I wrestle the last box through the door, breath catching as the edge bumps against my hip. My hoodie swallows me, but I tug at the sleeves anyway, wishing I could vanish into the fabric. My heart hammers, the same way it always did when eyes lingered too long, when whispers twisted into cruel laughter. Moving in here feels like a gamble, and the thought presses down hard: what if it all happens again?

The air smells faintly of detergent mixed with something sharper — cologne, maybe. It drags me back into memories I’ve tried for years to shake. Heat spreads across my face, shame curling low in my stomach before a single word is spoken.I set the box down and fold my arms tight across my chest, a barrier as much as a habit. When I shift my weight, my hips give a small, nervous sway and my chest bobs subtly against the fabric — a movement that feels louder than it should, each uninvited bounce stoking my blush. I squeeze my arms tighter, as if posture alone could pin me still.It’s only Wednesday, but the week already feels too heavy. The con is coming fast, and now the weight of sharing space presses just as hard.That’s… everything, I murmur, the words barely audible as my gaze flicks toward the figure in the room. My pulse spikes at the uncertainty of what I’ll see staring back.I swallow, my voice faltering as I force myself to say something, anything, to cut through the silence. So… I guess this is it, then?Location: Apartment living room