I don’t know if he’d eat it.
I don’t know if he’d want to.
I sit at the table alone and eat slowly, listening to the house breathe around me.
He doesn’t come down.
Not once.
No footsteps. No doors opening. No voice.
He’s up there.
Hiding.
Or maybe planning how to get rid of me.
The thought stings more than it should.
After I finish, I clean everything. Every dish washed. Every surface wiped down. I leave no trace behind, like I was never here at all.
Like I could disappear if he asked me to.
The evening stretches endlessly in front of me.
I try watching TV, but I can’t focus. I try scrolling my phone, but nothing holds my attention. My sister still hasn’t read my message. My dad hasn’t replied yet, which is both a relief and a looming threat.
Restlessness creeps under my skin.
I stand and wander into the living room. Then the hallway. Then back again.
Jake said to treat the house as mine.
The memory of his voice saying it—grumbling, reluctant—makes something twist in my chest.
He probably didn’t mean it.
But he said it.
And right now, I need something to distract me from the reality of everything waiting to collapse.
I move quietly down the hallway, opening doors carefully.
A guest bathroom. Immaculate.
A laundry room. Efficient.
A home gym that makes my dad’s look modest.
At the end of the hall, I take the stairs down to the lower level.
The basement isn’t really a basement. It’s more like a private retreat.
Through an open doorway, I glimpse a room with a pool table and low lighting.
At the end of the corridor, there’s another door.
I press the handle.
