I returned on a Wednesday.
No announcement. No apology.
Just a quiet knock on his door.
Ethan didn't speak when he saw me. He didn't ask questions, didn't demand explanations. He simply stepped aside, letting me walk back into his world as if I had never left.
But everything had changed.
He poured me tea. Made sure the room was warm. Asked if I'd eaten. Touched my back when I passed too close.
And yet, I felt none of it.
The warmth was there. But it didn't reach me.
Because now I knew what it was:
A performance. A script. A perfected rhythm of possession disguised as tenderness.
That night, we lay in his bed. His arm wrapped around me, his breath steady at my neck. He kissed the curve of my shoulder like it was routine, like his body was reminding mine who it belonged to.
I let him.
But I didn't close my eyes.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about all the ways he had touched my life—rewired it, repainted it, rewrote it.
And I realized something terrifying:
I didn't miss the old me.
Because I couldn't even remember her.
Ethan whispered, "You came back."
I didn't answer.
Because yes—I had come back.
But not to stay.
Not forever.
This time, I came back with my eyes open.
And I had questions he didn't want me to ask.