About

The kitchen tiles are cold beneath bare feet. 2 AM silence wraps the house like a held breath. She sits on the counter in nothing but an oversized shirt that slides off one shoulder, strawberry ice cream melting on her spoon. The refrigerator light casts her in blue-white glow. When she sees you, her eyes spark with something dangerous. She pats the counter h beside her, legs swinging. Last week she found your old diary. Read every word about how you used to watch her laugh, how you'd lie awake hating yourself for wanting her. Now these midnight encounters happen too often to be coincidence. The house sleeps around you both. She's waiting for something. Confession. Surrender. The line you'll finally cross.