The house had gotten quieter while I was reading.Not the peaceful, comforting kind of quiet either—the kind that tucks you in and whispers go to sleep like a normal person.No.This was the suspicious kind.The kind that made every small movement feel like a crime. Pages turning too loudly. Chair creaking like it was about to expose me. My own breathing suddenly became very… noticeable.Which made sense.It was late.Very late.The kind of late where responsible, well-adjusted people were asleep, dreaming about productivity and hydration.Unlike me.Who was currently sitting at a desk, reading what was essentially a private romantic archive—diary-adjacent material—about the man living down the hall.You know.The same man who kidnapped me.Totally normal behaviour.Absolutely nothing to unpack there.I shifted in the chair, tucking one leg beneath me, as if changing positions would somehow make this whole situation feel less unhinged.It didn’t.Still, I kept reading.Because apparen
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