Always her.
I fall asleep sometime near dawn, maybe. Or I blink too long and dream with my eyes open.
But when I wake, it’s to light sneaking through the blinds and the sound of nothing. No footsteps. No whisper of her breath beside me.
She’s gone.
I sit up fast—old habits, bone-deep—and look around. Her coat’s missing. Her boots too. But the room’s untouched otherwise. Calm.
Then I see it.
The scarf.
Folded.
Neatly.
Set on the back of the chair like some kind of goddamn offering.
I stare at it for a long time, jaw tight, throat dry. I don’t touch it.
I shower. Dress. Leave without a word.
That night of the same day after dawn when she left me, I return with food.
No excuses.
No flowers or sentimental bullshit.
Just two steaming containers from the best synth vendor three blocks over—real spice, rich oil, the kind of heat that burnsin your sinuses and reminds you you’re alive. I’m not trying to charm her. I just know what she likes.
She’s already home when I knock.
Doesn’t speak when she opens the door. Just looks at the food, then at me, and steps aside.
The scent of sweat and stage oil still clings to her. Her makeup’s half-smudged, eyeliner bleeding into shadow, but her mouth is firm, and her eyes are clear.
“You didn’t have to,” she says.
I shrug. “I was hungry.”
She lets it slide.
We sit on the floor with the food between us, cross-legged like we’re pretending this is casual. Normal. We don’t talk much—just eat. I pass her a container of chili noodles. She hands me a drink without asking. There’s comfort in that—small, unsaid things.
Her knee brushes mine when she leans for another bite, and I don’t move.
When we finish, she leans back on her palms and exhales slowly.
“I don’t do this,” she says, not looking at me.
I arch a brow. “Eat?”
She flicks her gaze sideways. “Let people stay.”
That makes something inside me twist. Not guilt. Not quite. Just awareness. The slow, creeping weight of consequence.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me neither.”
