Gianna.
It’s Saturday morning.
I know this not just because I keep up with the days, it's also because the house feels different—slower, quieter. No alarms. No rushing footsteps. Just sunlight slipping through the curtains like it has nowhere else to be.
I lie awake longer than I should, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths.
It’s been a while since Ivan and I last spoke properly.
No fights.
No closure.
Just silence.
Well—almost.
There are still glances. Passing looks in the hallway. The kind that lingers for half a second too long before one of us looks away. There’s awareness in every shared space, like we’re both pretending the other doesn’t exist while feeling them everywhere.
I hate it.
I hate that I keep thinking about him.
I hate that I notice everything.
A soft knoc
