ADVERTISEMENT
“Fine. Would you like to play at home? Go ahead. But don’t think I’m going to lay out a welcome mat for you.” “By the way, my name is Deborah,” she murmured, stepping aside just enough for me to enter.
Inside, there was a faint scent of time and glamour. It wasn’t just any house. It was Deborah’s house. But it was mine, too.
The tension between us was palpable, like a storm that could erupt at any moment. I wasn’t sure how this would end, but one thing was clear: neither of us would give up.
***
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“Really, Deborah?” I murmured quietly, staring at the dry faucet.
“It must be those old pipes,” she said with a shrug. But the gleam in her eyes gave her away.
She had lost my keys, my shoes, and even my phone charger. I found them in strange places, like the pantry or under the couch. It was small, but effective.
But despite all the frustration, there was still a glimmer of sympathy. She seemed alone, desperate, as if this house were the last vestige of control over her life.
On Monday morning, I was mentally exhausted but still determined to carry on. I had an appointment with my lawyer that day, and I wanted everything to go smoothly. My clothes were neatly ironed and ready. Or so I thought.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Deborah was sitting in the kitchen, casually sipping her tea. She barely looked at me.
“Is something wrong?”
“You threw my clothes in the mud!” My voice broke with rage.