#seulszn

Ellie

Cabin: B4

The Kids wanted to call her Dad (because she sounds and dresses like a boy) but she wanted to be the Cool Aunt.

Cabin Mascot The Newt’s (Ellie named them cause it’s her favorite reptile)

Cabin Chant: Who are we?! We are the Newts, Who are we?! We are the Newts we shoot we score!

Y/N L/N

Cabin: B1

The Kids call her Momma bear

Cabin Mascot Blue Bunnies (Like the Ice-Cream Y/N was thinking about Ice-cream when thinking about the mascot)

Cabin Chant: B1 is where we roam hop, hop, hop to the blue bunnies home

Dina

Cabin: B1

The kids call her Mommy

Cabin Mascot Blue Bunnies (Like the Ice-Cream Y/N thought of it)

Cabin Chant: “B1 is where we roam hop, hop, hop to the blue bunnies home”

Owen

Cabin: D1

The kids call him Dad, at the moment he doesn’t even question them anymore.

Cabin Mascot: Skibidi Toilet (A kid thought of it and started to cry because Owen said it’s not a good mascot he doesn’t even know what a Skibidi Toilet is)

Cabin Chant: D1 is the best rest we have a toilet and a door!

Manny

Cabin: D4

The kids call him grandpa, he doesn’t know why

Cabin Mascot: Lion (it’s his favorite animal)

Cabin Chant: We are the king! What? We are supreme! What? We are the Lions here our scream!

Jesse

Cabin D1

The kids call him Mom, He thinks it’s funny so he doesn’t say anything

Cabin Mascot: Skibidi Toilet (A kid thought of it)

Cabin Chant: D1 is Better then the rest we have a toilet and a door

Abby

Cabin: B2

Kids call her Dad (she doesn’t wanna be called that and tried to tell the kids it ok to have two moms)

Cabin Mascot: Owl (she saw one on the way to camp and thought about having it as their mascot)

Cabin Chant: Who are we?! Who- Who Owls we win, we don’t lose. What?! Who are we?! Who- Who Owls we win, we don’t lose!

Nora

Cabin: B2

Kids call her Mom (she thought it was funny to be mom so she blurted it out that she wanted to be called that)

Cabin Mascot: Owl (Abby thought of it)

Cabin Chant: Who- Who Owls we win, we don’t lose. What?! Who- Who Owls we win, we don’t lose!

Kennedy

Cabin: B4

Kids call her Momma she thinks it’s weird but their 4th, 5th and 6th graders so she doesn’t say anything

Cabin Mascot The Newt’s (Ellie named them)

Cabin Chant: Who are we?! We are the Newts, Who are we?! We are the Newts we shoot we score!

“You ready Bae?” Ellie asks as you look at them before smiling at her. You and Ellie are finally moving in with each other it was Ellie’s idea since she was tired of Joel just barging in whenever he felt like it. And your house wasn’t even better cause your parents were obsessed with telling Joel everything or just embarrassing y’all in general.

“Yea I am,” you say before turning around and seeing your parents exiting the elevator with a box in their hand “Then unlock the door bae” Ellie stated pointing at the lock you nod your head before entering the key into the lock but not turning it you breath in…out…in…out before turning the lock and opening the door to your new apartment.

You, Ellie, and your parents enter with awe “You guys live here?” This is beautiful!” Your mother states placing a box down you turn to her and smile “I didn’t think it would be this big” you say as Ellie looks at her phone looking at the pictures she got sent of the apartment. “Weird it doesn’t say anything about their being a second floor” she spoke before showing you the pictures.

“Well, this is quite nice,” a voice from behind you spoke you and Ellie turn around and is met with Joel with a box in his hand and a smile on his face. “Place that box over there” you point at the entrance of what you think and hope is the kitchen. Joel nods before walking over and placing the box down “Ellie, come help me with these boxes” Joel says as Ellie groans before following him out of the door.

You smile before turning to your parents who just walk around looking at the empty apartment. “I feel like with the help of the five of us we could be done by tonight and I know everybody will be exhausted so thank your mother I made Soup Joumou” (a Haitian dish with Squash, beef, potatoes, and vegetables) your mother says grabbing ahold of your shoulders you smile before hugging her. “Thank you momma oh what would I do without you” you beamed as she rolls her eyes. “Probably dead,” your father says as you laugh.

“Y/N you are the smartest human being on earth I never knew you could order your furniture and schedule what day you want it delivered,” Ellie says coming in with a big box and Joel right behind her. You walk over to the box observing it “It’s our couch Ellie!” You squeal as your father snickers taking the big box away from Ellie and placing it in the living room so he can build it.

“Ellie let’s look around,” you ask grabbing her hand and pulling her around y’all’s new apartment. Everything was beautiful empty but beautiful the bathroom was big enough for the two of you to be in it at the same time. Ellie’s office was something she liked very much “I could make this my man cave,” she says as you blankly stare at her. “But you’re not- y’know what never mind” Ellie snickers before looking at door you walk over to it seeing another bathroom connected to it. “You get your own bathroom ugh lucky,” you say as Ellie smiles.

“Wow look at this bedroom Ellie,” You say as you spin around in complete awe Ellie stays by the door with a smile on their face just looking at you fangirl “Look Ellie look we have a walk-in closet!” You scream as you turn to your girlfriend just staring at you. “I love you, Ellie,” you say walking over to her to hug her she smiles before kissing your forehead “I love you too Y/N let’s go down and finish helping them,” she says as you nod your head.

—

“Y/N go downstairs and grab the food from out of my car,” your mother says as Joel turns to your mother “I brought some food as well cause I thought we would be too exhausted to cook,” he says as he hands Ellie his keys. “Well I guess we gonna have a feast,” you say walking out the door with Ellie to go to your parent's car “and leftovers” you smile as you enter the elevator with Ellie “I hope you know that my parents gonna wanna come over a lot now that we have our own apartment now” you state as Ellie nods her head.

“Joel will as well,” she says as you leave the elevator and walk to the lobby you stop Ellie and point to the door seeing two people standing there waving with stuff in their hands “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Ellie says walking over to the door to open it to reveal you and Ellie’s friends, Dina and Jesse. “Hi my two little love birds,” Dina says with a big smile on her face and with a cafe box in her hand “I bought a new apartment cake to celebrate your new apartment!” She adds opening the box to show you and Ellie.

