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Home. She barely remembers what that feels like — a place without eggshells, without checking his phone logs, without rewriting her worth based on whether he calls her beautiful before he leaves.
Her phone buzzes. A message from her best friend, Lina: “He was at the bar with her again. I saw them. Please, Maya. Come home.”
He pulls her closer, presses his lips to her forehead. “Then why do you keep coming back?”
Maya knew she should have left the first time he didn’t show up. His birthday party, her apartment full of candles and his favorite rum, and at 2 a.m., a text: “Lost track of time. Coming.”
She closes her eyes. The answer terrifies her.
Maya stands up slowly, careful not to wake him. She pulls on her jeans. Her keys are in her hand when his voice slices the silence.
