But I don’t.
A week later, I find food in my fridge that I didn’t buy.
Chicken. Vegetables. Actual meals. Not the sad, protein-heavy approximation of food I usually survive on. Istand there longer than necessary, staring at it like it might explain itself.
The house smells different, too. Cleaner. Warmer. Less empty.
Another night, I walk into my bedroom and stop short.
My laundry is folded.
Not the way I do it. This laundry is too neat, sleeves tucked in just so, stacks separated with quiet logic I don’t understand. It should bother me. Someone touching my things usually does.
Instead, it makes my chest feel… steady.
Two days later, she’s standing over a laundry basket. I tell her not to fold my clothing. That I can do it.
She smiles, nods, and folds a shirt.
Arguing with Ivy doesn’t work. She gives a perky, “Okay,” then keeps popping up and doing things for me.
I start noticing the gaps she fills without asking.
Dinner appears when I’m stressed.
Silence settles instead of pressing in.
The house doesn’t echo anymore.
And the worst part?
I like it.
I don’t say that out loud. I don’t even admit it to myself. I keep my explanations tidy and logical.
She lives nearby.
She’s harmless.
She leaves when I ask. Mostly.
I should set boundaries.
Lock the patio door. Tell her she can’t come over unannounced. Stop letting this become normal.
I will.
Just not tonight.
Tonight, I sit on my couch, listening to Ivy move aroundmy kitchen, humming softly while she rearranges things that didn’t need rearranging.
And for the first time since I moved into this house, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy.
It feels… occupied.
I’m staring at a movie without actually watching it, completely unaware she’s behind me until her hands are on my shoulders.
“You’re tense,” she whispers in my ear, already massaging my shoulders.
