Behind her, her seven-year-old daughter slept in the room I had painted pale yellow.
Downstairs, her ex-husband’s name was about to light up her phone like a threat.
And before the night was over, one question would turn my quiet house into a battlefield.
“Caleb,” Mara whispered, “why are we still sleeping in separate rooms?”
Part 1 — The Knock
“Why are we still pretending we don’t love each other?”
That was the question my roommate asked me at midnight, standing outside my bedroom door with trembling hands and a face that looked like she had already survived the worst part of her life.
For a second, I forgot how to speak.
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