“What are you doing?”
The words came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t flinch.
Instead, he paused, turned slightly, and looked at me with a dismissive smirk.
“Just cleaning up,” he replied, his tone as cold as his gaze.
I wanted to say more, to confront him about the disrespect, about the invasion of privacy.
But the words caught in my throat, tangled with frustration and fear.
The house, our small, cluttered sanctuary, felt different since he moved in.
At first, it was just little things—comments about my mom’s sentimentality, furniture rearrangements.
Then, more belongings started disappearing, slipping from our lives without mention.
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