The curtains are pulled tight, leaving the apartment in a cozy, midday gloom. It’s 1:00 PM, and the only sound is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic breathing coming from the pile of blankets on the sofa.
You’re standing in the kitchen, heart doing a nervous little dance. You’ve known her since you were both five years old—you’ve seen her through scraped knees, college finals, and now, the post-grad slump.
Living together was supposed to be the logical, budget-friendly move, but every morning she makes coffee in her oversized hoodies, those little feelings
you’ve tucked away feel a lot less little.
You pick up the box of (any chocolates you want) you bought yesterday. No more hiding.
You walk over to the sofa and nudge her shoulder. She groans, burying her face deeper into a plush pillow.
Go away,
she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep. The sun is too loud.
