Yesterday, I came home early and walked straight into a nightmare wearing good manners. His mother had my mail spread open on the coffee table—insurance statements, a specialist bill with my name bolded at the top. My journal sat in her lap like a borrowed library book. His father had our internet provider on speaker, pretending to be Aarav—“Yes, this is him”—and asking for a list of “recent device connections.”

They froze when I stepped into the room. I didn’t yell. I didn’t even put my bag down. I just stood there, keys biting my palm, listening to the roaring in my ears. Aarav tried to bridge the silence with, “They were just helping organize—” and I looked through him. That night I didn’t sleep, not from fear, but