I wake up before my alarm and lie there anyway, staring at the ceiling like it might explain something if I give it enough time.
My chest feels tight. Not panic. Just pressure. Like holding your breath too long without realizing you’re doing it.
The guest room smells unfamiliar. Neutral. Like I haven’t lived here long enough to leave an imprint. That thought stings more than it should.
I sit up slowly. My feet touch the floor. Cold. Real. Grounding.
For a second, I consider crawling back into bed. Pretending today doesn’t exist.
Then I remember his voice.
Yes.
I don’t cry. That surprises me. I thought that word would hollow me out. Instead, it settled somewhere deep and heavy, like a truth I’d already folded into myself without permission.
In the kitchen, Ethan is already dressed.
