Ms. Deloera

𝓔ssay 10

The morning light reaches my room before I'm ready for it.

It slips through the gap in the curtains, pale and uninsistent, touching the edge of my desk first, then the floor, then finally my bed. I don't move right away. I lie there and let it happen, my body heavy in that way that isn't quite exhaustion and isn't quite rest either.

Monday.

It settles differently than the weekend did. Quieter. Expectant. Like something is supposed to resume, even though I don't feel finished with anything.

My stomach twists, low and sharp enough that I inhale through my nose and press my lips together.

It's not subtle anymore. It hasn't been for a while.

I ignored it yesterday because there was adrenaline to lean on, because there was noise and lights and movement.

This morning there's nothing to drown it out.

I bring a hand to my abdomen without thinking, fingers flattening there like I can soothe it by touch alone.

"Okay," I murmur, barely audible. Not annoyed. Not angry. Just acknowledging it. "Okay."

I sit up slowly, waiting for the faint wave of lightheadedness to pass before I stand. I've learned that much about myself. That rushing only makes things worse. The room tilts slightly anyway, then steadies.

I notice everything about myself as I move.

The stiffness in my shoulders.

The way my jaw feels tight, like I slept clenching it.

The faint, hollow ache that sits beneath my ribs, insistent and unimpressed by excuses.

I pad into the bathroom and flick on the light, blinking against the brightness. My reflection looks back at me immediately, unfiltered and unprepared.

I don't judge it.

I catalogue.

My eyes look darker this morning. Not dramatic. Just focused inward. My skin is a little dull, my lips paler than usual. My hair has fallen into the shape of sleep, bent and slightly flattened on one side.

I look like someone who has been holding herself together carefully.

I splash cold water onto my face, letting the shock settle me back into my body. When I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles whiten almost instantly. I loosen them on purpose, exhaling.

In the kitchen, the quiet feels different than it did yesterday. Less heavy. More practical. Morning-quiet instead of absence-quiet.

I open the fridge and stare into it longer than necessary.

This is usually the part where I negotiate. Where I tell myself I'll eat later. After class. After work. After something else feels more important.

My stomach answers for me this time, twisting again, sharper.

I don't argue.

I take out bread, eggs, fruit. Nothing elaborate.

Nothing that requires thinking too hard.

My hands move slowly, deliberately. I toast the bread just enough to give it warmth.

I scramble the eggs softly, careful not to rush them.

I cut the fruit into small pieces, neat and controlled, even though no one is watching.

I sit at the table and force myself to stay there.

I eat slowly. Consciously. I notice the texture of everything. The warmth. The way my stomach resists at first, then gradually eases, the ache dulling into something quieter. I don't rush it. I don't distract myself with my phone.

When I'm done, I don't feel full.

I feel steadier.

That feels like enough.

I clean up immediately, wiping the counter until it's spotless, grounding myself in the simple order of it. Then I lean against the sink for a moment, eyes closed, letting my body settle into the fact that it's been listened to.

My thoughts drift before I can stop them.

The hallway.

Celeste's voice, low and calm.

The way her hand felt at my elbow ,not possessive, not demanding. Just there.

You're safe.

You're doing well.

The memory tightens something in my chest, not painfully. More like a quiet ache. A wanting that doesn't have a name yet.

I don't let myself linger there.

I go back to my room and start getting ready for the day.

Choosing clothes feels different this morning. More intentional. I lay things out on the bed instead of grabbing the first thing that feels clean. I run my fingers over fabric, noticing what feels grounding instead of what looks impressive.

I settle on dark trousers and a soft, fitted top in a muted shade, not black, not white. Something in between. Something calm. I add a black coat, structured but familiar, and boots that feel solid against the floor when I step into them.

I watch myself dress in the mirror.

Not critically.

Curiously.

I notice how my posture changes when the outfit comes together. How my shoulders square without me forcing them to. How I look... composed. Not distant. Just contained.

Sitting in front of my vanity, I line up my makeup carefully.

I start with my eyes.

This part always slows me down.

I hold the eyeliner between my fingers and hesitate, the way I always do, and the memory comes quietly, uninvited but gentle.

My mother, standing behind me in the bathroom when I was younger. Her hand over mine, guiding instead of controlling.

Don't pull too hard, she'd said.