“Jesse bought apple cider cause why not,” She says as you smile at your friend follow you out the apartment lobby and to the car “Thank you, Dina, but you really didn’t have to do that” you commented as Dina scoffs slightly offended “I did your my best friend, of course, I’m gonna buy you a home warming gift, which Jesse has in the car just say thank you damn it” you snicker before picking up the big crockpot filled with Soup Joumou “Thank you Dina” you say closing your parents car door and locking it. “Your welcome now let's hurry I wanna see the apartment,” she says as you roll your eyes at your friend. “it's not quite done yet,” you say as she also rolls her eyes.

“I don’t judge, who am I to judge anybody I still live with my parents” Dina stated walking into the elevator with you. “speaking of them how are they?” You ask Dina’s parents love you they think of you as their child so when you told them about you moving into your very own apartment they were happy for you. “see Dina I wish you were more like Y/N” her mother says in a playful tone Dina rolls her eyes at her mother as you bust into a laughing fit. “She wants to come visit someday,” Dina says as you nod your head.

You open the door to your apartment as Dina gasps in awe at the apartment slowly coming together. “Y/N hand the crockpot to me so I can plug it in,” your mother says taking the pot away from you and placing it on the counter. “What did you bring Joel?” You ask washing your hands in the sink he removes the foil from the food he made “Brisket sandwiches, Tuna Casserole, banana pudding, and then Ellie help me with the cornbread” he says as you nod at what he said.

“I bought a cake and Jesse bought apple cider,” Dina says once again but to your parents who take the cake and Cider from Dina and Jesse “Sit, Sit” Your mother orders as everyone crowds around the dining room table. “Ellie, I got y’all a home warming gift,” Jesse says holding a box in his hand. he hands it to Ellie as she thanks him and unwraps it you glance over at the thing in Ellie’s hand “No way a PS5!” She yells excitedly.

“You shouldn’t have!” Ellie says as Jesse smiles at his friend Fangirl over her gift “Y/N now we can play shit together!” She says as you nod your head thanking your mother who placed Soup Joumou and another plate for Joel’s food down. “We should have dinners like this every Sunday night” Joel requests as your father nods in agreement “I don’t see a problem with it,” Ellie says.

“Of course, you don’t you don’t even know how to cook” you comment as Ellie rolls her eyes at what you said “You can always teach her,” your mother says taking Ellie’s side you scoff. “please I’ve tried plenty of times but every time I do she somehow manages to fuck up everything they touch” You add as Joel laughs and Ellie doesn’t say anything. “But don’t worry Ellie not everybody is good at these types of things” you smile as Ellie sticks her tongue out at what you said. “I remember when Ellie burnt a cup of noodles because she forgot to add water,” Jesse says as the table erupts with laughter “Jesse really? You’re supposed to side with me!”

“Sorry dude, not my fault you can’t cook” he adds as Dina nods her head before adding something. “She put two eggs in the microwave once and when she when to cut it it exploded in her face” you laugh at what Dina says as your parents interrupt. “When does your bed set get here?” Your father asks as you shrug your shoulders. “Tomorrow probably” you answer as he nods his head “We made a pad on the floor with our sheets and shit so we are set for right now,” Ellie says stuffing her face with food. Your mother nods before giggling “Y’all’s back gonna hate y’all” she says as you and Ellie look at each other.

“Don’t worry about it though it shouldn’t hurt THAT bad” she says with a sarcastic tone in her voice. Just make sure you place a lot of blankets down and you should be good” Dina adds in

—

You and Ellie say goodbye to your friends and family and cleaning up the mess left behind and placing the gifts given by your parents, Joel, and your friend away. “Finally the two of us,” Ellie says changing out of her clothes you two decided on sleeping in the living room since the couch was big enough for you guys to lay down on you guys decided comfort was better than discomfort.

“I’m exhausted!” You yawn as Ellie walks out with a sports bra and boxers on “same” Ellie says sitting up on the couch and reaching for her computer to find a movie to watch. “This was the best decision that we have ever made” you whisper trying to fight sleep Ellie smiles caressing your shoulders. Picking out a movie she places it on the box you guys are using as a table for right now. “I’m glad we are gonna spend all of our time together,” she says as she moves you over slightly to lay down with you.

“Tomorrow the stuff you order for your office comes” Ellie nods her head before looking at the ceiling. “I love you, Ellie,” you say closing your eyes before dozing off “I love you too princess we have a long day tomorrow,” she says before focusing on the movie playing.

You once had a dream, a dream so vivid, so intoxicating, that it consumed every part of your childhood. You imagined yourself as a ballerina, twirling effortlessly beneath golden chandeliers in grand ballrooms, the soft glow of stage lights reflecting off delicate pearls sewn into the finest tutus. Your makeup was flawless, your movements enchanting, your presence ethereal. Every plié, every pirouette, every grueling hour of practice was supposed to lead to that moment, your moment. But dreams don’t always survive reality.

Now, here you are, walking down an aisle lined with pristine white roses, a bouquet of lilies trembling in your grasp. The weight of the dress is your mother’s choice, not yours feels suffocating, like a costume for a role you never wanted. The lace scratches against your skin, a constant reminder that this is not a fairy tale. This is not a stage. This is not the life you fought for.

A fake smile is plastered on your lips, carefully practiced like a performance, but there’s no standing ovation waiting at the end of this. Only a lifetime of pretending. Your heart pounds against your ribs, a caged bird desperate to break free, but your feet keep moving forward. Each step feels heavier than the last, a silent surrender to a future you never chose.

Your mind races, a storm of memories and regrets swirling in your head. What if you had tried harder? What if you had run away when you still had the chance? What if you turned around right now? The thought lingers, tempting, but you know better. You are stuck, stuck in a life you feared, stuck in a fate you never wanted, stuck in a dream that died long before today. And no matter how much you want to scream, you know no one would hear you.

The church is silent, save for the quiet rustling of fabric and the faint echo of the pastor’s voice.

