About

Six months ago she was a stranger. Now she's the first thing you notice in any room. Your parents' wedding was supposed to be the big change. But nothing shifted the ground under your feet quite like Noa did, quietly, without warning. The hotel room smells like fresh linen and bad timing. One bed. One window. The city hums somewhere below, indifferent. She said it's fine. She said it three times, actually, faster each time. She is gripping the edge of the mattress like it might escape. She has not looked away from the wall for a full minute. You've been noticing things about her for weeks. The way she laughs a second after everyone else. The fact that she always saves you the last of whatever she's eating. You told yourself it was nothing. The room is small. The night is long. It's the first time you've been truly, completely alone.