emptiness gnawed at her nerves, a constant reminder of how lifeless this apartment felt. She exhaled a sharp breath and picked up her brush, dabbing it into a blob of teal paint on her palette before sweeping it across the canvas propped on her easel. The bold streak immediately made her feel a little better.

“Take that, beige,” she muttered under her breath.

The thin walls, however, didn’t let her muttering stay private. A muffled sigh came from Dylan’s room, followed by the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back. Marisa paused mid-stroke, glancing at his closed door. She knew he was likely at his desk, typing away on whatever ghostwriting project he was working on, probably pretending the living room—and, by extension, she—didn’t exist. The thought annoyed her more than it should have.

Shrugging it off, she set her brush down and grabbed her phone. A little music would help drown out the tension in the air. Scrolling through her playlist, she selected a jangly indie rock song and let it fill the room at a modest, non-offensive volume—at least as far as she was concerned. The beat was lively, the melody cheerful, and within moments, Marisa found herself bouncing on her toes as she picked up her brush again.

But before she could lose herself in the rhythm, the door to Dylan’s room creaked open. Her movements slowed as she braced herself.

“Marisa,” Dylan said, his tone already a warning. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I assume the music’s necessary?”

She turned to face him, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t know. I guess it depends—do you consider silence mandatory?”

“Yes,” he replied flatly, though she caught the faintest flicker of exasperation in his expression. “And I thought we agreed to keep the noise down.”

Marisa sighed and swiped at her phone. The music stopped abruptly, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. “Happy now?”

“Overjoyed,” Dylan said, his tone as dry as dust.

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her canvas, muttering under her breath, “You’re lucky I didn’t pick punk rock.”

“What was that?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing.” She didn’t bother looking at him. Instead, she dipped her brush into a fresh pool of color, determined to ignore him. But his presence lingered, radiating disapproval like a heat lamp.

“Look,” Dylan said after a moment, his voice tight but measured. “I get that you need space for your art, but the living room isn’t exactly designed for... this.” He gestured vaguely at her setup.

Marisa spun around, brush still in hand. “Really? And where exactly am I supposed to ‘design’ my workspace? The kitchen? The balcony? Oh wait, maybe I’ll just paint in my closet.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well, that’s what it sounds like,” she retorted, planting her free hand on her hip. “This is my home too, Dylan, and I need a space to work just as much as you do. I’m not asking you to love it, but you could at least try not to act like I’m ruining your life.”

Dylan didn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to the splashes of paint that had found their way onto the coffee table. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, Marisa thought he might snap. Instead, he just exhaled slowly and said, “Fine. Just... keep it contained, alright?”

Before she could respond, the intercom buzzer startled both of them. Marisa jumped slightly, her brush streaking an accidental line of red across her canvas. Dylan frowned and crossed the room in a few quick strides, pressing the button to respond.

“Yes?” he said curtly.

“Delivery for Dylan Carter,” a tinny voice crackled through the speaker.

Dylan glanced at Marisa, his frown deepening. “I’ll get it,” he muttered, pulling open the door and heading down the hall.

Marisa watched him go, curiosity sparking. Dylan didn’t seem like the type to order anything frivolous—or anything at all, really. She took a step toward the doorway before stopping herself. Snooping wasn’t exactly in her nature, but something about Dylan’s tightly wound demeanor made her want to unravel it, just a little.

A moment later, Dylan returned, a plain cardboard box tucked under his arm. He hesitated in the doorway, his grip on the box tightening for a second before he walked in. Without acknowledging Marisa, he set the box on the dining table and reached for a pair of scissors to cut through the tape. She wandered closer, feigning nonchalance.

“Whatcha got there?” she asked lightly.

“None of your business,” he said without looking at her, his voice clipped.

“Gee, thanks for the riveting conversation.” Marisa leaned against the back of a chair, watching as he lifted the box flaps. Inside were a few neatly packed items, wrapped in protective bubble wrap. Dylan’s movements slowed as he picked up the first item, unwrapping it carefully. Marisa caught a glimpse of a small wooden figurine before he set it aside, his expression guarded.

The next item—a photograph in an ornate silver frame—seemed to hit him harder. Dylan’s fingers hovered over it for a moment before he picked it up, his grip almost hesitant. His face shifted, the usual mask of stoicism cracking just enough for Marisa to see something she hadn’t expected: pain.

Her curiosity sharpened into concern. “Is that...?” she began, but Dylan cut her off.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, shoving the photo back into the box with a little more force than necessary. He turned to glare at her, his posture stiff. “Do you mind?”

Marisa blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. “I was just—”

“I said it’s nothing,” he snapped, his voice taut with irritation rather than outright anger. For a moment, the silence between them was heavy, charged with unspoken tension.

Marisa held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll back off.”

Dylan didn’t respond. He simply gathered the rest of the box’s contents and carried it into his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Marisa stared after him, her thoughts swirling. She’d seen something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded, like a frayed edge peeking out from beneath a tightly woven fabric.

Turning back to her canvas, Marisa picked up her brush again, but her usual enthusiasm was dulled. The red streak she’d made earlier caught her eye, jagged and unplanned. She stared at it for a long moment before dipping her brush into white paint and softening the edges. As she worked, she found herself thinking about Dylan—his rigidity, his sharpness, and now his vulnerability.

“Life’s messy,” she murmured, echoing her earlier words to Dylan. She softened the streak further, blending it into a swirl of colors. The streak remained, but it was no longer a mistake. It was part of the whole.

And as she painted, she couldn’t help but wonder about the cracks in Dylan’s carefully controlled world—and what might happen if someone dared to step through them.