The room holds its breath.
Not the gentle kind—the one that settles over a house when everyone is asleep, when the world has tucked itself in and gone still. Not the one I used to like.
No. This is different. A waiting silence.
The kind that presses against the walls like something alive. Something listening.
Moonlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling glass, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Pale gold, slipping past the heavy curtains like fingers reaching for something they cannot touch.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
My room has always been big—too big, really. High ceilings that swallow sound. Walls that have heard every argument, every slammed door.
I used to rattle around in it like a marble in an empty box, bouncing off walls that never pushed back.
But tonight— Tonight it feels smaller. Tighter.
Because the person I don't want to see is only a few steps away.
