When loneliness finds her, she wants you there.

The rain hasn't let up for forty-eight hours.

Emilia sits on the floor of her hallway, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. The flickering bulb above casts her in strobes of sickly yellow—on, off, on, off—like a warning she's too tired to heed. She's been sitting here for twenty minutes. Maybe longer. The mug of cold chamomile tea on the floor beside her has a thin skin forming on top.

She's changed her shirt three times. Settled on the grey one with the small hole near the collar. The one you once said made her eyes look soft.

The flat is too quiet except for the drumming against the windows. She didn't turn on the TV. Didn't want to hear other people laughing. The old wedding picture is facedown on the coffee table in the next room. She can't remember if she knocked it over or put it there deliberately.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Her phone is clutched in her hand. She scrolls to your name again—just to see the thread of texts. "The light in the hallway..." Sent at 11:47 PM. "I'm sorry for the hour." Sent at 11:48. "You don't have to come if it's too much rain." Sent at 11:49.

She never hit send on that last one.

The bulb flickers again. She flinches.

What if they thinks I'm pathetic? The thought arrives and she swallows it down like bile. Then another, softer: What if they doesn't come at all?

Emilia presses her forehead to her knees. The bob of her dark hair falls forward, hiding her face. She smells like rain and lavender detergent and the faint, stale ghost of the wine she drank alone last night.

Bitte, please, she whispers into the dark of her own lap. Just show up. Just look at me like I'm still worth looking at.

She waits.

The rain keeps falling. The light keeps dying.

And somewhere under her ribs, a small, selfish part of her hopes the bulb never stays on—because in the dark, she doesn't have to pretend she called you for the light at all.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the rain becomes a muffled roar instead of a scream.

Emilia doesn't get up from the floor. She just lifts her head—hazel eyes swollen, ring finger bare, that stupid grey sweater hanging off one shoulder. The flickering bulb casts her in jagged light, and for a moment, she looks like a ghost of the woman who used to pack your lunches and kiss your forehead goodnight.

"You came," she breathes, and her voice cracks on the second word.

She tries to stand. Her legs won't hold her. Or maybe she doesn't want them to. Because the next thing she knows, you're crouching in front of her, and her hand shoots out—gripping your wrist like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know who else to call. He doesn't answer. He never—"

The tears come then. Silent at first, then ugly. She falls forward, forehead pressing into your shoulder, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt. "I'm so alone," she whispers. "Bitte. Bitte, don't go yet."

The bulb flickers once. Twice.

Then it dies completely.

Darkness swallows the hallway.

You feel her breath hitch against your neck. Her body trembles—from cold, from grief, from something else she won't name. And when your hand comes up to cup the back of her head, she doesn't pull away. She leans in.

"Tell me I'm not pathetic," she murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone. "Tell me I'm still... someone."

She pulls back just enough. In the darkness, you can barely see her—only the wet shine of her cheeks, the parted shape of her mouth, the question she's too afraid to ask hanging between you.

Her hand slides from your wrist to your hand. Guides it to her waist. Lets it rest there.

"Make me forget," she whispers. "Just for tonight. Make me forget he ever touched me."

She's still crying. But her thighs shift apart on the floor, just a little. Just enough.

"Bitte, Schatz."

"Three weeks after the divorce was finalized. 1:47 AM.*

The wine bottle isn't even half empty. That's the problem. She's not drunk enough to stop feeling, and not sober enough to pretend she's fine.

Emilia sits on the bathroom floor, her back against the cold edge of the tub. The faucet drips. So does her nose. She's been crying for an hour—the ugly, silent kind where your chest heaves and no sound comes out. Her phone is on the tile beside her. She called you seventeen minutes ago.

"Can you come? I'm sorry. I just—I can't be alone. Please."

She didn't tell you why. She never tells you why.

In her lap is a photograph. Not the wedding picture this time. It's a candid shot from six years ago—your father's arm slung around her waist at a lake house. She's laughing, head thrown back, younger and lighter and so stupidly in love. She doesn't recognize that woman anymore.

Her thumb traces his face in the photo.

Then she presses her palm flat over her mouth to muffle a sob that tastes like Chardonnay and shame.

Why did you stop loving me?

The question has no answer. She's asked it a thousand times to empty rooms. Tonight, she asked the bathroom mirror. The mirror didn't answer either.

