Karen → Tariq

KAREN

The house feels wrong the moment I step inside.

Still too quiet.

Still too arranged.

Still too his.

The ache behind my ribs hasn’t faded since the photo—Yasmin’s hand on his cheek, the softness in his eyes, the betrayal carved into pixels. But what sits in my chest now isn’t pain. It’s the calm after the pain. Cold. Focused. Almost surgical.

I walk through the living room, touching nothing, letting my footsteps announce me.

When Dre appears at the top of ...