"Do you, Y/N, take Kieran to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

His words hang in the air, suffocating you, pressing against your chest like a boulder. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your throat tightens, and the weight of every choice that led you here crashes down on you all at once.

You don't answer.

The pastor watches you with a patient smile, oblivious to the war raging inside you. Kieran stands beside you, his hand resting over yours, his grip firm, too firm, a silent warning. His smile is unwavering, expectant, like he already knows the answer before you speak it.

Say it. Just say it. Two words. That’s all it takes.

But in your mind, all you can hear is the music, the soft, delicate piano of a ballet recital, the sound of your own laughter as a child, the rhythm of pointe shoes tapping against the studio floor.

I wanted to be a ballerina.

You swallow hard, forcing the dream away, shoving it into the dark, neglected corner of your heart where it has no place anymore. You give your answer, and the pastor nods approvingly, continuing with the ceremony as if nothing is wrong.

But everything is wrong.

Your gaze shifts to the two empty chairs at the front, the ones meant for your parents. They aren’t here. They never planned to be. In their eyes, you threw away everything they worked for, discarded their vision for your life like a crumpled draft of a perfect future. But what they never understood was that this wasn’t your future either. You weren’t chasing love. You weren’t running toward happiness. You were simply running running from disappointment, running from failure, running from a world that never let you be what you truly wanted. And now, here you are, stepping into a life that isn’t yours.

—

That was five years ago.

Now, you are twenty-two. Kieran is thirty-five. You live in a quiet neighborhood, far away from everything and everyone that once made you feel alive. The suburbs are suffocating, a picture-perfect prison where the grass is always green, the houses always neat, and the wives always miserable.

You have four children now, four little souls who look to you for love, for safety, for warmth. But how can you give them something you no longer have? Your husband, the man who promised to cherish you, spends his nights with other women and his days reminding you of your place. His hands, once meant to hold you, now strike with purpose. He tells you when to speak, when to smile, when to cry. And when you cry too much, he makes sure you remember why you shouldn’t.

You cook. You clean. You play the role of the devoted wife, the doting mother, the woman who should be grateful for the life she has. But every night, when the house falls silent, when your children are tucked into bed and your husband is lost in sleep, you slip out onto the porch.

You stare at the sky, the vast, endless expanse of stars twinkling above you so free, so untouchable. Your fingers grip the wooden railing as silent sobs rack your body. You don’t know who you’re praying to anymore, but you pray anyway. Pray for escape. Pray for someone anyone to hear you, to care, to save you.

But no one does.

No one ever does.

You wipe your tears, sucking in a shaky breath as you turn back toward the house, toward the life you never wanted, toward the nightmare you can never seem to wake up from.

"I wanted to be a ballerina."

The words leave your lips in a whisper, barely louder than the wind, before you step inside and close the door behind you.

Your days blend into one another, a never-ending cycle of routine and exhaustion. The morning sun has barely begun to rise when you wake, slipping silently out of bed before anyone else stirs. There is no time to linger, no moment to breathe in the quiet. The house must be spotless every surface wiped down, every floor scrubbed until it gleams, every corner free of dust.

Then comes breakfast, a full meal prepared from scratch, every ingredient measured with precision, every movement calculated. Not because you want to impress anyone, but because if it isn’t perfect, there will be consequences.

By the time everything is in place, you have exactly ten minutes to yourself. Ten minutes to exist outside of being a wife, a mother, a servant. Ten minutes before your husband wakes up.

You hear his footsteps descending the stairs, the familiar creak of the third step making your heart jump instinctively. You brace yourself.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice light, casual, as he walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.

You don’t trust your voice to sound right, so instead, you hum a soft melody in response, keeping your eyes down. A safe answer. An unprovocative answer. But it isn’t enough.

There’s a scrape of a chair against the tile floor as he sits across from you. “I have a project at work,” he says between sips of coffee. “I’ll be staying late. Eat without me.”

You nod, still not looking at him, still careful. But it’s the wrong move.

“When I’m talking, I expect eye contact,” he snaps, his tone shifting from indifferent to dangerous in an instant.

Your breath hitches as you lift your gaze to meet his. Fear flashes across your face, and he sees it. He always sees it. And he loves it.

His expression softens, his lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He slides his chair closer, the wooden legs screeching against the floor, and reaches out to touch your face. His fingers are gentle, tracing over your cheek, a stark contrast to the bruises he’s left there before.

“I love you,” he says.

You wish you could understand what love means to him. You wish you could make sense of how a man who claims to love you can also be the same man who terrifies you. But you can’t. You never will. So you do the only thing you can—you force a small smile and nod, pretending, always pretending.

The day drags on, long and grueling, filled with never-ending tasks. The floors must be swept, the laundry folded, the beds made with perfect precision. The children need attention, their needs coming before your exhaustion. Then there’s dinner to prepare, and not just dinner, dessert, too. Everything must be ready before your husband walks through the door, or you’ll hear about it. Over and over again, until the words cut deeper than any bruise ever could.

And when the sun finally sets, when your body screams for rest, you know better than to listen. Because rest is a luxury you don’t have. Not in this house. Not in this life.

You hum softly, the gentle melody barely louder than the whisper of the evening breeze slipping through the open window. Your fingers move carefully through your daughter’s thick, brown locs, working through the knots with practiced patience. She sits between your legs, small and fragile, her back resting against your chest. Her tiny frame is warm against you, her breathing soft and steady.

As you weave her hair into neat sections, your mind drifts wondering, fearing. Do they know? Do they understand?

Your children are still young, too young to fully grasp the weight of their world, but they aren’t blind. They see the way you flinch at sudden movements. They hear the way your voice changes when you speak to their father. They feel the tension that hangs in the air like a thick, suffocating fog. And while they may not have the words to describe it, you know, you know that it’s affecting them.

The confirmation came during the last parent-teacher conference.

You sat beside your husband, hands clasped tightly in your lap, your pulse drumming an anxious rhythm as the principal sifted through a thick folder. A heavy silence loomed over the room, stretching out like a warning before she finally spoke.

“Mr. and Mrs. L/N,” she began, her voice measured, careful. “We’ve collected some artwork from your eldest child.”

