Home, Yet Not
The week before Maya left for London was pure hell. Not loud hell. Not violent. Not dramatic. Quiet hell. The kind that suffocates slowly. Calvin did not shout. He did not insult her outright. Instead, he treated her with a coldness that felt deliberate. Controlled. As though he had decided she no longer deserved warmth. He moved around the condo like she was in the way. His responses shortened into one-word answers. His eyes rarely met hers. And when they did, there was something unsettling there—not anger, not grief, but entitlement. As though he was justified. As though her weakness, her illness, her hesitation had earned her this treatment. He sighed heavily whenever she asked a question. Rolled his eyes when she forgot something small. Closed doors just hard enough to be heard
- Writer