Let it rest.

Breathe first.

I inhale now, steady and deliberate, and draw the line slowly. I don't rush it. I don't try to make it perfect on the first pass. I adjust it with patience, small movements, trusting the process the way she taught me.

The thought of her doesn't hurt the way it used to.

It just... exists.

I finish the rest of my makeup lightly. Concealer where it's needed. A touch of bronzer, subtle and familiar. Lip balm instead of color. I want softness today. Not armor.

When I'm done, I study myself one last time.

I look awake.

I look present.

I look like someone who is trying.

That feels like enough too.

I grab my bag and my keys and pause by the door, one hand resting on the handle longer than necessary. My body feels steadier now, quieter, like it's been given what it needed even if I didn't want to admit it.

As I step outside, the air is cool and clear, grounding in a way I welcome. I breathe it in deeply, feeling it settle in my lungs.

The day waits.

And for the first time since the event, I feel like I might be able to meet it without folding in on myself.

The car door closes with a soft, final click.

The sound feels louder than it should in the quiet street. I set my bag on the passenger seat, keys still in my hand, and sit there for a second before starting the engine. The inside of the car smells faintly like fabric and last night's vanilla, the air cool against my skin.

I exhale slowly.

That's when my phone rings.

The sound startles me, sharp and sudden in the enclosed space. I freeze, fingers still wrapped around the keys, pulse jumping before my mind can catch up.

I glance down.

Unknown number.

My stomach tightens immediately. Not fear. Recognition. The quiet, unpleasant kind that settles low and instinctive, like my body remembers something my mind hasn't finished processing yet.

It rang before.

Like one week ago.

I didn't answer then.

The phone keeps vibrating in my hand.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. The car is still off. The world outside is perfectly normal. A bird somewhere. A door closing down the street. Nothing about this moment should feel wrong.

Still, it does.

I swipe to answer.

"Hello?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

Silence.

No background noise. No breath. No static. Just nothing. Too clean. Too deliberate.

I frown slightly, grip tightening on the phone. "Hello?"

For a moment, I think maybe the call dropped.

Then a voice cuts in.

Male.

Low.

Close.

The word lands quietly. Flat. Not rushed. Not raised.

Before I can respond, before I can even ask what that means, the line goes dead.

I stare at the screen.

My heartbeat starts to pick up, thudding heavier in my chest, each beat suddenly too noticeable. I check the call log immediately, like it might offer clarity.

The number is still there.

I press call back without thinking.

It rings once.

Then stops.

Declined.

My hand lowers slowly, the phone resting against my thigh. The inside of the car feels different now. Smaller. Like something invisible shifted when I answered.

"Okay," I murmur, though the word feels thin.

I sit there longer than I mean to, eyes unfocused on the windshield. My thoughts scatter immediately.

Who was that.

Why now.

Why say anything at all.

And beneath all of it, a quieter, more unsettling question:

Why did it sound like they expected me to listen.

I place the phone face-down in the cup holder, as if that might keep it quiet. My fingers feel faintly numb as I finally start the engine, the sound grounding and jarringly normal.

The car pulls away from the curb.

The day continues.

But whatever just happened doesn't feel finished.

By the time I reach campus, the earlier calm has thinned out.

Not vanished. Just stretched. Like something fragile pulled too tight.

I spot Jade and Marcus near the steps outside the lecture building, exactly where they always end up, like the space has learned to expect them.

Jade is talking with her hands, matcha balanced precariously in one, while Marcus stands beside her, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression neutral in a way that suggests he's listening more than he looks like he is.

I slow slightly as I approach them, smoothing my jacket without realizing it.

"There she is," Jade says the moment she sees me. "Alive. Radiant. Mysterious."

"I'm not mysterious," I say automatically.

Marcus snorts. "You disappeared into a car with a powerful woman and didn't text for twelve hours."

"That's... not how that happened."

Jade grins, eyes bright. "You went to an event. With her. You don't get to downplay that."

I shrug one shoulder, but my face warms anyway. "It was work."

"Sure," Marcus says dryly. "And I'm emotionally stable."

I huff a laugh before I can stop myself. The sound feels grounding. Familiar. Jade bumps her shoulder lightly into mine as we start walking toward the building.

"So," she says, lowering her voice just enough to signal she's serious now. "How was it?"

