The apartment door closes behind us with a sound that feels too final for a Tuesday night.
Not a slam. Ethan doesn’t do that. Just a soft click. Controlled. Careful. Like if he’s gentle enough, nothing else will break.
I kick off my heels by the door. One lands upright. The other tips over. That feels symbolic somehow, but I don’t have the energy to chase the thought. My feet ache. My jaw aches from smiling too long. My chest aches from holding things in.
The gala is still clinging to me. Perfume. Camera flashes. Polite laughter that never quite reaches the eyes. The way people kept looking at Ethan like they were waiting for him to explode again. Or apologise. Or explain.
I hated that part most.
Being looked at like context.
Ethan shrugs off his jacket and hangs it neatly, even thou