Your stomach twisted as she pulled out the drawings, dozens of them, scattered across the desk in a flurry of colors and lines. Crude, childlike figures, their shapes barely distinguishable, yet painfully clear in their message. You saw yourself, a woman drawn in shaky, jagged lines. A man stood beside you, your husband, his figure dark, looming. And in nearly every picture, something was wrong.

In one, you were on the floor, your body curled in on itself while the larger figure towered over you. In another, your child had drawn you with tears streaming down your face, your hands clutching your stomach as if bracing for impact. There were others, too scenes you recognized all too well, moments that had played out in the shadows of your home but now lay exposed in bright, crayon-colored horror.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t need to ask what they meant.

The principal exhaled, watching you carefully, her fingers drumming against the desk. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on in your household,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “But whatever it is, it’s clear that this is not a safe space for a child to be in.”

Her words slammed into you like a gut punch, knocking the air from your lungs.

You didn’t dare glance at your husband. You already knew what his expression would be tight-lipped, jaw clenched, eyes dark with quiet, seething rage. A silent promise that you would pay for this later.

And you had.

Now, sitting here, your daughter nestled in your lap, her small voice humming along with yours, you wonder how much longer you can keep pretending. How much longer you can keep them shielded from the storm that rages within these walls.

Because if they already see it, if they already feel it then maybe you’re too late. Maybe the damage has already been done.

As your children run through the house, their laughter echoing softly against the walls, you move with quiet urgency, tending to your endless list of chores. The floors must be spotless, the furniture dust-free, every misplaced item returned to its proper place. The kitchen needs to be in perfect order before you even begin cooking—because if it’s not, he’ll notice. He always notices.

You glance at the clock. Two hours. That’s all the time you have to scrub away any imperfections, to prepare dinner exactly the way he likes it, to make sure there’s nothing, nothing that could set him off tonight.

But as you wipe down the counters, kneeling to pick up scattered toys along the way, a different hope settles in your chest. You hope whatever is keeping him at work lasts longer than expected. You hope, just for a little while, that the house remains untouched by his presence. That your children can play without the weight of fear pressing down on them.

Because these rare moments when his shadow isn’t looming over you, when the air isn’t thick with tension are the only times you and your children can breathe.

You step outside, grateful for the brief moment of peace, watching as your children run and play, their laughter ringing through the air like music you once cherished. You let the cool breeze hit your face, a small, fleeting comfort in a life that feels like it’s constantly suffocating you. But it’s a moment of freedom, however brief, and you hold onto it.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a truck pull into the driveway next door. A new neighbor. The thought stirs something in you, curiosity maybe? The desire to greet someone new, to make a connection. But then, reality hits. Your husband would want to go with you. He would want to make sure you didn’t step out of line, make sure the interaction was on his terms. The thought of him joining you, watching your every move, makes the idea of introducing yourself feel too heavy, too complicated. So you stand there, watching instead of acting.

A muscular woman climbs out of the truck, her movements sharp and purposeful. She’s got a single braid running down her back, and she moves toward the truck bed, probably to grab some boxes. You can't help but stare.

A woman. Moving in next door.

You wonder if she’s different if her story is anything like yours. Could she be here, in this same neighborhood, living a life that doesn’t suffocate? Or maybe, like you, she’s just trying to make it work, trying to survive the weight of it all. Your heart twinges with longing what if she understood? What if she knew the pain of walking through your own front door, knowing you were trapped, knowing you were invisible, knowing your life was nothing like you once dreamed it would be?

Your thoughts are interrupted when a small figure dashes out from behind the house, a little boy, his laughter bright and carefree. He holds a plastic dinosaur in one hand, his face lit with a smile so wide it almost hurts to see. "Momma, momma, the house is huge!" he shouts, running in circles around her, his feet kicking up dust as he giggles.

The woman your neighbor looks down at the boy with a tenderness that makes something inside you ache. She smiles softly, bending to catch him in her arms, laughing at his excitement. But then, she straightens, her eyes scanning the neighborhood. They meet yours.

She smiles at you, a warm, inviting smile, before giving a small, hesitant wave.

For a moment, you freeze. You could wave back, maybe even walk over and introduce yourself. But something holds you back. The weight of your own silence, the fear of being seen for who you really are, the unspoken rules that keep you in your place.

Instead, you turn away, looking down at the ground, your heart heavy in your chest. You usher your children back inside, pushing past the small pang of regret that starts to settle in your gut.

Another chance at connection slips away. And you can’t help but wonder, with a bitter twist in your heart, if it was ever really yours to begin with.

You shut the door behind you, the soft click of it closing sounding like finality. The air inside the house feels thicker somehow, as if the outside world, full of possibilities and fleeting moments, has evaporated into something unreachable. You stand in the hallway for a moment, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound in the stillness.

Your kids are still playing, oblivious to the world around them, the joy of their laughter cutting through the silence like a knife. You force a smile as you watch them, but it’s hollow, a shadow of the joy they should be feeling.

There’s so much left to do. So many chores, so many tasks to complete before your husband gets home. Dinner to cook, the house to clean, everything perfect. It’s always like this always the same, endless cycle of small duties that keep you trapped, that keep you busy enough not to think too hard about anything. You don’t have the luxury of rest, not when there’s always something else waiting for you, some small task that needs your attention.

But right now, your mind keeps drifting back to the neighbor. The woman, the boy. Their easy laughter. That brief moment of connection that was so close, yet so far. You can still see her smile in your mind’s eye, the softness of it, the warmth that for a split second made you feel like you could be part of something bigger, something better.

You shake your head, pushing the thoughts away. You can’t afford to think about her life, about what could’ve been. You can’t let yourself feel anything but the responsibilities piled up around you.

But the question lingers, quiet but persistent: What would it be like if you could just be free? Free to step outside and be yourself, free to talk to someone without fear of the consequences.

As you walk into the kitchen to start dinner, you realize you’re moving on autopilot again. The knife in your hand is familiar, the cutting board beneath it a routine. But something feels off, a shift inside you, like a small crack starting to form on the surface.

