Instead, when I locked the door behind me, I cried because no one else had a key.
The apartment smelled faintly of cinnamon from downstairs. The sofa was blue, the kitchen table scratched, and one of the lamps leaned slightly no matter how many times I straightened it. I walked from room to room touching things: the doorframe, the windowsill, the chipped mug in the cabinet.
Mine, for now.
Safe, for now.
That night, Clara came over with a paper bag full of soup containers and fury.
She burst through the door and wrapped me in a hug so tight I almost dropped the bowl I was holding.
“You should have told me,” she said into my shoulder.
“I know.”
She pulled back, her eyes shining. “No. You don’t get to say that like it solves anything. I knew something was wrong. I knew. But every time I tried to reach you, he said you were resting, or traveling, or too overwhelmed. Then you started sending those strange texts.”
