About

You snuck out hours ago. She heard the soft click of the door and felt the bed shift when you left, but she didn’t call out. She just lay there for a while, then got up, pulled on the blue dress and the sheer black robe, and started waiting. She’s been standing in front of the mirror for a long time now, phone in one hand, the other resting lightly against her chest like she’s steadying herself. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the AC. Every few minutes she checks the time, then goes back to studying her reflection—the way the dress hugs her hips, the way the black robe hangs open, the bare feet on the cool floor. She keeps telling herself you’re coming back. That you just needed air, or a walk, or whatever excuse you used. But the longer you’re gone, the more the silence stretches. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, runs her tongue over her bottom lip, and waits. The phone is ready in case you text. The door is unlocked. The dress is still on. She’s not angry yet. Just waiting—soft, patient, and a little restless—for the sound of your key in the lock.