Chapter 27
IVY
I’m going back to Ravelle.
It’s decided.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. There’s no moment where everything clicks into place.
It’s quieter than that.
Which makes it worse.
It settles into me like something inevitable—like a conclusion I’ve been circling for days without wanting to admit it.
Because since I got back to Miami, things haven’t just gone back to normal. They’ve gotten worse.
Not all at once. Not in a way I can easily point to and say this is the problem.
It’s a buildup.
Pressure stacking until there’s no room left to breathe.
My friend Adrian—if that’s even what he is anymore—has shifted into something colder. Tighter smiles. Passive comments that slide under the surface and stay there. That constant undercurrent of disapproval, like I’ve done something wrong just by existing differently from his expectations.
Like leaving for a weekend was an unforgivable betrayal.
Like coming back means I owe him something.
And he’s going to collect. Slowly.
Then there’s the other roommate. Back. I’d only met him briefly before he left on a work trip, but I found him annoying then. And this time, he’s much louder than before. Messier. Unpredictable in a way that keeps my body on edge even when nothing’s happening.
Music blasting at random hours. Doors slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.
Voices—too many voices—drifting in and out of the house—people I don’t know, don’t recognize, don’t trust. Laughter that cuts through the space like something invasive.
The smell of alcohol soaked into everything.
Sticky. Permanent. Like it’s seeped into the walls.
There’s no quiet anymore. No stillness. No space. No air.
My nervous system, which had just started—just started—to settle, has completely unraveled again.
I jump at everything. Every sound. Every shift. Every unexpected movement.
I check under the bed. In the closet. Behind the door—every time, like something might be waiting for me. Like something might have changed while I was gone.
Like I’m not safe unless I prove it to myself over and over again.
And then there are the cameras. Strategically placed. Living room. Porch. Little black lenses catching light at angles I don’t trust. I don’t know where all of them are—that’s the worst part.
Every time I move through the house, I feel watched. Tracked. Studied.
“What’s the problem?” Adrian had said when I brought it up—when I told him how betrayed I felt by doing my psychology intake session in front of a hidden camera—with audio. And when I explained how it impacted me, he just shook his head and scoffed.
Which is his reaction to literally every boundary I try to set—every concern I try to raise.
As usual, I just dropped it. Because I’m existing in a space that isn’t mine, performing a version of myself I don’t recognize.
And now—now his roommate wants me to pay rent. Not because he needs it. Because he wants it. Because he’s decided I should contribute to something I never agreed to be part of.
“I would never charge you,” Adrian says, like he’s generous. Like he’s kind. Like he’s doing me a favor I should be grateful for. “I’d prefer you use your money to focus on healing.”
Healing. Of course.
I almost laugh.
It catches in my throat instead.
I don’t want to be here.
“But he wasn’t expecting you to stay this long,” he continues, calm, measured, reasonable in a way that makes me feel irrational for even reacting. “He thought it would just be a few days. Now that it’s… extended, he’d like you to contribute.”
Like this is normal. Like this makes sense. Like I’m the one making it complicated.
As if he couldn’t have sorted this before I arrived, rather than springing it on both of us that neither had any idea what the arrangement was.
Telling each of us separate versions, what we each wanted to hear, setting us up for an inevitable conflict and then stepping away quietly with a subtle smile.
I swallow hard. My chest tightens. I want to scream.
The thought of paying to stay in this hellhole—of funding the noise, the chaos, the constant, suffocating pressure—makes my stomach churn. Because I've seen what goes on here on weekends. That's what he wants to spend my rent on—cocaine and god knows what else to keep his party going.
Everything feels louder now. Sharper. The walls feel thinner. The air heavier. Even my thoughts feel too big for my head, bouncing around with nowhere to go, no space to land.
What was supposed to be a sanctuary has twisted into something else entirely. Something claustrophobic that presses in from all sides. Something I can’t breathe inside.
