It’s subtle some of the time, but it’s constant.
And it’s working.
I can feel myself shrinking. Adjusting. Making myself smaller in ways I don’t even consciously choose.
They’re both loud. Dominant. Expansive. And I’m folding in on myself to fit around them. Expected to be grateful. Always grateful.
I can feel it in my body. That low, constant hum of tension—like I’m bracing for something that never fully happens, but never fully stops, either.
I’m rotting here from the inside out.
The only thing that cuts through it is him.
Soren.
We’re in constant contact now. Texts. Calls. Voice notes. It barely stops. And I don’t want it to.
I check my phone without thinking, all the time. Waiting. Anticipating. Needing it.
Every time his name lights up my screen, something in me settles instantly. Like my body recognizes him before my mindcatches up. Like he’s the answer to something I didn’t know how to fix on my own.
And when there’s silence—even just a little too long—it feels wrong. Sharp. Like something’s missing.
I hate it. I don’t like being here without him. I don’t like the distance.
I need to be closer. Within reach. Close enough to call his name and hear him answer from the next room. Always.
There’s a crash from the living room. Loud. Sudden.
My body reacts before my brain does. A full-body flinch.
Then shouting. Laughter layered over it—too loud, too sharp, too much.
My chest tightens. I close my eyes, pressing my fingers into my temple, trying to shut it out.
It doesn’t work.
Nothing works.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Soren:
You seem off.
I stare at the message.
At how quickly he picked up on it. At how easily he saw through me, never mind the distance.
Me:
It’s just loud here.
The reply comes instantly.
Soren:
Then leave.