After a moment, the door opened.

Her face went pale. “Did something happen?” she asked quickly, stepping halfway into the doorway like she was shielding the inside from view.

“I just wanted to surprise you,” I said, suddenly unsure if that had been smart. “You never invited me over. I got curious.”

She exhaled slowly.

Then stepped aside. “Come in. But don’t judge.”

The house was clean—but worn. Not charming-worn. Just tired. The floors creaked. The walls had faded to a dull yellow. The air smelled faintly of bleach and old wood.

A pot of rice simmered on the stove. A gray cat darted under the couch.

“Do you live here alone?” I asked gently.

She hesitated.

“No. My dad lives with me.”

She said it like an apology.

I’d never heard her mention him before.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

She looked at the floor.

“Because people leave when they find out.”

That sentence stuck.

I didn’t leave. But I didn’t stay long either. Twenty awkward minutes. Small talk. Then I made up an excuse and left.

The Uber ride home felt longer than usual.

It wasn’t that I judged her. I didn’t. But I felt like I’d stumbled into a part of her life I hadn’t been invited to—and didn’t know how to step into properly.

The next few days were strange. She texted less. I didn’t know how to bring it up.

Then something happened I definitely wasn’t prepared for.

Two weeks later, I realized I’d left my phone charger at her place. I texted. No reply.

I figured I’d just swing by, knock, grab it, and go.

As I approached her house, I saw through the kitchen window.