The question isn't teasing. Not really. It's careful.

I hesitate.

There are a hundred answers I could give. None of them feel quite right.

"It was... a lot," I say finally.

Marcus glances at me. "Good lot or bad lot."

"Just... a lot."

Jade hums thoughtfully. "You look different."

I stiffen slightly. "Different how."

"Not bad," she says quickly. "Just... quieter. Like you went somewhere and came back with it still on you."

I don't know what to do with that, so I don't try. We walk in companionable silence for a few steps before Jade sighs dramatically.

"Okay but enough about your wife," she says. "I had the worst night."

My face turned pale.

"My what-" I tried to say while I'm in complete shock, but Jade interrupts me.

She launches into a story about her roommate, a missed deadline, and a very passive-aggressive sticky note. I listen, nodding, laughing when appropriate. It helps, the shift away from me. The normalcy of it.

Still, my thoughts drift.

They always do.

I feel like I think about the same thing over and over again.

Or the same someone.

Celeste.

The way her nose moves up and down when she talks.

The calm certainty in her voice when she said I was doing well.

The comfort wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. That's what makes it linger. It felt deliberate. Earned. Given.

And now that I've felt it, some quiet part of me wants it again.

I don't like that realization.

Our first class passes in a blur. Then the next. I take notes because I know how. Because my hand moves even when my mind doesn't fully engage. I participate when I'm called on. I listen. I exist.

But none of it lands.

My attention keeps skipping ahead, like it's already seated somewhere else, waiting.

Celeste's class.

By the time we file out of the last lecture before it, my stomach tightens again, not hunger this time. Anticipation. I notice how my posture shifts without permission. How I straighten slightly, adjust my bag strap, breathe more carefully.

Jade notices.

She always does.

"You're doing that thing," she says under her breath.

"What thing."

"The thing where you pretend you're not excited about something you are very excited about."

Marcus smirks. "Is it the literature thing."

"It's just a class," I say.

Jade sighs. "Oh my god, you're so nonchalant, Ivy."

We reach the hallway outside Celeste's classroom. The air feels different here. Quieter. Charged in a way that has nothing to do with noise. Students linger more deliberately, conversations lower, movements restrained.

I choose a seat a few rows back, close enough to see everything without being obvious. Marcus drops into the chair beside me. Jade sits on my other side, crossing her legs and leaning back like she owns the place.

The door opens.

I feel it before I see her.

Celeste walks in with the same contained authority she always carries, dressed in dark, clean lines that feel intentional rather than severe. A tailored jacket. Crisp blouse. Everything perfectly where it should be. Her hair is smooth, controlled, her expression neutral.

My attention locks.

I hate how easily it happens.

She sets her bag down, places her notes neatly on the desk, and looks out at the room like she's already taken inventory of everyone in it.

Including me.

Or maybe not.

Celeste doesn't start right away.

She stands at the front of the room for a few seconds, hands resting lightly on the desk, letting the low hum of conversation die out on its own. She never asks for silence. She waits for it. And the room, predictably, gives it to her.

She writes a single word on the board.

RESTRAINT.

The chalk makes a soft, precise sound as she sets it down.

"In literature," she says calmly, "what matters just as much as what is written is what is withheld."

Her voice is even, controlled, almost soothing in its steadiness. I feel myself lean forward without realizing it, pen poised above the page.

She turns slightly, one hip resting against the desk. The cut of her jacket emphasizes her waist without trying to. Everything about her looks intentional. Considered. Like she never ends up anywhere by accident.

I notice too much.

The way her sleeves sit perfectly at her veiny arms.

The way her fingers move when she gestures, minimal and exact.

The way she lets silence exist without rushing to fill it.

She opens a book and reads a short passage aloud. Slowly. Carefully. She doesn't dramatize it. She lets the language do the work.

When she finishes, she closes the book and looks up.

"Why does this work," she asks, gaze sweeping the room, "when so much is left unsaid."

My heart jumps immediately.

I know this.

Not because I memorized it. Because I feel it. Because I've been sitting in restraint for weeks now, living inside the unsaid, learning how heavy it can be.

I want her to notice me.

I raise my hand.

Celeste's eyes find me almost instantly.

For a brief, dangerous second, the room narrows to just that. Her gaze isn't warm. It isn't cold. It's focused. Sharp. Like she's taking me in all at once.

