Turn 9 of 12

Tell her you had a bad night and try to change the subject

"I couldn't sleep. That's all." You move to the counter and start making coffee because you need something to do with your hands. The kettle fills with water and the sound is too loud in the quiet kitchen. You don't look at her.

"I was up late scrolling, got stuck in my head. You know how it gets."

Meera doesn't answer right away. You can feel her watching you — the weight of her attention like a hand on your shoulder, gentle but firm. The kettle clicks off. You pour water over grounds and watch the dark bloom rise in the French press.

"Rowan."

"Hmm."

"I drove twenty minutes because you sent me a text at five in the morning that said 'I think I did something.' Then you stopped answering. Now you're making coffee like it's a normal Tuesday and I'm supposed to believe you just had a bad night's sleep."

You press the plunger down. Too hard. Coffee spurts up and burns your knuckle and you hiss through your teeth and grab a paper towel. The small sharp pain is almost a relief — something to focus on that isn't Meera's eyes on your face, isn't the laptop in the closet, isn't the word PENDING blinking in grey capitals ten feet and a hollow door away.

"I was half-asleep when I texted that. I didn't even remember sending it until you called." You set two mugs on the counter.

"I'm fine. I promise. I just need to —"

"You pressed enter."

You stop. The paper towel is still in your hand.

"What?"

"That's what your text said. 'I think I did something. I pressed enter.' Not 'I couldn't sleep.' Not 'I'm in my head.'" She leans forward in the chair, elbows on the table.

"You pressed enter on what?"

The apartment is quiet. The coffee drips through the press. Somewhere above you a pipe groans in the wall, and in the closet, under a pile of laundry, the laptop sits closed with seven confessions on its screen, and Meera is looking at you the way she always looks at you — like she can see the shape of the thing you're hiding even when she can't see the thing itself. Your phone sits on the counter, dark, and for a moment the kitchen feels very still, the air dense, like the room is waiting for something to break.

"Nothing," you say. "It was nothing."

Meera tilts her head. She doesn't blink. And something in her expression shifts — not suspicion, not yet, but the edge of it, the beginning of a question she hasn't asked yet.

"You're shaking," she says quietly.