The door shut softly behind me.
I didn't turn on the lights.
The condo greeted me with silence—the kind that didn't ask questions, didn't demand answers. I slipped out of my shoes and stood there, keys still in my hand, breathing slowly like I needed to convince myself I was really home.
Safe.
I walked to the couch and sat down, my movements careful, controlled. My body felt heavy, but my mind refused to rest. I stared at the blank wall in front of me, telling myself not to think.
It didn't work.
His voice came back without warning.
"You're mine."
My fingers tightened around the cushion.
"Everything about you is mine."
I sucked in a sharp breath, my chest tightening as if the words had weight. They echoed in my head, louder here than they had been at the party.
"No," I whispered, barely louder than the hum of the city outside.
But the memories didn't stop.
His tone.
The certainty.
The way he'd said it like it was a fact, not a claim.
"Your business is mine."
"I told you—you're mine."
My throat burned.
I stood up abruptly, pacing the room like staying still would let the words sink deeper. My hands trembled now, no matter how hard I tried to steady them.
"I'm not," I said, voice breaking despite myself. "I'm not yours."
The silence didn't argue back.
That was when it hit me.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Disappointment.
I pressed my forehead against the window, the cold glass grounding me as tears slipped down my cheeks—quiet, uncontrollable. I didn't sob. I didn't fall apart dramatically.
I just cried.
For the girl who thought boundaries would be respected.
For the girl who believed walking away would be enough.
For the girl who had to hear herself turned into something owned.
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around myself. The city lights blurred through my tears.
"I didn't do anything wrong," I whispered again, like a promise. Like a reminder.
The crying came in waves—soft, exhausting, leaving me hollow when it finally slowed. By the time I stood up, my eyes burned and my chest ached, but something inside me had hardened.
Not bitterness.
Clarity.
I changed into something comfortable and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling until sleep finally took me—not peacefully, but quietly.
The Next Day
Morning came gently.
Light filtered through the curtains, touching the edge of the bed. I woke up already tired, already aware. I didn't rush to sit up. I let myself breathe first.
The memories were still there.
But they didn't knock the air out of me anymore.
I moved through my routine slowly—shower, clean clothes, hair tied back neatly. Everything felt deliberate. Intentional.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I noticed it immediately.
I looked… guarded.
Not broken.
Not weak.
Just careful.
I made coffee and toast, eating in silence with my phone face down on the counter. No checking notifications. No scrolling. No opening doors to anyone I wasn't ready for.
When an unknown number called, I let it ring.
When a message preview popped up later, I ignored it.
Work became my anchor.
I sat at my desk, laptop open, fingers moving quickly as emails and numbers filled the screen. Business made sense. It stayed in its lane. It didn't blur lines or raise its voice.
Still, the effects were there.
I double-checked the lock before stepping out.
I chose busier streets.
I noticed who was around me in ways I hadn't before.
Not fear.
Awareness.
By the afternoon, I realized something else too.
I wasn't shrinking.
I was setting boundaries.
I wasn't avoiding people—I was choosing myself.
When the phrase tried to surface again—
You're mine.
—I shut it down without flinching.
"I belong to me," I said quietly, not angry, not emotional.
Certain.
By the time evening settled in, I understood what last night had done to me.
It hadn't broken me.
It had changed the way I moved through the world.
And from now on, anyone who wanted access to me—my time, my space, my life—
Would have to earn it.
The doorbell rang once.
I froze for half a second, fingers hovering over my laptop keyboard.
No one ever came unannounced.
I checked the camera before moving toward the door. When I saw Adam standing there—hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but familiar—I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
I opened the door slowly.
"Hey," he said, offering a small smile. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
"No," I replied, stepping aside. "You're not."
He walked in, glancing around the condo like it was his first time seeing it, even though it wasn't. His eyes lingered for just a moment too long—like he was taking in details, changes.
"You look… busy," he said carefully.
"I am," I answered. And for once, it wasn't a defense. It was just a fact.
He nodded, accepting it easily, and moved toward the couch. I closed the door behind him and locked it without thinking.
Adam noticed.
He didn't comment.
We sat down, a comfortable distance between us. The silence stretched, but it wasn't awkward. It was the kind of quiet that waited patiently.
"I heard you were back," he said eventually. "Didn't think I'd see you this soon."
"I didn't think so either."
He studied my face then—not rudely, not intensely—but the way someone looks when they're trying to understand without crossing a line.
"You okay?" he asked.
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't have an answer—but because I wasn't sure how much of it I wanted to give.
"I'm… fine," I said finally. "Just tired."
Adam leaned back slightly, arms resting on his knees.
"Tired usually means more than tired."
I huffed out a quiet laugh despite myself. "You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Say the thing that makes it hard to lie."
He smiled, faint but genuine.
"I didn't come to interrogate you," he said. "I just wanted to check in. You disappeared last night."
I looked away, eyes drifting to the window.
"I needed space."
"I figured." He paused. "You seem different."
That made me look back at him.
"Different how?"
He thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
"Quieter," he said. "Not weak. Just… guarded."
I didn't deny it.
Adam nodded once, like that was answer enough.
"I brought coffee," he added suddenly, reaching into the bag he'd set down earlier. "Didn't know if you'd eaten."
That did something to me.
Not the coffee.
The fact that he hadn't assumed. Hadn't demanded. Hadn't asked questions I wasn't ready to answer.
"Thanks," I said softly, taking the cup.
We sat there, sipping in silence. I could feel my shoulders relaxing, inch by inch.
"I'm proud of you, you know," Adam said quietly.
I frowned. "For what?"
"For choosing yourself," he replied. "You always do. Even when it costs you."
My throat tightened.
"I don't feel very brave," I admitted.
"You don't have to," he said. "You just have to be honest with yourself. And you are."
I looked down at my cup, watching the steam rise.
"I don't want anyone showing up unannounced anymore," I said suddenly. "I don't want explanations or confrontations. I just want control over my own space."
Adam didn't hesitate.
"Then that's how it should be," he said. "If anyone has a problem with that—it's their problem."
I met his gaze, something steady forming in my chest.
"Thank you," I said.
He stood after a moment, slipping his hands back into his pockets.
"I'll head out," he said. "But if you need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me."
I nodded. "I do."
At the door, he paused.
"You don't owe anyone access to you, Jay," he said gently. "Not your time. Not your past. Not your future."
Then he left.
When the door closed, the condo felt quiet again—but this time, it didn't feel empty.
I walked back to my desk, opened my laptop, and got back to work.
For the first time since last night, my hands didn't shake.