I feel it everywhere.

The quiet confidence in her expression.

The authority that doesn't need to assert itself.

The faint echo of her hand at my elbow from the hallway, steady and grounding.

I think, suddenly and stupidly, about how safe that felt.

About how I want it again.

She holds my gaze.

Just long enough for hope to flicker.

Then her eyes shift.

"Marcus," she says evenly. "What do you think."

Something in my chest drops, subtle but immediate.

I lower my hand slowly, pen pressing harder into the page than it needs to. I tell myself not to react. That it doesn't mean anything. That she's just managing the room.

Marcus answers. It's fine. Adequate. He's not wrong.

Celeste nods once. "Yes. That's part of it."

She turns back to the board, continuing as if nothing happened, as if she hadn't looked at me at all.

But I feel it.

The distance.

It's precise. Deliberate. Controlled.

As she keeps teaching, I listen closely. Too closely. I write things down that I already understand just to give my hands something to do. My thoughts keep drifting back to the same place, circling something I don't want to name.

I notice the cadence of her voice again. The way it settles instead of excites. The way it commands attention without raising itself.

I notice how calm she looks now. Closed. Professional.

Not the woman in the hallway.

And that contrast hurts more than it should.

I don't want her attention like praise.

I want it like reassurance.

The realization makes my stomach twist.

I sit straighter, listening harder, like effort might bridge the gap. Like if I prove something again, she'll look at me the same way she did before.

She doesn't.

She's your professor.

And your boss, Ivy.

What are you thinking?

I'm talking to myself great.

She moves through the rest of the lecture with measured ease, calling on other students, guiding the discussion, never once meeting my eyes again.

When the class ends, I close my notebook slowly, fingers lingering on the cover.

I don't look back as we leave.

But the absence stays with me, quiet and insistent, all the way into the hallway.

The drive to work feels longer than it is.

Not because of traffic or distance, but because my thoughts won't settle. They keep looping back, snagging on the same points no matter how many times I tell myself to focus on the road.

The look she gave me.

The look she didn't give me after.

I adjust my grip on the steering wheel, noticing how my shoulders sit too high, how my jaw tightens when I catch myself replaying it again. I force myself to exhale slowly, counting the breath out until my chest loosens a fraction.

It was just a class, I tell myself.

Just a moment.

Still, my body doesn't quite believe it.

By the time I pull up outside the building, the earlier steadiness has thinned again, stretched taut by wanting something I can't ask for. I sit in the car for a second before getting out, straightening my jacket, grounding myself in the small ritual of checking my bag. Phone. Notebook. Keys.

Work mode.

Inside, the air is cooler, quieter. Familiar. I step fully into it and let the shift happen, the part of me that knows how to be useful sliding into place without much resistance.

Ava is already there.

She looks up when she hears my footsteps, expression brightening immediately. "Hey," she says. "You made it."

"I always do," I reply, setting my bag down beside my desk.

She smiles. "True. You good?"

The question is casual, but her eyes linger just long enough that I know she's actually asking.

"I'm fine," I say, and this time it's close enough to the truth to pass.

We fall into work easily. Emails. Schedules. Small tasks that require attention but not emotion. I like this part. The clarity of it. The way lists behave when you give them structure.

At one point, Ava leans back in her chair and stretches. "By the way," she says, "you were impressive at the event."

I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "You weren't there."

"Didn't have to be," she replies lightly. "Word travels fast."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Thank you, Ava."

Ava purses her lips. "Aw, you're welcome."

I smile softly, not trusting myself to say more. Praise still feels strange today. Like it lands on a surface that isn't quite solid yet.

A little later, I'm sent to deliver materials to the styling room.

Armando is there, of course, moving through racks of fabric like he owns the air around them. He looks up when he sees me and smiles immediately, warm and sharp all at once.

"There you are," he says. "I was wondering when you'd appear."

"I have these for you," I reply, handing over the folder.

He takes it, then looks at me instead of opening it. "You look tired," he observes, not unkindly.

I shrug. "Long weekend."

He smirks. "That's how it starts."

I laugh despite myself. "That's not ominous at all."

He finally flips through the papers, nodding approvingly. "You did well," he adds, casually, like it's obvious. "Celeste doesn't keep people around if they don't."