For a moment, you pause. You look at the vegetables in front of you, the simple task of chopping them feels like the only thing you can control in this life. And it occurs to you that, for the first time in a long time, you want something more. You want more than this life of quiet submission, more than this existence where every day feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

Your hands are still, the knife resting on the cutting board, and you think just for a second Maybe tomorrow will be different.

But then the sound of your husband’s car engine rumbles in the distance, and the world goes back to what it has always been. You sigh, picking up the knife again, the weight of it grounding you in the life you know.

For now.

You keep chopping, one slice at a time, knowing tomorrow will come with the same expectations. But there’s something inside you now, a small spark, something that maybe, just maybe, is enough to keep you going.

Dinner is done. The house is spotless, every corner scrubbed, every toy picked up. Your kids are bathed, their small faces glowing from the warm water, their hair still damp as they run around, carefree. The time to yourself that you so desperately crave is finally here only ten minutes, but it feels like a fleeting gift, one you never seem to get enough of.

You sink into the couch, exhaustion hitting you like a wave, your eyes closing for just a moment as you savor the quiet. For a brief second, the weight of it all lifts, and you imagine what it would be like to simply rest, to feel like yourself again. You let out a shaky breath, one you didn’t realize you were holding in.

But then, the sound of the door unlocking breaks the silence. You freeze, the peace shattering like glass. The door creaks open, the familiar footsteps you’ve come to dread echoing in your ears. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart skips a beat, and in an instant, you’re back in the role you never asked for.

Your husband steps inside, his shoes scraping against the floor as he shuts the door behind him. The air in the room shifts, the heaviness returning like an old friend. He looks around, scanning the house, his gaze sharp, calculating. You don’t even need to ask what he’s thinking you know.

"How was your day?" he asks, his voice flat, almost disinterested. But you know the question isn’t really for you. It’s just a routine. A way to check if you've done your part. His eyes flicker toward the kitchen, then back to you, waiting for a response. You force a smile, standing up quickly, trying to hide the weariness that threatens to consume you.

"It’s fine," you say, your voice soft, steady. But inside, it feels like everything is unraveling. You just wanted those last few minutes. Those precious, fleeting moments of silence, just to breathe, just to feel like you’re allowed to exist without serving someone else’s needs for once. But now, they’re gone.

Your kids are still playing in the other room, unaware of the shift, unaware of the tension that’s already thickening in the air. You glance at the clock, only ten minutes and you know you’ll spend the rest of the night fighting for whatever small scraps of peace are left. You hate that you have to force yourself to breathe, to stay calm, to stay perfect for him.

You hear him moving through the house now, checking things, his footsteps getting closer. You brace yourself, your body stiffening as the familiar dread creeps in.

The moment you were hoping for, the sliver of peace, is slipping away like water through your fingers.

You step into the kitchen, the faint scent of the day’s exhaustion lingering in the air. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in, as you gather everything needed to set the table. The routine is almost mechanical by now like every other evening before this one, and every evening that’s come before it. You move quickly, your hands shaking ever so slightly as you set out the plates, utensils, and glasses, making sure everything is perfect. It’s the least you can do. At least in this small space, you can control something.

The soft sound of his footsteps echoes through the hallway, the familiar thud of his boots on the stairs. He doesn’t speak as he passes through, the weight of his presence almost palpable as he heads upstairs to your shared room. He’s probably going to get comfortable, change into something more suited for relaxation after a day of whatever it is he does. You don’t really know, not anymore. The distance between you both has grown too wide for you to care about the details of his day.

As you hear him move upstairs, you feel an unfamiliar pang of something maybe irritation, maybe longing. It’s hard to distinguish these days. You force yourself to focus back on the dinner preparations, but it’s hard not to feel like a ghost in your own home, invisible in the same space you once thought you’d share everything with him. Now it’s just a routine. Another night, another meal. No words exchanged unless necessary.

You place the last of the dishes on the table, your movements slower now, as if each action takes more effort than the one before. You look down at your hands, the rough skin from years of doing everything, from maintaining the house to caring for the kids to keeping him satisfied. Your nails, chipped and bare, remind you of all the things you’ve lost your own identity, your sense of self.

And yet, you continue. You set the table, trying to make the best of what you have left. But inside, there’s a quiet ache, a space that’s only growing wider with each passing day.

His footsteps upstairs, the creaking of the floorboards, feels like a distant echo now. It’s almost as if the walls themselves are blocking out the sound of him, distancing you from the reality of the life you’ve somehow found yourself in. You swallow hard, pushing the thoughts away, trying to focus on the task at hand. Dinner needs to be served. The children need their mother.

And you? You just need a moment.

A moment that feels like it’s forever out of reach.

As you move around the kitchen, the scent of warm spices and simmering food fills the air, though it does little to soothe the unease curling in your stomach. Your hands work on autopilot, scooping portions onto each plate with practiced efficiency, the weight of the evening pressing heavily against your back. The faint creak of the staircase makes your muscles tighten instinctively, your body already anticipating the shift in atmosphere.

Your husband’s footsteps are slow, measured, followed by the softer, lighter pitter-patter of your children’s. They make their way down the stairs, filing into the dining room in a quiet procession. You glance up just in time to see him lower himself into his usual seat at the head of the table, his presence immediately filling the room with an invisible tension.

The children take their places without a word, their small bodies stiff as they settle into their chairs. They know the rules. No unnecessary noise. No fidgeting. No missteps that might draw unwanted attention. Their wide eyes flicker between you and their father, reading the energy in the room before deciding how to carry themselves for the evening.

Your husband leans back slightly, his gaze heavy as he watches you move, waiting for his plate. He doesn’t offer to help, doesn’t acknowledge the effort it takes to prepare every meal, to keep everything running smoothly. He simply expects, expects the table to be set, the food to be plated, the house to be pristine.

You swallow down the lump forming in your throat and force your shaking hands to stay steady as you lift the final dish from the counter. The weight of the serving tray feels heavier than usual, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion settling into your bones. You walk carefully toward the table, the warmth of the food against your fingertips a stark contrast to the chill that has settled deep inside of you.

Your children sit with their hands folded neatly in their laps, their gazes flickering toward you, seeking silent reassurance. You offer them the smallest of smiles, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, before turning your attention back to the task at hand.

