The house stayed silent long after I closed my door.
I didn't change. I didn't undress. I just sat on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing.
Space.
That's what I needed.
Not confession. Not confrontation. Not possession.
Space.
Maybe if I stepped back far enough, the pull would weaken. Maybe if I distracted myself long enough, the craving would dull. Maybe if I redeemed something — anything — I would stop feeling like the villain in my own life.
"I need distance," I whispered into the darkness.
From him. From the house. From the version of myself that only existed when he looked at me.
Why do I let him treat me like this?
The question throbbed in my chest.
Why do I accept half-choices? Why do I respond when he pulls? Why does one look undo me?
A dull pressure formed beneath my ribs.
I lay back slowly, tears slipping into my hairline.
Why do I want a man who won't stand beside me in daylight?
No answer came.
Only exhaustion.
