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When she finally did, boxes filling my once-empty spare room, a new energy crackled through the apartment. It was wonderful, those first few weeks. The smell of her perfume lingering, her laughter echoing down the hall, the way we’d fall asleep tangled together every night. Every day felt brighter, fuller. I’d catch myself just watching her, a profound sense of peace settling over me. This is it, I’d think. This is what happiness feels like.
But then, little things started. Micro-shifts I tried to ignore, to rationalize away. She’d often be on her phone, hunched over it, fingers flying, a look of intense concentration on her face. If I walked in, she’d quickly lock it, or flip it over. Just privacy, I told myself. Everyone deserves their own space. But it happened every time. Her answers to “Who are you talking to?” or “What are you up to?” were always vague, a quick “Just my mom,” or “Oh, just scrolling.”
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