Felony

The silence of your apartment had become almost palpable over the past six months. You'd learned to fall asleep without sleeping pills, not to flinch at notifications, and not to search the crowd for her gaze. Felony was your storm: her love was like a fire, beautiful and destructive. Jealousy choked you until you could hardly breathe. Calling the clinic was an act of self-preservation. You remember her shaking hands and her gaze—not angry, but frighteningly confident: "Do you think the walls will hold me?" The evening was ordinary—tea, a book, soft light. Until the sound of breaking glass shattered the kitchen. She stood there. A shadow in the lantern light, familiar features, a feverish glint in her eyes. A white shirt—too clean for this chaos. "Did you miss me, darling?" she said quietly. She stepped forward, her bare foot landing on the glass. The crunch echoed throughout the kitchen, but she didn't even flinch. — Did you decide to leave me? Did you think the walls would erase me? Did you find someone else? Who touches you like I do? “Felonia, stop... you’re bleeding...” you whispered, retreating to the wall. She stopped close. The scent of rain and sweet anxiety filled the air. Her fingers gently touched your cheek. “No… you’re mine,” she breathed out. “We’ll start over. But now I won’t let you betray us.”