AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I don’t dwell on the way I enjoy being inherspace. I don’t think about the way the air feels different in here. The way it tastes different in here.
The living room doubles as Cassandra’s home office. On one side of the room, the gray couch faces a subpar TV mounted above a fireplace she never turns on because someone—me—keeps disabling the gas line because someone—her—has left it on unattended one too many times. She’s thankfully given up on calling out the repair man, because I don’t want to feel bad about her spending money on repairs when I’m only going to fuck it up again.
The other side of the living room has a bright white table tucked against the wall, topped with a small lamp, her work laptop, a ceramic cactus, and an empty floral-printed cup with a matching pink straw that looks big enough to fit half a gallon of liquid.
Walking through the kitchen, I make sure all the appliances have their cords fully plugged in and that they haven’t tangled since I checked them three days ago.
I pull the stove away from the wall, making sure the connections and valves are just as I left them. They are.
Pushing the stove back into its place, I notice the fruit bowl next to her sink is overflowing. With zucchini.
A shudder runs down my spine, and I wonder if there’s something I can do to them that would make them rot overnight so she’s not able to make anything else with them.
I slide my hand into my pocket, ready to pull my phone out so I can search to see if such a thing is possible, but I stop myself. Because if Cassandra woke up tomorrow to a bowl of rotten produce, she would feel sad.
She’d probably frown. Potentially pout. And I can’t be the cause of that.
I pull my hand free and let it linger on the railing as I climb the stairs to her second level.
This house is as old and shitty as mine, except Cassandra has actually put in effort to make her home cozy. She’s painted the walls in every room. The kitchen is a bright blue, her bathrooms are teal, and her bedroom—I step into the small space—is a gentle gray with soft pink bedding and rugs.
I inhale, and that rare feeling of calmness settles over my shoulders.
Her bed isn’t made; it never is.
I flip on the light in her attached windowless bathroom and glance around, making sure nothing has been left on.
The mirror is still slightly steamy—accounting for her wet hair when she left the house—and the mix of shampoo, body lotion, and hair products makes me want to roll around on her shaggy bathroom rug.
But I don’t.
That would be weird.
Turning the light off, I move back into the bedroom.
The window faces the street, and through her open curtains, I can see the front of my house. But there’s a tall tree in Cassandra’s yard, meaning she doesn’t have a good view of my front door, which I use to my advantage, ensuring she can’t see me retrieving the offerings she leaves for me on my front step. I’m rarely off on my calculations, but if she were to stand right here, forty-eight minutes after turning off her bedroom light at night, she wouldn’t get a clear view of me opening my front door.
Still facing the window, I walk back—two steps, three—until I bump into her bed.
Then I sit.
This is her side of the bed. Doesn’t take a genius, or an obsessed stalker, to figure that out.
I pretend it’s morning. That she’s just woken and sat up, and I look out through the window.
This is her view.
My home.
Me.
I take a deep breath and scoot over an inch, then another.
Is this exactly where she would be sitting?
Slowly, I reach down and unlace my boots, then pull them off one at a time.
Then I lift my feet onto the bed.
