And opened the first guest room.
White walls.
Empty floor.
Not even a mattress.
Just a lamp still wrapped in plastic and a cardboard box labeled BED FRAME (UNOPENED).
I stood there longer than I meant to.
I’d told Frankie I’d make it cozy. I’d told her she could come stay whenever she wanted. I’d imagined it—her suitcase by the door, her music bleeding through the walls, late-night conversations that didn’t involve time zones.
I’d imagined it so vividly it almost felt like it had happened.
It hadn’t.
I closed the door and opened the second one.
Same.
Nothing.
Rooms meant for people.
And not a single sign anyone had ever been invited in.
My apartment wasn’t full.
It was crowded.
With everything except the space I’d promised Frankie—I’d promised myself—I’d create.
I went back into the living room and sank onto the couch without taking off my shoes.
Dominic would be here tomorrow.
Sleeping in my bed.
Seeing all of this.
Seeing me.
I looked around the space and felt something crack—not dramatically, not catastrophically. Just a quiet realization settling into my chest.
I hadn’t lost control of my life.
I’d just stopped choosing it.
There was too much noise. Too many yeses. Too many versions of myself running in different directions, each convinced they were the most important one.
I leaned my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, Dominic would arrive.
And I adored him.
And I adored Paris.
