She’s meticulous—Type A down to her marrow. The woman’s closet is color-coded, itemized, and tracked in a spreadsheet and she sets reminders to flip the mattress every six months.
Which isn’t me.
But somehow, for the past year, it’s worked.
Funny how fast I fell for such a brilliant, unshakable woman with perfect posture and napkins folded into military-grade triangles.
And I want all of it. All of her.
The idea to ask Chloe to move in with me sparked a few weeks ago. She was curled on my couch, half-asleep, some artsy film playing in the background.
And I knew…this is it.
The next step.
I want her here, in my space. I want it to beourspace.
So, I did what I do best: made a sales pitch.
The “Key Moment” video is one part nostalgia, two parts future. It starts with glowing letters—Home, Where Our Story Begins.
Then it moves through snapshots of us—vacations, birthdays, stolen moments. Her laugh. My grin. Our rhythm.
The final frame is a video of me, holding up a key. “Will you movein with me, Chloe? No pressure, but you already have the best parking spot. What do you say?”
Cheesy? Absolutely. But that’s me.
It’s scheduled to ping her phone in exactly twenty minutes.
By the time I reach her building, my arms are full—flowers in one hand, groceries in the other.
I ride the elevator with a flutter of nerves. This is it. The kind of moment people write about. The kind of love people want. She’s going to say yes. The certainty sits in my pocket.
Stopping outside her door, I inhale, straighten, unlock it?—
And pause.
Her designer handbag sits on the table. Slightly open. Unzipped.
Weird.
Her keys are tossed carelessly beside it.
Weirder.
Taking a step inside, the cherry blossom candle she loves is still burning. The scent hangs heavy in the air. Sweet. Cloying.
Something’s wrong.
Deeply, terribly wrong.
One) Chloe would never leave a lit candle unattended.
Two) Everything in her world has a place, a purpose. Nothing is ever out of order.
And things are definitely never leftslightly open.Or unzipped.
My heart thuds harder than it should. The nervous flutter in my chest spikes into a prickling unease.