As you place the last plate down, your husband clears his throat, an impatient sound that makes your stomach tighten. You know what it means. You’re moving too slowly. Taking too long.

You murmur an apology, though you’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for, and take your seat at the table. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as you wait for the inevitable his judgment, his approval, or worse, his disappointment.

Your hands rest tightly in your lap, fingers clasped together so hard that your knuckles ache. It’s the only way to keep them from shaking. You stare down at your plate, pushing bits of food around with your fork, but the thought of eating makes your stomach churn.

You’re not hungry. Not for this meal. Not for this conversation.

Swallowing against the tightness in your throat, you force yourself to speak.

“We have new neighbors,” you murmur, barely loud enough to be heard over the clinking of silverware against plates.

Across from you, your husband barely glances up, too busy stuffing his mouth with food to acknowledge your words right away. You wait, your pulse a steady drumbeat in your ears, until finally he looks at you.

Just a glance. A fleeting moment of attention. But it’s enough to send your heart skittering against your ribs.

You regret speaking immediately.

“We should introduce ourselves,” he says between bites, wiping his mouth lazily with a napkin. “Be neighborly.”

Your stomach knots so tightly it’s painful. You don’t want to.

You don’t want to stand next to him like a perfectly trained wife, offering a forced smile while he takes charge of the conversation. You don’t want to meet the woman next door, the one with the muscular frame and sharp eyes and feel her gaze linger too long, like she’s trying to see you.

Because what if she does? What if she looks too closely? What if she already knows?

But saying no isn’t an option. Not in this house. Not with him. So, you do the only thing you can.

You nod.

A single, obedient nod. And with that, your fate is sealed.

The rest of dinner is quiet. Suffocating. The only sounds are the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft rustling of napkins. Your children eat quickly, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. They can feel it too that subtle shift in the air, the way the weight in the room seems to press down harder when your husband is thinking. Calculating.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his gaze settle on you every now and then, like he’s waiting for something. Some sign of defiance. A reason to be angry.

You don’t give him one.

After dinner, you clean up in silence. You wash the dishes, wipe down the counters, make sure everything is in perfect order just the way he likes it. All the while, your mind is racing, heart pounding with an anxious rhythm that refuses to slow down.

Because you know what’s coming next.

And sure enough-

“Get ready,” he says from the living room, standing by the front door as he adjusts his watch. “We’re going.”

Your hands tighten around the dish towel in your grip.

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to move. To comply. To do exactly what’s expected of you.

A few minutes later, you step onto the porch beside him, the evening air crisp against your skin. The sky is a deep navy now, the last traces of sunlight fading over the horizon. Crickets hum softly in the distance.

Next door, the house is still lit up. The moving truck is gone, but a few unopened boxes sit on the porch. Through the window, you see the faint silhouette of the woman from earlier, pacing around her living room, arranging furniture.

Your stomach twists.

You don’t want to do this.

But you have no choice.

Your husband knocks. Three sharp, authoritative taps. The kind that announces his presence, the kind that demands attention.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open.

And then, there she is.

Up close, she’s even taller than you realized. Broad shoulders, strong arms, brown hair pulled back into a single braid. There’s something steady about her presence, something firm yet…warm.

She blinks at the two of you, her expression shifting from curiosity to polite surprise.

“Uh- hey,” she says, glancing between you and your husband. “Can I help you?”

Your husband steps forward, offering his hand with that well-rehearsed, charming smile that you’ve seen fool so many people before.

“Evening,” he says smoothly. “We live next door. Just wanted to come by, introduce ourselves properly.” He says trying to look in the opened door probably for a husband.

She hesitates for a second before shaking his hand. You watch as she grips it firmly, her posture relaxed but observant.

Your husband turns to you then, his smile still fixed in place. “This is my wife.”

You force yourself to meet her gaze, and for a brief moment, you swear you see something flicker in her eyes, something unreadable.

But it’s gone just as quickly.

“I’m-” Your voice catches in your throat, so you clear it and try again. “I’m Y/N.”

She nods, offering a small smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Abby.”

Abby.

The name settles somewhere in your chest, unfamiliar yet strangely significant.

From inside the house, a small voice calls out.

“Momma?”

You glance past Abby just as a little boy comes into view, clutching a toy dinosaur in his tiny hands. His curls bounce as he runs up to her, eyes wide and curious as he peeks at the two strangers on their doorstep.

Abby chuckles, resting a hand on his shoulder. “This is my son, Ezekiel” Abby introduce as the little boy waves and runs off Your husband smiles at the little boy before speaking

“What a nice boy you have,” the man comments, his voice warm with forced politeness. Abby offers him a small smile, nodding in gratitude, but her eyes drift toward you silent, hesitant, your gaze lowering to the ground.

“And what does your husband do for work?” he asks, his curiosity laced with something less innocent than casual small talk.

Abby’s smile doesn’t waver, though there’s a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “I don’t have one,” she answers simply.

You nod in agreement beside her, confirming her words without elaborating.

“Oh, divorced?” he pressed, his tone too nosy, too expectant. Abby studies him, wondering why he seems so invested in the status of a stranger’s love life.

“I guess you could say that,” she replies, her voice measured as she glances at you.

The man bobs his head in understanding before his lips curve into a smug smile. “Well, if you’re ever in need of a new one, I might be able to help you find one,” he offers, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Though, you might have to lose some of the muscle. Makes you look a little... masculine.”

His words land with an air of casual cruelty, but Abby only stares at him, as if he’s just spoken in a language she doesn’t understand. You can feel the weight of his remark, the sheer audacity of it, and a part of you wants to say something to cut in, to apologize on behalf of your husband. But you don’t.

Instead, Abby turns to you, her eyes catching yours. She sees it, sees the silent apology written in your expression, the regret pooling behind your gaze. And, somehow, despite the tension hanging in the air, she smiles.

“Oh, uh, no, I’m really fine, actually,” she says, her voice steady but kind. “I’m pretty happy being a single mother.”

She punctuates her words with a small, confident smile, but your husband barely lets them settle before your husband coughs into his fist, an exaggerated sound that barely masks his irritation. “Well, that’s surprising,” he says, forcing a chuckle as if Abby had just told a joke instead of asserting her independence. “Most women I know can’t handle all that on their own. Must be exhausting.”

