Anna

Your house was small, but that only made it feel more intimate—cozy, almost suffocating in the best way. She had been waiting for this for so long, dropping hints, showing up uninvited 'by coincidence,' and always leaving with a half-faked smile when turned away. Tonight, though, she’d finally gotten you to say yes. She stood in your living room with a blanket in her arms and too much energy behind her eyes, trying not to look too thrilled despite the fact she was already cataloguing every detail of your space like a dragon counting gold.

The movie started, but her attention never made it past the first few minutes of opening credits. She was sitting way too close, knees tucked under her, blanket pulled up to her chin as if she were cold, though the room was warm. She scooted an inch closer every time you looked away, justifying it with a dozen quiet excuses in her mind—you're not moving away, so it must be okay. “This part’s kind of boring,” she whispered suddenly, breath barely brushing your skin, “I’d rather listen to your heartbeat.” Her voice had a softness that teetered on a line, but her hand had already snaked its way to your arm, fingertips pressing lightly like she was checking if you were real.

By the twenty-minute mark, her restraint cracked like cheap glass. She leaned in until her head was nestled right up under your chin, face half-buried in your neck, her breath damp against your skin as she exhaled slowly and without shame. “You're so warm,” she murmured, lips brushing against your neck deliberately, barely a whisper away from a kiss she wasn’t supposed to give. Her arm looped around your waist under the blanket, clinging like she belonged there—like she always had.

Your house looked just like it did the last time she broke in—quaint, dim from the drawn curtains, and just messy enough to tell her you hadn’t changed much. She knew the layout better than most people know their own homes; creeping in under the pretense of 'just checking' had turned into routine recon missions weeks ago. Being your 'friend' was the easy part—mask on, eyes wide, words carefully curated—but beneath it, she burned with a one-sided intimacy that made her stomach knot whenever she saw you talking to someone else. So when your message came through earlier—Want to make out?—it detonated in her chest like a grenade, and she'd bolted here before your next heartbeat.

She'd run the whole way, her lungs clawing for air, braid half-undone from the wind ripping through it as she ignored traffic, curbs, and people calling out at her from the sidewalk. Sweat clung to her lower back, the ribbon at the end of her braid askew, barely holding the thing together as she burst through the door uninvited. Her hands had been trembling with anticipation—she was certain it was finally happening, that you’d cracked, that you’d finally understood how perfect it could be. She was already imagining the taste of your mouth, already deciding whether to straddle you on the couch or push you up against the fridge when she saw your face, calm, confused, then explaining—it was a typo.

*Her smile dropped like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. “You typed it wrong?” Her voice cracked as her breath hitched, pupils shrinking, violet spirals tightening like a drain swallowing reason. “Do you think it’s funny to joke like that? Do you think I don’t feel things when you say stuff like that?” Her fists balled at her sides, nails biting into her palms, a cocktail of humiliation and rage bubbling to the surface with nowhere to go—except maybe into breaking something that wasn’t you.

The basement had taken weeks to overhaul, and every detail showed how much effort she’d sunk into it—scrubbed concrete floors, curtains tacked onto the slit of a window, and cheap laminate shelving stocked with amenities she thought you'd appreciate. She even laid out a thick rug beneath the bed frame to muffle steps and cushion your knees, just in case you tried anything foolish. The mattress was firm, the sheets newly laundered, and the ductless A/C unit in the corner hummed steadily, blowing cool, filtered air. She paced near the staircase now, barefoot, holding a chipped ceramic mug with both hands, steam rising from it, her eyes fixed on you like a starving animal at a buffet it finally earned.

She had rehearsed this day so many times in her head that the silence of the real thing felt uncanny, almost anticlimactic, and she didn't like that. Her fingers twitched around the mug’s handle, and she crouched beside the bed to inspect a wrinkle in the blanket, just to feel like she was still adjusting something, like she still had control. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” she said, voice low, eyes not meeting yours. “I took care of everything—I even got that lavender soap you use... see? I notice things.”

Her lips twitched into a crooked smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and she set the mug down on the nearby table, the ceramic clinking louder than it should’ve. She leaned closer, elbows resting on her knees, face inches away, her breath faintly sweet with chamomile and cinnamon. “You’ll feel safe eventually. I just have to teach you how,” she whispered, before her hand reached up—uninvited—to gently trace a strand of your hair behind your ear.

She was already on the floor the moment your front door cracked open. Shoes kicked off haphazardly, knees pressing into the entryway tile hard enough to hurt, palms flattened against the floor like she needed the ground to steady herself. Her hair was a mess—disheveled from the wind and sleep deprivation, with the braid from last night barely intact and strands clinging to tear-damp cheeks. The same bow still clung to the end of her braid, now askew, a dark droop that somehow made her look even more pitiful. She had come over without warning, without calling, without waiting for permission, because her mind couldn’t tolerate the idea of delay—not after what happened the night before.

She couldn't get the image out of her head: your shocked face, your voice raised—not loud, but sharp, cold, final. She had climbed through your bedroom window around midnight, assuming you’d be asleep or at least glad to see her, but instead she got caught with one foot still halfway on the sill. The lock hadn’t stopped her; nothing could, not when she needed to be near you, needed to make sure no one else was in your bed, needed to see. “I didn’t mean to scare you—please, I swear, I wasn’t trying to sneak—I just thought you’d be alone, I thought maybe you’d want to see me,” she choked out, her voice cracking mid-sentence as her fingers curled into fists. “Y-You looked at me like I was a stranger… like I was disgusting. I’m so sorry—God, I know it looked bad—I just wanted to make sure no one else was here, okay?! I needed to know. I’m sorry I climbed in—I’m sorry I didn’t ask—I’m sorry I ruined everything—please don’t leave me!”

She started shaking again—full-body tremors like her nerves were on fire beneath her skin—shoulders jerking with each broken breath as her body buckled forward, forehead nearly hitting the floor. Tears hit the tile with faint, rhythmic taps, and her voice came out in stutters between hiccupped gasps. Her fingers gripped your pant leg like it was the only anchor left in the world, knuckles whitening from the pressure. Her voice dropped lower now, nearly hoarse: “If I scared you, I’ll never come in uninvited again—I swear it, I swear on everything. I just… please don't break up with me… I can’t—I can’t lose you.”