she wasn't ready to admit.
The street swallowed him, his footsteps fading until only the rustle of wind and the thud of her pulse remained. She stood frozen at the gate, clutching the strap of her bag like it could anchor her to the moment he left behind.
Then the house loomed again—silent, watchful, waiting.
Her chest tightened. She forced herself forward, up the short path to the door, each step heavier than the last.
Inside, the air was stale, carrying that faint tang of disinfectant, like the place was always scrubbing itself clean of secrets. The quiet was sharp, too sharp.
"Late again," a voice called from the kitchen. Flat. Dismissive.
She flinched. "Sorry," she murmured, slipping off her shoes.
No response—just the scrape of a chair, the slow click of footsteps moving closer.
Her mother emerged from the kitchen doorway, face pale in the dim light, lips pressed into a line so thin it seemed carved into stone. Her eyes locked on her, unblinking.
"Sorry?" The word was hissed, sharp as broken glass. "You think that fixes everything?"
She opened her mouth, but the words tangled in her throat.
Her mother's hand curled tight around something on the counter—then released it, reaching instead for her. The air in the room thickened, buzzing with a terrible familiarity.
And as her mother's arm drew back, the world seemed to slow to a single, breathless second—