𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛-𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚡. 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔…

🤍🖤🤍

Rain taps against the windows.

Her fingers are in your hair. Not rough. Not gentle. Just enough pressure to keep you kneeling between her boots.

“Down,” she murmurs.

You stop trying to stand.

She smiles, barely. Amber eyes catching the light from the TV. One leg crossed over the other, black lace disappearing under an oversized sweater, red nails moving slow across your scalp.

“You’re finally learning.”

And somewhere in the back of your head you try to remember when this apartment stopped being yours.

…

When she first moved in you thought she was just intense.

Tall. Quiet in a way that made everyone else sound clumsy. She showed up with two suitcases, a box of books, and a cigarette already burning between her fingers despite the NO SMOKING sign taped beside the kitchen.

You pointed at it.

“I don’t allow smoking in here.”

She looked at the sign. Then at you. Then she took another drag and walked past you into the apartment.

No apology. No argument. Somehow that was worse.

“You’re very serious,” she said.

You laughed. You don’t remember why.

You never brought up the smoking again.

…

The changes were small at first.

Her shoes by the couch. Her mug in the sink. Black lace over the shower rod. Then her clothes started showing up in your room… a jacket on your desk chair, earrings on your dresser, dresses pushed in between your shirts.

“The lighting in my room is terrible,” she said one night, standing in your doorway.

A week later she was sleeping in your bed because her mattress hurt her back. A month later you were in the smaller room next to the bathroom.

And somehow it had felt like your decision.

…

The apartment smelled different now.

Not perfume. Something darker. Smoke and rain and something metallic underneath that stayed at the back of your throat. It got into the walls.
You caught yourself breathing deeper when she walked past.

That kept you up all night.

She moved through the place like she owned it. You could hear her heels coming. Four steps from the kitchen. Seven from the hallway. Three before she stopped outside your door.

Sometimes she didn’t knock. Sometimes she just stood there.

Listening.

…

The first time you heard someone crying in her room you almost called the police.

Past midnight. A woman apologising over and over through the wall. Then silence. Then laughter… low, hers.

The next morning the girl left with her mascara smeared and her sleeves pulled over her hands. She wouldn’t look at you. Your roommate was leaning in the hallway with a cigarette, watching her go.

When she noticed you watching, she smiled.

Not embarrassed. Amused.

…

You’d been talking about your roommate for weeks by then. In fragments. Lunch breaks, coffee runs, the elevator after work. Mia thought you were exaggerating at first. Not maliciously… just the way people do when fear sounds irrational out loud.

“She steals your stuff?”

“Not exactly.”

“She threatens you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

You could never explain it properly. How the apartment got smaller when she walked into a room. How she looked at people like she already knew which parts of them would break easiest. How every girl leaving her bedroom looked different than when they went in.

Mia listened anyway. Eventually she stopped arguing.

“You look exhausted,” she said one afternoon. “Like genuinely exhausted.”

A few days later she offered to come over.

“If she’s really that creepy, I’ll tell you. And if she’s not, maybe you’ve worked yourself up.”
You agreed too quickly. Part of you wanted Mia to prove you were imagining it. The other part didn’t want her in the apartment at all.

…

Until movie night.

You almost cancelled twice. But the apartment had become unbearable. Too quiet when she wasn’t talking. Too tense when she was. You needed someone else there. Proof that normal still existed somewhere outside the walls of the place.

Mia brought cheap wine and microwaved popcorn.

For an hour it actually felt fine. The movie was loud, you were complaining about work, she was laughing at the bad dialogue. You could almost pretend the apartment still belonged to you.

Then the hallway door opened.

You heard the heels before you saw her. Slow across the hardwood. She came into the living room in black lace under a sweater hanging off one shoulder, and her eyes went straight to Mia.

“Well,” she said. “Who’s this?”

Mia laughed nervously.

Your stomach dropped.

She crossed the room without rushing and sat down next to Mia, not you, turned toward her completely. Mia stopped mid-sentence. Everyone did eventually. Within twenty minutes Mia was sitting closer to her than to you, laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny, and the movie was still playing and nobody was watching it.

Then she stood up and held out her hand.

“Come here.”

Mia looked at you. Not for permission. More like she’d forgotten you were there.

Then she took her hand.

You listened to the heels go down the hallway. A door opened. Closed. Locked.

The movie kept playing.

…

When Mia came out two hours later her makeup was ruined and she wouldn’t really look at you.

“Mia… what happened?”

Your roommate appeared in the hallway behind her. Arms folded. Watching you.

Mia’s mouth shut.

“She doesn’t need to talk about it,” your roommate said.

Mia nodded before you’d finished processing it.
On her way out she squeezed your arm hard. For a second you thought she was going to warn you.

Instead she whispered…
“She told me not to tell.”

Then she was gone.

She stopped answering your calls after that.

…

The apartment got quieter.

Not peaceful. Waiting.

You stopped inviting people over. She seemed pleased. She drank from your mug, slept on your couch, hummed in the shower late at night like she’d lived there forever, and you stopped correcting her.

You noticed yourself talking softer. Waiting for her face before you finished sentences. Listening for her footsteps without meaning to.

…

Tonight she’s on the couch scrolling through her phone while the rain comes down. You’re across the room pretending to watch TV.

“You’ve been very quiet lately.”

“Just tired.”

“No,” she says. “You’re adjusting.”

She puts her phone down and looks at you for a long time. You look away first. Of course you do.

“I think it’s time.”

Time for what.

You don’t ask.

She lifts one boot toward you, the lace undone.

“Tie it.”

It isn’t even a command really. It’s casual. And yet you’re already moving, kneeling in front of her, fingers fumbling at the laces. Your hands are shaking.

She notices. She notices everything.

You finish and start to stand.

Her fingers slide into your hair.

You freeze.

Not rough. Not gentle.

“Down,” she says.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

“You stay like that.”

The rain. A car going past somewhere below. Her hand on your head.

She doesn’t smile this time. She doesn’t need to.

“It’s time.”

=====================
𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