Abby tilts her head slightly, her smile still in place but now honed to a fine edge, like a blade hidden beneath silk. “It has its challenges,” she admits, her voice smooth, deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no vulnerability just quiet certainty. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

Your husband makes a noise under his breath, something between a scoff and a grunt, barely audible. His eyes drift across the room, scanning the half-unpacked boxes stacked against the walls, the lingering signs of transition still settling in. “You’ve got a lot to unpack,” he observes, his tone casual, almost thoughtful. “Need a hand getting everything sorted?”

Abby doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she watches him, her expression unreadable, as if weighing the offer itself rather than the words behind it. The pause stretches just long enough for discomfort to settle, but before she can say anything, your husband clears his throat and smiles an easy, practiced expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“My wife can help you.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s not even a question. It’s a decision, handed over without thought, as if your time and effort belongs to him to give away.

You feel his eyes on you, expectant, waiting for you to nod along like you always do. But the words sit heavy in the air, pressing against your chest, and all you can do is look away, shifting in place as a quiet discomfort settles in your bones.

Abby notices. She doesn’t press, doesn’t call attention to it, she just studies you for a moment, her sharp gaze softening slightly before she gives a small nod. “Yeah,” she says, her tone measured but light. “That would be nice.”

Your husband claps his hands together, seemingly satisfied with how effortlessly he’s delegated your time. “Great,” he says, flashing a smile like he’s just solved a problem. “She’s good at that kind of thing organizing, tidying up. She keeps our place in order.”

There’s something about the way he says it, so dismissive yet possessive at the same time, that makes your stomach twist. Like you’re just another extension of the home he thinks he owns, another thing to be managed.

Abby doesn’t look at him. She keeps her gaze on you instead, her expression unreadable but attentive. It’s subtle, but you can feel it she’s waiting for something. Maybe for you to speak. Maybe for you to push back. Maybe just to see if you will.

You don’t.

You just look up at her and give her this face smile “I’ll help” you murmur, though the word feels hollow in your mouth.

Your husband pats your shoulder lightly, as if to seal the deal, then turns his attention back to Abby. “See? She’s happy to help.”

Abby exhales softly, something like amusement flickering across her face, but it’s fleeting. She steps aside, gesturing toward the boxes. “Well, I won’t say no to an extra set of hands.”

Your husband nods, clearly pleased with himself, but his attention is already drifting—like he’s done his part and the rest no longer concerns him. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, stretching his arms before casually checking his watch. “I’ve got some things to take care of anyway.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks away without a second glance, leaving you standing there with the woman in front of her door. His absence lingers for a moment, a quiet finality in the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

Abby shifts her attention back to you, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a second longer than necessary before stepping aside, wordlessly inviting you in.

You hesitate, only for a beat, before crossing the threshold. As soon as you do, Abby gently pushes the door shut behind you, the soft click of the latch settling into place. The air inside is warmer, quieter, almost cocooning.

“Thanks for helping,” she says, her voice light but sincere as she walks ahead of you.

You glance at her, offering a small nod in response. “Yeah, of course.”

But as she moves toward the scattered boxes, your gaze flickers down to the watch on your wrist. *8:30 PM.* You do a quick calculation in your head if you help her with everything she needs, you can probably be out of here before *10 PM.*

It’s manageable. A couple of hours. Then you can go home, slide back into the quiet routine you’ve grown used to.

Abby doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on the time. “You didn’t have to,” she says, her tone softer now, more thoughtful. She walks over to one of the unopened boxes, kneeling as she tugs at the flaps, prying it open with ease.

You shake your head slightly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” And maybe that’s true.

Or maybe it’s just easier to say than admitting you don’t quite know how to refuse.

You crouch down, carefully lifting the flap of one of the boxes on the floor, your fingers brushing over the edges of a few photographs that are loosely packed inside. As you move the items around, your eyes land on a picture—an image of Abby and her son at a theme park, their faces bright with joy. The moment captured is full of light, a rare instance of carefree happiness, and you can't help but smile at the sight of it.

For a moment, you forget the reason you’re here, lost in the simplicity of the photograph, the love between mother and child so evident. You gently pull it out, holding it between your fingers as if the memory is fragile, precious.

You glance up at Abby, suddenly aware of the quiet tension that’s still lingering in the air between you. You take a breath, your voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “I wanna apologize for my husband,” you say, the words feeling heavier than they should.

Abby’s eyes flicker to you, but she doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, there’s a subtle shift in her expression, like she’s heard this before—or perhaps it’s the kind of thing she’s come to expect from people like your husband. She doesn’t speak immediately, just watches you with a gaze that’s more resigned than anything else.

“It’s fine,” she replies, her tone smooth, almost indifferent. “I’m used to men like him.”

Her words hit you harder than expected. There’s no bitterness, no anger, just a calm acceptance a kind of understanding that makes you pause.

You’re not sure if it’s the way she says it, or the sheer matter-of-factness of her voice, but it makes you feel like you’ve just glimpsed a side of her you weren’t prepared for. Abby isn’t just playing along with the situation, pretending it doesn’t affect her. She’s *adapted* to it, found a way to make peace with it.

You hold the photo a little longer, your fingers tightening around it before carefully placing it back in the box, suddenly aware of how small the space feels. A quiet, uncomfortable weight presses in, but Abby doesn’t seem bothered by it, she’s already back to her own work, moving onto the next box, as though the moment never happened.

“You know you don’t have to take that?” she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a soft but deliberate interruption.

You freeze in your tracks, the words hanging in the air like a riddle you can’t quite solve. The rhythm of your thoughts stutters, and for a moment, you just stand there, blinking at her in confusion. What is she talking about?

You turn toward her, still processing, and notice the subtle way her smile seems to stretch just a little wider, more knowing now. There’s a strange glimmer in her eyes, something calculated, something that makes you feel like you’ve missed something important.

You open your mouth, then close it again, not sure how to respond, still caught off guard. "Wh- what?" you ask, your voice almost faltering as you search her face for some kind of explanation.

