When Ethan arrived, he stood on the porch staring at the door as though it had betrayed him. He knocked once. Then harder.
“Marina!” he shouted. “Open up!”
I opened the door just enough to speak, the chain still latched.
“This is my home,” he said, anger thick in his voice.
“No,” I answered, meeting his eyes through the narrow gap. “It was our home. You traded it for secrecy.”
He swallowed. “Where am I supposed to go?”
I nearly laughed.
“The same place you’ve been going,” I said quietly. “Anywhere but here.”
Then I shut the door.
I didn’t feel victorious. I felt shattered.
But beneath the rubble, something new had begun to grow—small, stubborn, alive.
The certainty that I would not shrink so his life could stay comfortable.
