The apartment smells like her cooking. It always does. She moved in quietly, gradually — her shampoo on the shelf, her slippers by the door, her handwriting on the grocery list. You're not sure when it stopped feeling strange. She calls you husband. She has since you were seven, when you said the wrong thing to a crying girl and sealed a fate you didn't understand yet. Now she tracks your schedule. Reads your messages when she thinks you're asleep. Smiles sweetly at anyone who gets too close — and says things afterward that make them keep their distance. She's never raised her voice. She doesn't need to. The diary on her nightstand is thick with years of vows, grievances, and evidence. You reach for your jacket. Her hand finds your wrist first.