“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She studies me a second longer, as if she wants to say more but knows I won’t listen. Then she waves and walks off, her hair catching the streetlight like copper. I watch her go until she disappears into the crowd.
The air feels colder once she’s gone.
Inside my building, the stairwell smells like paint and old cigarettes. The landlord swore he’d fix the lighting months ago, but the bulbs still flicker like a dying heartbeat. I climb the steps, my legs protesting with every move. The building is quiet except for the hum of someone’s TV through a thin wall and the faint drip of water from a leaky pipe.
By the time I reach my door, I’m half-asleep on my feet. I fish out my keys, push the door open, and step inside.
The apartment greets me with its usual silence. A finished cup of coffee sits on the counter, a pile of medical forms on the table. I drop my bag and kick off my shoes.
It’s a small apartment, a one-bedroom carved out of an old brownstone, patched together with secondhand furniture andprayers. The walls are thin enough to hear the neighbors argue, but it’s the first place that’s ever felt like home.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the chair. The air inside is warm and stale. I peel off my blouse next, the cheap polyester clinging to my skin. My bra strap digs into my shoulder, the elastic itching where the fabric’s frayed. I make a mental note to buy a new one, then immediately remind myself that rent comes first.
I undo the top button of my jeans while crossing the room, the dim light from the street slipping through the blinds. It’s enough to find my way through the dark.
The floor creaks as I move toward the kitchen, each step whispering back at me. The sound makes me pause for no reason I can explain. I’ve always hated coming home to silence; it makes every small noise feel amplified, like the apartment is listening.
I flip through the mail on the counter—bills, advertisements, a letter for Lucas. My name scratched next to his in someone else’s handwriting. I stare at it longer than I should before setting it aside. The truth is, I haven’t told the landlord he doesn’t live here anymore. I’m not ready to admit that most nights, it’s just me and the echo of someone who should’ve come back by now.
The fridge hums. I open it, find a half-empty carton of milk and a leftover sandwich that’s turned the color of regret. I close the door. My reflection catches in the window—faint, blurred, almost unfamiliar. God, I look tired. Not the kind of tired thatsleep fixes though, and I wonder if I should text Lilly and agree to the glass of wine after all.
The clock above the sink reads 6:47. I should shower, but the thought of peeling off the rest of my clothes in the cold bathroom feels impossible. I light a candle instead. Vanilla, almost sweet enough to cover the antiseptic smell that follows me home from work.
Something knocks faintly against the window. Probably the wind, but it makes me look up. The curtains shift a little. I cross the room and check the latch. Closed. Everything looks normal.
Still, a small chill runs down my spine. I know it’s exhaustion and I’ve seen way too many people turn paranoid after continuous ER nights. But still… something feels off.
The candle sputters.
I exhale through my nose, force myself to move and I see that the bedroom door is cracked open. The blinds let in a faint strip of light from the street—thin and gold, cutting through the dark like a scar. My bed’s already made, the sheet smooth, the sweatshirt folded neatly at the foot.
Lucas used to sleep there sometimes, when he’d show up too drunk to find his own bed. I never said no, even when he stumbled in at 3 a.m. smelling like whiskey and trouble. Some part of me always thought if I kept a place for him, he’d find his way back to it.
The city outside murmurs—a siren far away, laughter closer, a dog barking in the alley. It’s ordinary. Comforting, even.
I pull my hair free from its ponytail and let it fall over my shoulders and I stand, half-undressed, and glance toward the hallway. For a moment, I think I hear something like a quiet shift of fabric, a slow breath that isn’t mine. The sound is so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.
I move toward the doorway, every sense on edge. “Lucas?” I call softly.
Silence.
My heartbeat drowns out the rest of the world. I take another step.
Something about the darkness feels different now, watchful. Like the second before a lightning strike. My mind flips through every rational explanation. The neighbors. The pipes. The wind. But none of them explain the smell.
It’s faint—cologne, maybe. Expensive. Nothing like Lucas’s cheap spray or the sterilized scent of the hospital. This is darker and way more subtle.
I pause halfway between the bedroom and the living room. The candlelight spills just enough to show the edge of the armchair by the window. The shadow there looks deeper than it should.
My pulse stumbles. I tell myself to move, to grab my phone, to dosomething, but my body won’t listen. Another sound—a soft exhale, almost a sigh.
There’s someone here. There’s someone in myfuckingliving room!