The comment lands quietly. I don't respond right away.

Armando glances at me over the top of the folder, eyes perceptive. "Relax," he says lightly. "You're doing fine."

That phrase again.

I nod, grateful and unsettled all at once.

When I return to my desk, I catch myself glancing toward Celeste's office without meaning to. The glass reflects light, shapes moving behind it, but she isn't visible. Or maybe she is and I just can't tell.

I sit down and force myself to focus.

Work continues. Tasks get done. Time moves.

But underneath it all, something hums quietly and unresolved.

I keep wondering if the distance I felt in class will follow us here.

And worse than that, I keep wondering how much I want it not to.

Work doesn't quiet my thoughts the way it usually does.

Emails. Schedules. Notes that require precision but not imagination. I'm good at this part. I like the clarity of it.

Still, my attention keeps lifting.

Celeste's office is visible from here.

Not fully exposed, but enough. The glass walls catch light and reflection, turning everything slightly muted, slightly distant. She's inside. I know she is before I really look, the way you know when a room changes temperature.

I glance up.

She's standing near her desk, tablet in hand, jacket still on. Dark, clean lines. Structured. Her sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal her wrists, the gesture so familiar now it almost feels intentional. Her posture is immaculate, shoulders straight, head inclined as she reads.

She looks... closed.

Not cold. Not harsh.

Just sealed back into herself.

Something in my chest tightens quietly.

I look back down at my screen before I let myself stare too long. I don't want to be obvious. I don't want to be someone she notices for the wrong reasons.

I finish one task and move on to the next, but the awareness doesn't fade. It lingers, humming under everything I do.

I keep thinking about class.

The moment she looked at me.

The moment she didn't choose me.

I replay it in my head without wanting to, the pause just long enough to let hope surface before it disappeared again. I wonder if she felt it too. If she noticed my hand lowering. If she knows how loud that silence felt from my seat.

I straighten unconsciously, adjusting my posture, as if sitting correctly might undo the feeling. My shoulders are tense again. I notice it and force them down, inhaling slowly.

Across from me, Ava types steadily, expression relaxed. She glances up briefly, then back at her screen, and I envy how present she seems. How uncomplicated.

I focus harder.

My eyes flick up again.

Celeste has moved now, seated behind her desk. She's speaking quietly on the phone, one hand resting against the edge of the table, the other holding the receiver. I can't hear her, obviously, but I notice the way her mouth moves. Controlled. Minimal. Every word measured.

She nods once.

Then again.

She hangs up and leans back slightly in her chair, eyes closing for just a second longer than necessary before she opens them again.

That moment does something to me.

It's nothing. Barely a thing at all. But it feels intimate in a way I didn't ask for. Like I saw something I wasn't meant to.

I look away immediately, heat creeping into my face.

Why am I reacting like this.

I want her attention.

The realization settles slowly, uncomfortably, in my chest.

I don't like how much that mirrors the hallway. The way her presence steadied me without effort. The way her voice grounded something inside me that I didn't even realize was slipping.

And now she's here, visible but unreachable, like a reminder that whatever that moment was, it's contained. Finished.

Ava leans back in her chair and stretches, breaking the spell. "I'm starving," she says. "Which feels rude, considering it's barely afternoon."

I manage a small smile.

She turns slightly toward me, eyebrow lifting. "You want to do something Friday?"

The question lands gently, no pressure behind it.

Friday.

"I think I'm free," I say carefully.

"Good," Ava says, smiling. "I'll text you the details. Nothing fancy."

I hesitate, not because I don't want to, but because my mind immediately checks the glass office again, like permission might be written there.

Celeste hasn't moved.

She's reading again now, expression unreadable, entirely absorbed.

"I'd like that," I say, choosing the answer I want instead of the one my anxiety offers.

Ava nods, satisfied, and turns back to her screen.

I try to do the same.

But my gaze lifts one last time, quiet and unintentional.

Celeste looks up from her tablet then.

Not at me.

Just up.

Still, my breath catches.

For a split second, I wonder what would happen if our eyes met through the glass. If she'd look away. If she'd hold it. If anything would shift at all.

She doesn't look in my direction.

And somehow, that feels deliberate.

I turn back to my work, fingers steady, expression composed, heart doing something slower and heavier beneath it all.

She's there.

