A box sits in the hall like a hostage. We all walk past it. Someone ordered something filthy or expensive, waiting for an empty house.
Tag: privacy
Kettle on, someone half dressed, my cereal in the crossfire. I live here. I work early. Your new friend does not need any kitchen tours.
How many. How often. Who it was. That is not public property. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets.
I can hear the message being recorded next door. Then it pings my phone. We live six feet apart and still perform distance like strangers.
A wrist in his story is not commitment. It is cover. If I am good enough for his bed I am good enough for face.
Same kitchen. Same oat milk. Then a rose on the app. The house became an incubator with worse lighting. I shut the fridge, considered leaving.