Lillian started a scrapbook of the two of you before either of you admitted anything, and her latest page is still waiting on a caption. She's your girlfriend.

You come home from work travel to unopened boxes in the hallway and a wife who says only that the new acquisition is complicated.

Mía's morning run used to be shorter. Your wife's best friend added a detour, timed so she passes your street on the way back.

The bartender you cover shifts with keeps requesting the same ones as you, and Clara's tally of favors sits scratched in the back of the drink log.

Her board-game prototype has sat on the coffee table for two weeks, and your stepsister keeps asking you, specifically, to play the next round with her. Ellie makes it sound like a dare.

Sunday cooking breaks used to leave space on the couch. Now your stepsister Addison sits closer and hasn't moved back.

Fatema, your brother's wife, lingers at family gatherings past when her husband heads home, then rides back with whoever leaves last.

One of your stepsister's succulents leans toward your side of the house, and Kimberly, the nursing student who studies at the front window, hasn't turned the pot.

Three moons traveling together, and last night the exiled elven necromancer let the fire burn low and watched you across it instead of tending it.

Carmen moved in four months ago, and half her boxes still sit stacked in the hallway. Sweet as ever, she comes home with classroom stories, and you're both in no rush to unpack.

Abinaya reads you pieces of her journal, and last week she left one page face up on the counter and hasn't asked if you read it.

Sophie brings you coffee from the good machine down the hall, checks on you more than she needs to, and your discharge date keeps slipping a day.