When I got home that night, the silence inside the house felt heavier than the cold air outside. I closed the door behind me and pressed my back against it for a moment, letting my lungs slowly catch up with the ache inside my chest. My hands were shaking—not from the cold, but from everything I had forced myself to say.

Everything I forced myself to lie about.

I walked toward the kitchen, my heels echoing softly against the tiles. I didn’t turn on the bright lights; the dim warm lamp ...