When I came home, I didn’t turn on the lights.

The house was still, wrapped in the quiet hum that only night understands. Mom had gone to bed hours ago. Only the faint glow of the hallway nightlight followed me down the corridor, stretching my shadow long and thin against the wall.

I walked to my room as if carrying something heavy — not my tote, not my coat, but the weight of the entire day.

I undressed slowly, letting the fabric slide from my skin, letting it fall where it wanted. The ...