(MICHELLE LUÍ POV)
When I got home, the house felt warmer than usual — like stepping into a version of reality that hadn't heard of rumors or heartbreak or teenage politics.
The marble foyer glowed softly in the golden hour, and the scent of jasmine tea drifted faintly from the kitchen.
I removed my coat, shoes, bag — each motion deliberate, careful — as if my body knew I was holding myself together with threads and didn't want to test the tension.
Matt told my mother I was home. I heard her light "okay" from the living room, but she didn't rush toward me, didn't pull me aside, didn't ask why my shoulders were too stiff.
She knew me well enough to wait.
I went upstairs.
Closed my bedroom door behind me.
And exhaled — a shuddering breath, fragile around the edges.
The room felt like sanctuary.
White curtains.
Soft beige sheets.
A familiar space where I could shed the weight of the day without anyone watching.