And she isn't.

And I don't know which part unsettles me more.

Celeste suddenly comes out of her office.

The glass door opens quietly and the sound is subtle enough that I almost miss it. I look up on instinct anyway, my attention snapping toward the movement before I can stop it.

She steps out, tablet tucked under one arm, expression composed, jacket perfectly in place. Her heels move with controlled precision across the floor, each step deliberate, unhurried.

She doesn't look at me at first.

That somehow feels worse.

I straighten reflexively, posture sharpening, hands stilling on the desk like I'm bracing for inspection.

Celeste stops near Ava's desk, murmurs something I can't hear, then finally turns her head.

Her gaze lands on me.

Not lingering. Not searching.

Assessing.

"Send me the revised schedule by five," she says.

That's it.

No preamble. No softness. No reference to class. To the event. To the hallway.

Just work.

"Yes," I reply immediately, my voice even, professional.

She nods once. Efficient. Satisfied.

Then she turns away.

No second glance. No pause.

She walks past me and toward the exit, the click of her heels fading down the corridor until the space recalibrates again, like something vital just left it.

I sit there, perfectly still, long after she's gone.

My chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with panic. It's more precise than that. Cleaner. Like a line has been drawn and I've just watched it happen in real time.

She saw me.

She chose distance anyway.

I look back at my screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second before I force them to move.

Work resumes.

But the absence stays.

5pm came around faster than I expected.

I send the last files to Celeste, watching the progress bar fill slowly until it disappears. No response comes back. I don't expect one. The quiet feels earned at this point, like the day has finally given me permission to stop bracing.

I shut down my computer and slide my notebook into my bag with care.

"See you tomorrow," Ava says as she stands, stretching her arms above her head.

"Tomorrow," I echo.

She smiles and steps closer, pulling me into a brief hug. It's easy. Uncomplicated. The kind that doesn't ask anything from me except presence.

"Text me if you bail on Friday," she adds lightly.

"I won't," I say, and this time I believe it.

Outside, the air is cooler again. Evening-cool. The kind that settles on your skin instead of cutting through it. The drive home is quiet. I let music play low, something familiar, something that doesn't demand attention.

The house greets me with its usual stillness.

I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes without lining them up this time. It feels like a small rebellion. Or maybe just fatigue. Either way, I let it happen.

The shower is the first thing I want.

I turn the water as hot as I can stand it and step under, closing my eyes as the heat hits my shoulders. It loosens something in me immediately. The tension I've been carrying all day starts to dissolve, melting down my spine and away.

I wash my hair slowly. Thoroughly. I take my time removing my makeup, watching my face soften in the mirror as each layer disappears. Mascara gone. Concealer gone. The version of me that belongs to the day fades out gently.

I pull on my pajamas afterward.

Black lace. Leopard print. Soft and familiar and mine. I notice how my body relaxes as soon as I'm dressed. No posture checks. No awareness of being seen. Just comfort.

I sit at my desk for a while and do some schoolwork. Nothing intense. Reading. Annotating. Writing a few notes that make sense in a quiet, methodical way. My mind stays where I put it. That feels like an accomplishment tonight.

Later, I move into the kitchen.

Cooking feels grounding in a way I don't question anymore. I put water on to boil and start the sauce, stirring slowly as the scent of tomato and cream fills the space. I add the vodka carefully, watching the steam rise, the alcohol burning off, leaving something warmer behind.

I plate it and sit at the table.

I eat slowly.

Not counting. Not negotiating. Just eating.

My thoughts drift to ordinary things. A class assignment I need to finish. Whether I should do laundry tomorrow. If I need groceries. It feels almost strange how calm that is. How quiet.

The memory of the phone call surfaces briefly, like a skipped stone.

Don't.

I exhale and shake my head slightly.

Probably someone joking around. A wrong number. Something stupid that only feels heavier because I'm tired. I decide not to give it more space than that.

After dinner, I pour myself a glass of wine and take it into the living room.

I curl up on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, and pick up my book. The cover is familiar, worn at the edges. I open it without thinking, falling back into a story I've visited before.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

The words settle easily. The characters feel like old acquaintances. I sip my wine slowly, turning pages at an unhurried pace, letting someone else's life take up space in my head for a while.

The house stays quiet around me.

Not hollow.

Just still.