Through My Fingers
By Olivia Salter
The first time Michael saw Naomi, she was slipping between crowds like smoke, her dark curls catching the light of the setting sun. He had been leaving a coffee shop, distracted by a voicemail he didn’t want to hear—his mother’s voice, clipped and urgent, reminding him of a dinner he had no intention of attending—when she passed him. Just a whisper of sandalwood and something sweeter, lingering in the air like the afterthought of a dream.
By the time he turned, she was already across the street, her laughter spilling into the dusk. It wasn’t the loud kind that demanded attention, but something softer, a private amusement shared with the person beside her. Michael couldn’t hear what was said, but the way she tipped her head back slightly, the way the neon signs reflected in her eyes, made him wish he had. The moment stretched—too brief, too fragile—and then she was gone, swallowed by the shifting tide of pedestrians.
For weeks, she existed in glimpses. A silhouette framed against the glow of a bookstore window, fingers drifting over the spines of novels she never bought. Once, he watched her pull a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages with an absentminded curiosity, only to slide it back into place and leave without looking back. Another time, he caught sight of her slipping into a jazz lounge, her figure vanishing behind a closing door just as a slow trumpet began to play. He lingered outside longer than he meant to, listening to the music she was lost in.
She was an echo, a flicker in the corner of his eye, always half a step ahead. A name he almost asked about but never did.
Then, suddenly, she was real.
They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at—he, dragged by a coworker who insisted he “needed to get out more”; she, indulging a cousin who had already abandoned her in favor of someone new. The air inside was thick with bass-heavy music, perfume, and the mingling scents of expensive cologne and spilled cocktails.
Michael had been nursing a drink he didn’t want, scanning the room for an excuse to leave, when he spotted her. Naomi, leaning against the balcony railing, the city stretching behind her in glittering indifference. The amber liquid in her glass caught the glow of a nearby lantern, casting warm reflections against her skin. She didn’t look bored, exactly—more like she existed just outside of everything happening around her, untouched.
For a long moment, he only watched. Not out of hesitation, but because she looked like she belonged there, in that space between presence and absence, as if the world shifted just slightly to accommodate her. And then, without turning, she spoke.
“You’re always looking.”
Her voice was low, threaded with quiet amusement, as if she had been waiting for him to say something first and, when he hadn’t, decided to break the silence herself.
His throat tightened. “At what?”
She tilted her head slightly, finally meeting his gaze, and smirked. “At me.”
A slow heat crept up his neck, but he held her gaze. He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her stay in this moment a little longer, but all he could think about was every time he had seen her before—half-formed memories of a woman who had always been just out of reach.
Michael hadn’t realized he’d been chasing her until he finally caught her.
Naomi was not a woman who could be held.
Some nights, she pressed against him, her body fitting against his as if she had always belonged there. Her fingers traced the curve of his collarbone, delicate and unhurried, like she was memorizing the shape of him. She whispered about constellations, their Greek names rolling off her tongue like poetry, her breath warm against his skin. Orion, cursed by the gods. Cassiopeia, punished for her vanity. She spoke of myths like they were memories, as if she had lived them herself, and Michael listened, entranced, as though holding onto every word might keep her from fading.
Other nights, she disappeared. Days would pass without a word. His messages sat unread, his calls rang unanswered. Then, just as suddenly, she’d return—slipping through his door with the scent of rain in her hair, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek as if she had never been gone. If he asked where she had been, she would only smile, shifting the conversation elsewhere. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had last night. Do you ever think about leaving the city? She existed in the spaces between presence and absence, and Michael, despite everything, let her.
He told himself it was enough. That he understood her silences as well as her laughter. That he could accept the way she vanished, the way she never truly belonged to any moment for long.
But understanding something doesn’t mean you can live with it.
One night, she stirred beside him, her breath soft against his shoulder. He had been half-asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing, when her voice, quiet but certain, cut through the darkness.
“Michael,” she whispered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
His eyes opened. He turned his head, but she was already staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable in the dim light.
“What do you mean?”
She exhaled, the sound barely more than a sigh. “I think some people are ghosts before they die. Drifting, unable to stay anywhere for too long. Always belonging to something else.”
Michael reached for her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She let him, but her grip was loose, barely there, like the ghost she claimed to be.
“Is that what you are?” he asked.
Naomi didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to.
It unraveled slowly, like the fraying edges of a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.
The first time she left without answering his calls, he told himself she just needed space. He remembered thinking that everyone had their own battles, their own moments of retreat. It wasn’t the first time she had withdrawn, and he could almost convince himself that it was normal. They’d been together long enough for him to know that Naomi had a way of disappearing into herself when the world became too loud. He could give her that, he told himself. Time.
The second time, the silence stretched longer. His messages went unread, his calls unanswered, but he convinced himself it was just a phase. Maybe she had gotten busy, maybe she was dealing with something she didn’t want to burden him with. He tried to fill the empty space with rational thoughts, telling himself it was temporary. But doubt began to gnaw at him, that small flicker of unease that had once been a whisper now turning into a murmur of worry.
By the third time, he stopped calling. The quiet in the apartment where they used to share small moments felt heavier now. Each unanswered call made it harder to convince himself that this was just another bump in the road. He felt like he was losing her in pieces, and the weight of it pressed down on him, settling in his chest like a stone. He let the silence stretch further, hoping she would break it, but she never did. And in the stillness, he realized he had already given up trying to reach her.
One night, standing outside her apartment, he knocked twice. Then a third time. His knuckles rapped against the door, but it was as if he was knocking on the very thing that separated them—time, space, the shifting currents of something he couldn’t grasp. The hallway smelled of rain and dust, the air thick with the hush of something already lost. His breath came in shallow, measured intervals as he waited for the sound of footsteps, the turning of the lock.
But there was nothing.
He knew she was inside. He knew she wouldn’t open the door. He could almost hear her breathing on the other side, could feel the weight of her presence, the distance between them. He waited, hoping for some kind of sign, some gesture that would tell him she hadn’t completely disappeared. But the moments stretched, and still, there was no answer.
Eventually, he turned away, the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the hallway. It was a hollow kind of walk, one that felt as if he had already said goodbye. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t had the chance.
The last time he saw her, it wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t anything. Naomi had stood in his doorway, half-turned toward the night, her expression unreadable, a shadow clinging to her face that he couldn’t place. He wanted to ask her where she was going, what had happened, what had changed, but the words caught in his throat. He had never been good at asking the right questions when it mattered most.
She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe, fingers almost gripping it, as if she was weighing something heavier than the night between them. Then, without a word, she left.
Days later, when he finally went looking for her, she was gone. Her number disconnected, her apartment emptied, the space she once filled now vacant and silent. The emptiness gnawed at him, each step he took through the city streets feeling more like a search for a ghost than a person.
The only thing left was a note slipped beneath his door. It was simple, almost too simple for the weight it carried.
"You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay."
Michael read it twice. Then once more. The words blurred together as his eyes stung. There was nothing more to it—no explanation, no apology, no closure.
The ink at the end was smudged, as if she had almost changed her mind, as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted to be held. She had been right there, just on the edge of turning back, of letting herself be caught. But she never did.
As if, for one brief moment, she remembered what it felt like to be wanted, to be loved. But that wasn’t enough to hold her. Naomi was the wind—felt, but never kept. Her presence was like the air itself—always around him, but impossible to hold, to contain. And love, however deep, however honest, had never been enough to keep her from drifting away.
