Author's Note
"Tell me to stop," he says, ”and I’ll stop."
He doesn’t touch her. That is the unbearable part. Not the cold brick of the stairwell with rain hammering the skylight overhead, but his hands, flat on the forsaken wall, too close to her face, and not touching. The inch of air between them has become the only thing she can feel.
Clara keeps waiting for the fear. She knows its shape: the tightening, the drifting, the old alarm that goes off whenever a man stands this close in the dark. It doesn’t come. Something worse does.
Want.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, and her voice shakes on the last word, because it’s true, and because it has never been true of anyone before.
“Then what is it?” His voice has dropped to something low and rough. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
“That-” Her fingers tremble as if reaching for his face but curl into themselves, away from the warmth of his cheek. “This is - ... You are the only good thing I have...” Her throat aches,
Before her hand can retreat completely, his larger, rougher, softer one encloses it, giving her every chance to pull away before he brings it to his cheek.
“And I’ll ruin it.”
As the words leave her breath, his forehead drops to hers. Lips press against her palm on his cheek as his other hand leaves the wall, slowly, carefully waiting for her flinch, and settles at her waist as if she might break and he means to be the one who catches her.
"Then ruin it with me," he whispers.
She kisses him then. Lips moulding against his, softer than she could’ve ever imagined.
It isn’t careful. It is every month she has spent not saying it. His hands tighten, her back arches off the brick to meet him, and the world narrows to heat and rain and the sound he makes against her mouth and his hand that cradles her head up and towards him, consuming everything she was.
Below them, a stair groans.
He lifts his head. They stare at each other in the dark, breathing hard, her fingers still knotted in his shirt.
“Clara?” A voice from the foot of the stairs. Warm. Unhurried. A voice she would know anywhere and has been trying very hard not to need.
The man she is holding goes utterly still.
“Don’t answer,” he whispers.
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Dear Reader,
Welcome to Probably Nothing, a college romance set in the stone-gold town of Verity, where Clara, Gareth, and Callum are about to rearrange each other’s lives. There is a love triangle, a slow burn, and a lot of heart. There is also pain, written honestly. Please read this note before you begin. It is short, and it is here because I respect you.
CONTENT WARNING
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This story is 18+ and contains:
Explicit sexual content between consenting adults. Sexual assault (past; its aftermath is explored, graphic flashbacks are not). Abuse: physical, emotional, and domestic violence, parental control, neglect, and cruelty toward a child. Suicide and self-harm: a parent’s suicide, passive suicidal ideation, and brief self-harm references. Never glorified. Violence and blood: fights, injuries, and the destruction of a person’s creative work as abuse. Mental health: anxiety, panic attacks, PTSD, depression, dissociation, imposter syndrome, and brief references to disordered eating. Substances: alcohol and smoking. Grief and heartbreak: loss, family estrangement, illness, and a love triangle that will bruise someone. Abusive language: profanity, degrading insults, and slurs.
LANGUAGE
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Abusers talk like abusers. Softening their words would make them less dangerous and the survivors’ experience less true, so I haven’t. The story never endorses that cruelty. It sits beside the gentleness between the people who actually love each other, and the contrast is the point.
If this already is not for you, Please leave, kindly and without guilt. Your wellbeing matters more than any chapter. But if you stay, stay by choice. Don’t read on and then fill the comments with complaints about content listed above. You have been warned, thoroughly, and harassment of me or other readers will not be tolerated.
ORIGINALITY AND COPYRIGHT
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Probably Nothing is an original work of fiction. Every character, event, and place, including Verity and its university, is invented. Any resemblance to real people, incidents, or institutions is a pure accident. Please don’t copy, repost, translate, or claim any part of it. Fan art and discussion are welcome, with credit.
UPDATES
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New chapters every Friday. If life gets in the way, I’ll tell you.
To My Readers,
To the newcomers: thank you for reading the warnings and for giving Clara, Gareth, and Callum a chance. To my loyal readers: you are the reason this story has a pulse. Every comment, theory, and caps-lock scream reaches me and keeps me writing. You’ve turned a story into a conversation, and I don’t take that for granted.
I wrote this for anyone who has flinched at a sudden movement, been told their feelings were too much, and deserves to watch someone survive that and still choose to love. I hope that’s you.
Welcome in.
— Yana