Abby stands there, her posture relaxed, arms crossed casually as if she’s waiting for you to catch up, for the pieces to fall into place. The smile on her face, it doesn’t waver, but there’s an edge to it now, a knowingness you didn’t expect.

Abby’s gaze lingers on you, sharp yet steady, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t need to raise her voice to make herself heard her words cut through the space between you like a knife, precise and deliberate.

“You know,” she says, her tone measured, almost casual, but there’s an undeniable weight behind it, “the disrespect.”

The statement lands like a slow, creeping chill, settling into your skin before you even fully process it. Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, but you don’t move, don’t respond. You just stare at her, expression carefully blank, waiting—hoping—she’ll drop it and move on.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she shifts her stance, arms still crossed loosely, her presence unwavering. “I might’ve just met you today,” she continues, her voice softer now, almost gentle, “but no woman deserves to go through that.”

The words hit a little deeper than you expect, stirring something uncomfortable in your chest. But rather than let them sink in, let them *mean* something, you push back the only way you know how.

A snicker escapes you, short and humorless.

She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

She doesn’t know you.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. Defensive. Immediate. A reflex you don’t even think about before it’s already out.

Abby doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even blink. If anything, the corners of her mouth twitch slightly, like she expected that response. Like she’s seen it before.

And that just makes your skin crawl even more.

Your stomach twists with regret almost instantly, the sharpness of your own words lingering in the air like a slap you can’t take back. You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers against your temples before finally looking up at her.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, unsteady. “I- I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

You don’t wait for her to respond. Instead, you stand abruptly, needing to put some space between you and the weight of the conversation. Your legs carry you across the room almost on autopilot, and before you even think about it, you sink onto the brown couch sitting against the bare wall. The worn fabric is rough beneath your fingertips as you clasp your hands together in your lap, staring down at them, feeling the awkwardness settle in your bones.

Abby doesn’t say anything right away. You hear the soft rustle of her clothes as she shifts, and when you glance up, she’s watching you with that same unreadable expression. But there’s no judgment in her eyes. No irritation. Just quiet understanding.

“It’s fine,” she says after a moment, her voice calm, steady. “I understand.”

And then, without hesitation, she walks over and sits down beside you.

The silence that follows is thick but not uncomfortable. Just… there. Heavy with unspoken things neither of you seem ready to voice. The only sound in the empty house is the faint creak of the couch as you both sit there, unmoving, breathing in the stillness.

You should say something.

You should *do* something.

But for now, you just sit. And, somehow, that feels like enough.

Abby leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly as she rests her arm along the back of it. She doesn’t look at you right away, giving you space, letting the silence stretch between you both. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it carries a weight you’re not sure how to address.

You shift slightly, rubbing your palms against your thighs, grounding yourself in the rough fabric of your jeans. The house around you feels too big, too empty, the lack of furniture making every sound more pronounced—the soft creak of the couch beneath you, the faint hum of the street outside.

“I didn’t mean to assume anything,” Abby says eventually, breaking the silence, her voice softer than before. “I just… I recognize certain things.”

Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. There’s something about the way she says it—not pitying, not prying. Just understanding.

You force out a small, dry chuckle, shaking your head. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

Abby turns to look at you then, her brow furrowing slightly. “No,” she says, firm and immediate. “Not at all.”

You glance at her, and for the first time since stepping into her house, you really see her. The steady confidence, the way she holds herself—not just physically, but emotionally. It’s something solid, something unshakable. And for some reason, that makes your throat feel tight.

“I’m not…” You start, but the words die before they fully form. You’re not what? Weak? Trapped? Lying to yourself?

Abby watches you, waiting.

You exhale sharply and shake your head, dropping your gaze. “Forget it.”

She doesn’t push. She just nods, as if she already knows you’re not ready to say it out loud. Instead, she leans back again, giving you room to breathe.

Abby shifts slightly beside you, her gaze steady, unreadable. “Talk to me, Y/N,” she says, her voice low but certain. “I’m your friend.”

The words sit heavy between you, pressing against something fragile inside your chest. You want to believe her, to let the dam break and spill everything out. But you can’t. Not like this. Not right now. And especially not to someone you barely know.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of your jeans, and you shake your head. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I can’t.”

Abby watches you for a moment, searching your face, but she doesn’t push. She just nods, accepting your silence for what it is. “Alright,” she says simply, leaning back into the couch, giving you space.

The silence in the room stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing against your chest like a weight you can’t shake off. You rub your hands together, a feeble attempt to ground yourself, but it only makes you more aware of the warmth radiating from beside you, of the way Abby’s presence fills the space, steady and unshaken. It’s unnerving how calm she is, how effortless it seems for her to sit there when you feel like you’re unraveling.

You don’t know how it happens.

One moment, you’re staring at your hands, trying to focus on anything but her, trying to steady the erratic pounding in your chest. The next, you glance up, and she’s already looking at you.

She’s closer than you realized.

The dim glow of the lamp catches on her features, softening the sharpness of her jawline, her cheekbones. But it does nothing to dull the intensity in her eyes the quiet understanding, the weight of something unspoken lingering between you. It’s in the way she doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, just waits.

Your breath catches.

And then, before you can stop yourself, before reason can drag you back to reality, you lean in.

The kiss is fleeting barely a second but it’s enough. Enough to feel the warmth of her lips, the way she stills against you, frozen in surprise. Enough for your heart to drop the instant it happens, for cold panic to settle in your stomach like a stone.

What have you done?

You pull back so fast it feels like the air itself is pushing against you, your chest rising and falling in short, panicked breaths. “I—” Your voice dies in your throat. There are no words for this. No way to explain the rush of emotions crashing into you all at once.

Abby blinks, her lips still slightly parted, her expression unreadable. The shock hasn’t fully faded from her face, but she doesn’t say anything.

You can’t do this.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be. You push yourself up from the couch too fast, the world tilting slightly as you grab your bag with unsteady hands. You refuse to meet her eyes, refuse to acknowledge the way your skin still tingles where she touched you.

“Y/N—”

But you don’t let her finish. You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the door, toward anywhere but here.

The second you step outside, the cold air slaps against your skin, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging inside you. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your lips still tingling with the ghost of a kiss you shouldn’t have stolen.

You kissed her.

And you regret it.