A slow mirror of exactly what I came here to escape.
I didn’t come here to freeload. And I definitely didn’t come here to live like this.
This was supposed to be temporary.
A place to land. To catch my breath and leave.
But somewhere along the way, that shifted.
Or maybe it was always like this, and I just didn’t see it. Now it feels like they’ve decided I belong here. Not as an equal. Not as someone passing through. As something… lesser.
A presence to work around. A second-class version of a person occupying space that isn’t really hers.
Timing my meals so I don’t inconvenience them. Avoiding the kitchen when they’re in it. Not touching certain things. Not taking up too much room. Not making too much noise. Not being too much.
It’s subtle some of the time, but it’s constant.
And it’s working.
I can feel myself shrinking. Adjusting. Making myself smaller in ways I don’t even consciously choose.
They’re both loud. Dominant. Expansive. And I’m folding in on myself to fit around them. Expected to be grateful. Always grateful.
I can feel it in my body. That low, constant hum of tension—like I’m bracing for something that never fully happens, but never fully stops, either.
I’m rotting here from the inside out.
The only thing that cuts through it is him.
Soren.
We’re in constant contact now. Texts. Calls. Voice notes. It barely stops. And I don’t want it to.
I check my phone without thinking, all the time. Waiting. Anticipating. Needing it.
Every time his name lights up my screen, something in me settles instantly. Like my body recognizes him before my mind catches up. Like he’s the answer to something I didn’t know how to fix on my own.
And when there’s silence—even just a little too long—it feels wrong. Sharp. Like something’s missing.
I hate it. I don’t like being here without him. I don’t like the distance.
I need to be closer. Within reach. Close enough to call his name and hear him answer from the next room. Always.
There’s a crash from the living room. Loud. Sudden.
My body reacts before my brain does. A full-body flinch.
Then shouting. Laughter layered over it—too loud, too sharp, too much.
My chest tightens. I close my eyes, pressing my fingers into my temple, trying to shut it out.
It doesn’t work.
Nothing works.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Soren:
You seem off.
I stare at the message.
At how quickly he picked up on it. At how easily he saw through me, never mind the distance.
Me:
It’s just loud here.
The reply comes instantly.
Soren:
Then leave.
My breath catches.
Simple. Direct. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s easy.
Me:
I can’t just take off.
Soren:
You can.
A pause, then I see the typing bubble again. And I know before the words even appear.
Soren:
Come back.
Something shifts.
Deep.
Immediate.
The noise outside spikes—someone bangs into the wall and I flinch again, my body already halfway out of this space before my mind catches up.
I look around the room. At the half-unpacked suitcase I finally got back from the airline. At the clothes I never put away. At the space that never felt like mine.
There’s nothing tying me here. I just have a couple of suitcases worth of belongings. I can do my job from anywhere, as long as I have my laptop, a phone and an internet connection.
And I don’t think.
I don’t weigh it.
I don’t analyze consequences or timing or whether this makes sense.
I just move.
Laptop open. Flights to Ravelle.
Click. Book. Done.
My hands are shaking by the time the confirmation loads. Adrenaline floods my system, sharp and electric.
It feels reckless. Impulsive. Too fast.
And at the same time, completely right.
Like this was always going to happen. Like I’ve just caught up to something that was already in motion.
Me:
I booked flights. I’ll be back in a few days.
Soren:
Good. Come back here, stray.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at the screen. A flicker of panic rises—quick, suffocating, threatening to overtake everything else.
Deep breaths, Ivy.
You can leave again. You can change your mind.
Nothing about this has to be permanent.
Nothing is irreversible.
I repeat it to myself until it almost sounds true.
Almost.
Because somewhere underneath that—quieter, but stronger—there’s another thought. One I don’t say out loud. One I don’t fully let myself touch.
That this isn’t just a visit. That this isn’t temporary.
That I’m not just going back to Ravelle for a weekend.
I’m going back to him.