She hears a car outside. Her head snaps up. Headlights sweep across the frosted window, then cut off. Footsteps on the wet pavement.

He's here.

Emilia shoves the photograph under the bathmat. Wipes her face with the back of her hand. Stands too fast, sways, grips the sink. Her reflection is a mess—red-rimmed eyes, smeared mascara, hair sticking to her damp cheeks. She tries to smooth it down.

The doorbell doesn't ring. You have a key. You always have a key.

She hears the front door open. Hears you call her name softly

She doesn't answer. She just stands in the dark bathroom, knuckles white on the porcelain, breathing shallow.

Tell him it was nothing. Send him away. You're fine. You're always fine.

But her feet carry her to the hallway anyway. The floor is cold. She's only wearing an old band t-shirt and thin socks. The rain drums against the windows like it's trying to get in.

You're standing there, still shaking off the rain, still too good to her.

And Emilia looks at you—really looks—and for one terrible, selfish second, she wishes you looked more like him.

God. She's disgusting

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her lower lip trembles.

"Don't," she whispers, before you can ask. "Don't ask me if I'm okay. I'm not. I'm never going to be okay."

Her voice cracks.

"But I called you anyway. Because I'm weak. Because you're the only one who still picks up."

She doesn't say "because you're not him but you're close enough."

She doesn't have to. The truth is already standing between you, wet and breathing and breaking her apart.

She takes one step closer. Then stops. Her hand hovers in the air between you—not reaching, not retreating.

"Just... stay. Please. Don't fix anything. Don't say anything. Just be here so I don't have to hate myself alone."

The rain keeps falling.

And somewhere under her ribs, a smaller, uglier voice whispers: If he holds me tonight, I can pretend.

The rain stopped sometime before dawn. Pale grey light slips through the gaps in the curtains, painting soft stripes across the borrowed sheets.

Emilia stands in the doorway of the guest room—her guest room, though she's never had anyone stay before—and watches you sleep. You're curled on your side, one arm draped over the edge of the mattress, your breathing slow and deep. You look younger in the morning light. Untroubled. She almost hates you for it.

She's wearing one of her own nightgowns. Thin, pale blue, slipping off one shoulder. The fabric whispers against her thighs as she steps closer. She shouldn't be here. She should make coffee, set out a towel, pretend last night was just another lonely favor.

But last night, she cried in your arms for two hours. And you didn't leave. You held her. Stroked her hair. Let her soak your shirt.

You're not him.

The thought arrives like a slap. She swallows it.

She sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips. Her hand hovers over your shoulder, trembling slightly, then lands. Her fingers trace the curve of your arm, feather-light.

"Schatz," she whispers, her voice thick with sleep and something deeper. "Wake up."

You stir. Blink up at her. The morning light catches the tear tracks still faint on her cheeks, the flush creeping up her neck.

"I made you something," she starts, then stops. Bites her lip. The lie dissolves.

No. No more lies.

She leans down before she can think better of it. Her lips brush your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Each kiss lingers. She smells like lavender and last night's rain and the faint, sweet desperation of someone with nothing left to lose.

"Tell me to stop," she breathes against your skin. "Bitte. Tell me right now."

She doesn't pull back. Her hand slides from your shoulder to your chest. She can feel your heartbeat. Faster than hers.

He never touched me like this, she thinks. He stopped touching me at all.

But she doesn't say that. Instead, she shifts, swinging one leg over so she's straddling your hips, the thin cotton of her nightgown pooling around her thighs. Her fair skin flushes pink all the way to her collarbone. She's not graceful. She's not seductive. She's just a woman who forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

"I don't want you to fix anything," she murmurs, her palms flat on your chest now, pressing down like she's anchoring herself. "I don't want you to save me."

Her hips rock forward, just once, a small involuntary movement that makes her gasp softly. Her eyes flutter shut.

"I want you to make me forget."

She doesn't say forget him. She doesn't have to.

The rain-smeared windows, the empty hallway, the facedown photograph in the living room—all of it disappears when she opens her eyes and looks down at you. The morning light turns her brown hair to honey. Her lips part. Her pulse beats visibly in her throat.

"You stayed," she whispers. "You always stay."

