“There you are,” I murmur, crouching to scoop her up. She’s warm, soft, and smells faintly like clean linen—probably from her favorite spot in the laundry pile I have yet to fold. I bury my face into her fur, breathing her in like a comfort I didn’t know I needed until now.
“Hi, Calypso,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She purrs loudly, already licking my cheek with that gritty little tongue of hers. I laugh softly and set her down, giving her one last scratch behind the ears before she rubs against my calf and trots a few steps ahead, clearly not done with our quality time.
I toss my hoodie onto the arm of the couch, partly covering the spot Calypso’s shredded with her claws, then kick off my boots and shrug my bag from my shoulders, dropping it beside the coffee table with a soft thud. Calypso trails me as I make my way down the narrow hallway, meowing like I’ve been gone for days instead of hours, and when I don’t scoop her up, her protests only get louder.
“You’re so needy,” I chuckle, bending down to stroke her back. She presses into my hand as I reach for my bedroom door, twisting the knob and nudging it open with my shoulder.
I trail my fingers along the wall until they find the switch. A soft click, and warm light spills across the room, revealing its usual chaos—blankets tangled halfway off the bed, laundry overflowing from the hamper, and a pink glittery dildo perched unapologetically atop a stack of smutty romance books on the nightstand.
Calypso glides in ahead of me, her tail swaying with lazy confidence as she hops onto the bed without hesitation. She makes a beeline for my pillow, circles twice, then flops downlike royalty returning to her throne. The purring starts almost instantly.
“Of course,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “I sleep there, you know.”
She doesn’t care. She never does.
But before I can move to shoo her off, a sudden chill brushes across my bare shoulders—cool, sharp, unexpected. I freeze, a ripple of unease crawling down my spine. My eyes snap to the window across the room.
The dark purple curtains sway gently in the breeze, shifting in slow, uneven waves that stir the quiet room. They brush against the wall, and the blinds behind them tap lowly against the pane, just enough to catch my attention. Just enough to make my stomach tighten.
The window’s open.
But I don’t remember leaving it open.
Goosebumps ripple down my arms as I cross the room, each step heavier than it should be. My fingers brush the curtain’s edge, and I ease it aside, leaning close to peer out. I duck my head out and glance around.
The balcony is empty. Just my old lawn chair, its fabric so frayed and torn it’s practically begging me to finally throw it away. A chipped coffee cup—which I forgot to bring inside—sits abandoned on the concrete, filled to the rim with old coffee and rainwater from the storm this afternoon. The thin, rust-speckled railing lines the edge of the narrow platform, offering absolutely zero comfort or sense of safety. The fire escape ladder is pulled up and secured in place, waiting to be lowered when needed.
I scan the street below next. A few cars are parked along the curb, their windshields reflecting faint streaks of yellow from the nearest streetlamp. Around the corner, headlights glow in the distance, but there’s no movement. No figures standing in the shadows. Nothing looks out of place.
But somethingfeelsout of place.
There’s a weight in my chest I can’t quite name—a slow-building pressure, like someone is pressing their palm against my sternum from the inside out. My hands grip the windowsill as I linger longer than I need to. I can very clearly see that no one is lurking on my damn balcony, but still, the feeling doesn’t dissipate.
I pull back inside and shove the window closed harder than I mean to. The loudclackof the glass and frame slamming together makes me jump—and it startles Calypso too. She hisses from the bed, bolting upright with a flick of her tail, clearly offended.
“Sorry, baby,” I murmur, securing the window lock with a sharpclick. My fingers linger on the latch for a second longer than necessary before I finally draw the curtains shut, the fabric falling still against the wall.
Maybe I did leave it open. Maybe I was in too much of a rush this morning and forgot. Or perhaps it’s just my nerves being… my nerves.
I stand there momentarily, staring at the closed curtains, my hand still resting on the fabric like I’m waiting for something else to happen. But the apartment is still again, and Calypso has already returned to her loaf position on my pillow, her tail flicking lazily as she settles.
Shaking the feeling off, I run a hand down my face, dragging the lingering tension with it. “It’s nothing,” I whisper to myself. “You’re just tired.”
And I am. My entire body feels like it’s moving on a delay—like I’m wading through mud, and every step is just a second too slow. My thoughts are hazy, and I can’t tell if I’m just exhausted or if the unease from earlier is still hanging on, pressing down behind my eyes. Probably both.
Definitely both.
All I want to do is rip off my tank top and leggings, face-plant into my bed, and disappear into sleep. But as if on cue, my stomach lets out a loud, miserable growl, echoing through the quiet apartment.
So much for collapsing into bed.
I glance over at Calypso, still curled on my pillow like she’s the one who paid rent this month. “You hungry, baby?” I ask, my voice softer now. She lifts her head, stretches out her chunky little body with a satisfied groan, then hops down from the bed in one graceful leap.
She trots ahead, tail flicking as if to say,finally, and I follow her out into the dim hallway. We make our way into the kitchen, and I pick up her food bowl from the floor before flipping the overhead light on. The soft glow floods the space, illuminating my overflowing sink, a counter cluttered with several boxes of food—their contents long gone—unopened mail, and a half-drunk coffee I never finished this morning.
I sigh, setting Calypso’s bowl on the counter before moving to the pantry. I scan the shelves, eyes skimming past cans of soup, a half-eaten, forgotten bag of stale Great Value mini marshmallows, two boxes of Kraft Mac and Cheese, and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. I’ve already had mac and cheese three times this week, and I’m out of frozen dinners, so cereal will have to do. It’s the only thing that sounds remotely appetizing tonight.
I grab the cereal and a can of chicken-flavored Friskies off the bottom shelf for Calypso and set both on the counter. She immediately starts meowing like she hasn’t eaten in a week, her little paws kneading at my leg as I pop the lid off the can.
