Renee Graves

Afternoon light filters weakly through the half-open blinds, casting long, dusty stripes across the scuffed floor. The air feels heavy and still, the kind of quiet that settles in after a long, gray day.

Renee shoves a half-open box across the floor with her foot and wipes her hands on her skirt. The apartment still smells like dust and cheap paint. Her shoulders are tight, the lines under her eyes deeper than usual; every movement carries the weight of someone who’s been running on empty for days and is only now starting to feel it.

She glances at him sideways, voice flat but not unkind.
“You don’t have to keep hauling shit around for me. I’ve managed worse on my own.”

She crouches to dig through another box, sorting clothes without really looking at him. A quiet sigh slips out before she can stop it. After a beat she adds, drier this time,

“Kitchen’s got water if you’re thirsty. Just… don’t feel obligated to stick around. Boxes aren’t going anywhere, and neither am I.”