Supposed to be.
I close my eyes briefly. Open them again.
I am not shaking. I am not panicking.
I am simply done.
"Please. Let. Me. Go."
Something in my tone finally cuts through.
His fingers loosen. His arm drops.
I stand.
The absence of his touch feels like taking off a coat that never fit.
"Excuse me."
No one stops me.
No one calls me back.
I walk away without looking over my shoulder.
I walk down the hall one hand gliding along the banister, and let the voices dissolve behind me.
In my room, the chair waits. I close the door, shut out the buzzing tension, and sink into the only place that's held me without agenda.
My muscles release as the cushion molds to my body.
I pull the blanket up and try to find any echo of longing for the man downstairs who just tried to stage me like a prop.
Nothing answers.
No ache. No yearning.
Just a tired, distant sadness for the person I used to be—the one in the photo on his desk.
Somewhere between the gorilla enclosure and my ruined nest, that girl was pushed off a ledge.
She hit bottom.
And whatever part of her got back up doesn't want to climb back into the same cage.
Downstairs, laughter resumes in stuttering starts. Someone shuffles cards. Marie reclaims her spot. The neighbors will leave with more questions than answers.
Up here, the porch light from next door spills a faint glow onto my ceiling.
Ragon lifted the ban.
He thinks it means I'm free to come back.
What he doesn't understand is that I already left.
I curl tighter in the chair and let the realization settle:
I don't want their attention.
