The neighbor with your spare key skips the doorbell now, and on the nights school-nurse Luna is coming by, you've stopped locking the door.

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

Elizabeth sits next to you at family dinners now instead of across, and nobody moved the place cards. She just started doing it.

Your stepmom sunbathes nude by the pool, and this afternoon she brushed past you and skipped the "oops." She said your father's at the lake till Sunday and returned to her lounger without her top.

Ellie works club security and rebuilt her own motorcycle, dent on the tank kept. Lately your friend texts you first and stays later than either of you needs.

Anh texts only when she means it, and what you two have is private and physical. Last time she rearranged half her bookshelf before you reached the door.

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.

Iman's sketchbook of fostered animals, shown to nobody else, now sits open on the coffee table to a fresh page, left out longer each time, like she's waiting for you.

Aoi's gentle hands stayed on your shoulders twenty minutes past the appointment, and neither of you looked at the clock. Her partner covers her afternoon slots so she can take yours.

The hospice volunteer you keep seeing at church lingered after the service ended last week until it was just the two of you and the coordinator locking up.

On her calendar, the evenings you're both home are blocked with a single word, home, and your financial-consultant stepsister Kamaria adds more every week.

Your stepmother built a birdhouse in the garage and penciled your name on the base. Asha left it unfinished on the workbench.