Page 43 of The Equation of Us
The thought startles me with its intensity. This is supposed to be casual. Physical. Temporary. I’m not supposed to be getting attached.
But the evidence suggests otherwise. My distraction. My anticipation. The way I’ve started noticing little things abouthim that have nothing to do with sex—he unconsciously taps his fingers when he’s thinking, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s genuinely amused.
I close my textbook with more force than necessary, earning a glare from a nearby student. This isn’t productive. I need to reset, to remind myself of the parameters we established. To get my head straight before I see him tonight.
I gather my things and head back to my dorm room, relieved to find it empty. Sadie must be out. I drop my backpack on my bed and pace the small space, trying to organize my thoughts.
What I need is structure. Rules. Boundaries. The things that have always helped me make sense of chaos.
I pull out a fresh page in my notebook and write at the top: “Terms of Arrangement.” Then I list the rules Dean and I established that first night:
Keep our academic relationship separate and professional.
Tell no one. (Except Sadie knows. Sort of.)
Either of us can end it anytime, no questions asked.
Then I add a few more.
No emotional entanglement.
No sleepovers.
Texting only for logistics, not conversation.
No jealousy or possessiveness.
I stare at the list, tapping my pen against the paper. These are good boundaries. Sensible. Safe.
So why do they suddenly feel like constraints rather than protections?
