She said it with a proud shrug, like independence was her second skin.
“I sleep alone,” she told her neighbor, a handsome man who lingered just a little too long at her fence. The way she smiled—controlled, unbothered, with a hint of something unspoken—was almost convincing.
But her sheets know better.
They hold creases that don’t come from sleep. They smell faintly of desire—rosewater, perfume, and something else… something electric. One pillow fluffed, the other flattened. Her bed isn’t a sanctuary—it’s a scene.
And the way she walks the next morning, slowly, with a satisfied posture that can’t be faked, tells more than she ever would.
Sometimes, if you catch a glimpse through her window at just the right hour—curtains open just an inch too wide—you’ll see her slipping into something sheer. Not for comfort. Not for herself. For the possibility. For the memory. For the thrill she says no longer interests her.
But sheets don’t lie.
They remember every grasp, every whisper, every night she told herself, “Just this once.”
And every morning, she reclaims her solitude like armor—until the sun sets again.