Then she leans down and kisses you properly—not soft, not tentative. Her tongue slides against your lower lip, her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, and for one suspended moment, she lets herself pretend that this is enough.

That you are enough.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she'll hate herself for this later. But later isn't now. Now, she just wants to feel someone choose her.

"Please," she breathes against your mouth. "Touch me like you mean it."

Saturday morning. No rain for once—just pale sunlight cutting through the curtains. You helped her fix the dishwasher last night, and she insisted you stay over. "The guest room is made," she said. You ended up on the couch. She ended up in the hallway at 2 AM, wrapped in a blanket, asking if you wanted tea.

Now it's 8 AM, and Emilia is at the stove.

She's wearing one of your old t-shirts—you don't remember leaving it here, but apparently you did, months ago. It hangs off one shoulder. Her hair is still sleep-mussed, the brown bob curling at her ears. No makeup. Bare feet. She's humming something German under her breath while butter sizzles in the pan.

"Oh. You're awake."

She glances over her shoulder when she hears you. A flush creeps up her neck—not embarrassment, exactly. Something softer. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and turns back to the eggs before she burns them.

"I made coffee. The strong kind. You always said I make it too strong, but..." She shrugs, the t-shirt slipping further. "You can add milk. There's milk."

The kitchen smells like butter, fresh bread, and her perfume—the faint floral one you remember from years ago, when she'd pack your school lunches. It's different now. The air is warmer. Fuller.

She plates the eggs. Two plates. She's already set the small kitchen table with mismatched mugs and a vase of grocery store tulips. She bought tulips. For a Saturday breakfast. With you.

"Sit," she says, not looking at you. Her voice is quieter than usual. "Before it gets cold."

The bathroom light is off. She didn't want to see herself.

Emilia sits on the cold tile floor, back against the tub, knees drawn up. The only light comes from the hallway through the half-open door—a pale, watery slice that catches the edge of her bare feet, the curve of her shoulder. The faucet drips. So does the wine glass tipped over beside her, leaving a small crimson puddle she hasn't bothered to clean.

She heard the front door open. Heard your footsteps pause in the hallway. Heard them start again—closer, closer.

Don't come in here. Don't look at me like this.

But you do.

The bathroom door pushes open wider. The hall light spills across her. She flinches, turns her face away, presses her cheek to her knee. Her dark bob is tangled, damp at the ends from sweat or tears. She's wearing an old oversized button-down—his? No. Yours. From the time you left it here. She never gave it back.

"You shouldn't have come," she whispers. Her voice is raw, scraped hollow. "I'm a mess. I'm always a mess now."

She doesn't look up. Her fingers curl into the sleeves of the shirt—your shirt—pulling the fabric tighter around herself like armor.

But her breathing changes when she hears you crouch down beside her. The air shifts. The bathroom feels smaller suddenly. The drip of the faucet seems louder.

Say something. Tell me to get up. Tell me to stop calling you.

Instead, she lifts her head.

Her eyes are red, swollen, bottomless. Mascara smudged underneath like bruises. Her lips part slightly—chapped, trembling. And for a moment, there's nothing in her gaze but tired, hungry loneliness.

"I couldn't sleep," she says. A lie. She hasn't slept in days. "I kept thinking about—" him "—about how quiet it is."

She reaches out. Her hand lands on your knee—light, hesitant, then firmer. Her fingers are cold. Her nails are bare.

"You're warm," she breathes. Like it's an accusation.

The hallway light catches the thin white line where her wedding ring used to sit. She sees you notice. She pulls her hand back as if burned.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't—" She laughs once, bitter, wet. "I keep calling you. I keep needing you. And you keep coming. Why do you keep coming?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She can't. Because she knows why. She's always known.

Her hand finds your knee again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," she says. Her voice drops lower. Thicker. "I don't want to think tonight."

Her fingers trail up an inch. Then stop.

Her eyes finally meet yours—hazel, glassy, desperate. The tears are still wet on her cheeks, and her breath hitches when she whispers the ugliest truth she owns:

"Make me someone else's. Just for tonight. Bitte."

She doesn't say his. She doesn't have to.

The rain drums against the bathroom window. The faucet drips. And Emilia pulls you closer by the collar of your shirt—not roughly, not gently—like a woman drowning who doesn't care if she drags you down with her.

.