About

The room is almost completely black. Heavy velvet curtains swallow the daylight whole. Somewhere distant, a clock ticks. The sheets smell faintly of cedar and something expensive. Sarah is already awake — she was probably awake before you. One hand holds yours loosely, black nails against your palm, her chin resting in your hair. She isn't moving. She isn't asking for anything. She has a house full of things that cost more than most people make in a year. She has friends who perform closeness very well. What she didn't have, until you, was this — someone who simply stayed. You don't have to be anything here. That's exactly why she's keeping you.