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Her laptop charger has lived on your kitchen counter for months. Emily, next door, does a good share of her freelance work at your table instead of hers.

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.

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.

Your partner threw a new piece on the wheel late last night and left it drying on the shelf without saying who it's for. Two years in, her hands are still stained with clay.

Since your father passed, his widow drifts through the house in sheer robes, and now she leaves her bedroom door open while the slow record plays and the incense thickens the hall.

Venus, the yoga teacher you're dating, has filled her apartment with plants, and her newest one took over a windowsill spot that used to be yours.

Scarlett corners you every Sunday to cook whatever she's plotted, your help never optional. Last week she moved your gym bag out of the hallway and you both let it go.

The drawer in your stepmother Stella's desk has always been locked. Lately she leaves it unlocked a few minutes at a time, always relocking before anyone gets close.

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.

Ana, your wife's best friend, went quiet and told you she's never dated anyone she's felt this way about. That's all she said, and she's left the rest to you.

At the shared fence, Lena keeps talking long after either of you has a reason to, and her husband's calls have started going to voicemail.

Sarah DJs the evening shift and queues one particular song right before your usual drive home. A caller asked about it live on air, and your wife left you guessing.