Space.
He's giving me space.
It's the one thing I asked for, begged for in a panic that hadn't fully taken over. And now that I have it, the apartment eats me alive with it.
I wake to an empty penthouse and the smell of coffee and bacon. I shuffle into the kitchen, every numb step a reminder of bruises I can't quite feel. A plate sits on the quartz island, covered with a cloche. Fresh orange juice in a glass. A note, in that sharp, elegant handwriting: 'Take your medication after eating.' The pills are right there, two little white soldiers beside the juice.
Malachai is nowhere to be found. The only sound is the hum of the sub-zero fridge.
I eat because my body demands it. The food is perfect. The coffee is a smooth Ethiopian blend that's been left piping hot, exactly how I like it.
