No way out

The door to her room was already open.

Not wide. Not locked. Just cracked—careless, deliberate, like an invitation she never sent.

Maya stopped in the hallway. Her fingers clenched around the doorknob before she even saw him. Her spine knew before her eyes did.

He was sitting on her bed. One leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone, like this was normal. Like he belonged there. Shirtless. Comfortable. Unbothered.

The light from the window cut across his chest and settled on the childhood blanket beneath him—soft blue, frayed edges, thumb-worn cotton she hadn't touched in years. His fingers rested on it, casually tracing the threads. Her perfume bottle sat tilted at the edge of her desk. Her sock drawer was open. A pair of her earrings had fallen onto the floor.

He looked up when she didn't move.

"Oh," he said, like he hadn't been waiting. "Didn't hear you come in."

Not a flicker of guilt. Not even the pretense.

A smirk peeled across his face like a wound.

"You always keep your room this messy?"

The hallway behind her felt too long. The space in front of her—gone. She didn't step inside.

Her voice barely worked. "What are you doing in here?"

"I was looking for a charger." He stretched, arms behind his head, every inch of him smug. "Your mom said I could use yours."

No, she didn't.

She never would.

Not about her room.

"You could've asked me," she said stiffly.

His eyes flicked over her. "Door was cracked. Figured that meant it was okay."

It wasn't. It never was.

He let that hang for a second, then:

"Cute blanket."

A beat.

"Sentimental girl, huh?"

She turned away before she could throw something at him. The door clicked shut behind her—not from her hand.

From his.

Downstairs, the music was playing again. Some awful bass-heavy track thudding against the walls, bleeding into the ceilings. He had the Bluetooth speaker connected to his phone now. Controlled everything.

Laughter. Her mother's. High and thin. Not real. She could always tell.

Vic's voice followed, too loud. "I told you I make a killer omelet."

Then her mother, breathy and delighted, "You really do. God, it's been so long since anyone cooked for me."

Maya stood on the landing and stared at the carpet.

This wasn't home anymore. It hadn't been for weeks. Maybe longer.

He joked like he'd been here for years.

Walked around barefoot.

Left the bathroom door open.

Started calling her mom "babe."

And worse: he'd started calling Maya "sweetheart."

The first time he said it, she'd dropped a plate.

He laughed like it was a joke.

"It's just a nickname, relax."

But it wasn't a joke. Not to her. Not to the way her stomach twisted every time he brushed past, always too close, always just enough contact to pretend it was nothing. His fingertips grazed her wrist once—cold and damp from the sink—and he'd whispered "careful" like a lover.

She hadn't slept since.

"Mom." Maya pulled her aside while Vic was in the shower. "Please. You can't let him stay here."

Her mother flinched. "Maya, don't start."

"I'm serious." She gripped her mother's arm. "He's in my room. He touches my stuff. He walks around like he—like he owns the place. He looks at me like—"

Vic's voice cut through the air from the hallway. "Am I interrupting something?"

He was drying his hair with her towel.

Her mother snapped back like she'd been caught cheating. "No! No, of course not. We were just talking—"

"Sounded serious."

Maya tried to speak, but her mother stepped between them.

"She's just… tired. Aren't you, Maya?"

He tilted his head. "You've been kind of moody lately. Something going on at school?"

Maya blinked. "Don't—"

"Maybe she's just not used to sharing the space," her mother offered, laughing awkwardly.

"I can be a lot," he said, grinning. "But I grow on people. Like mold."

He winked. Maya didn't smile.

Later that night, she found the shirt. Eddie's shirt. The one he gave her after she'd cried into his chest for half a night. She kept it tucked in a drawer, untouched. Safe.

It was hanging off Vic's chair.

Used. Wrinkled. Worn.

Her throat closed.

He knew.

Somewhere, Eddie stirred his coffee until it went cold.

The table vibrated with every buzz from his phone—no notifications. He checked anyway. Again. And again.

Across from him, Damien chewed his cereal and frowned. "Dude. You've been weird."

Eddie didn't answer.

Damien leaned forward. "You've been parked outside her house three nights in a row."

"Don't—"

"What the hell's going on?"

Eddie pushed his chair back so hard it scraped the tile.

Outside, the engine growled before the door even closed behind him.

He sat in the car. Down the block. Ignition off. Breath shallow. House dark except for a flicker in the upstairs window.

She was there.

Maya.

She moved behind the curtain, paused, and looked straight out. Right at him.

She didn't wave. Didn't smile.

Just looked.

Like she knew he was the only one left who saw her.

Vic noticed the phone the next morning.

Maya had been texting—quietly, desperately—slipping messages through the bathroom mirror, crouched in corners, heart hammering. She didn't send words, just punctuation. Code.

A period meant watching.

A comma meant okay.

A question mark meant help me.

He caught the last one.

She returned from the kitchen to find him holding her phone.

"Battery was low," he said, casually. "Plugged it in for you."

The messages were gone.

Deleted.

She didn't say a word.

That night, the hot water didn't work.

The next morning, her bedroom door was locked from the outside.

Two days later, he accused her of hitting him—scratches on his arm, drawn by his own hand.

"She's acting out," he told her mother, voice calm. "I didn't want to say anything before."

And her mother cried. Said Maya needed help. Said maybe it was the stress of the divorce.

Maya packed her things.

Trembling hands. Silent breaths.

She zipped the bag and turned—only to find her mother standing in front of the door.

"You can't leave," she whispered. "Just wait it out. It's temporary. Please."

Vic leaned on the hallway wall behind her, arms crossed. Watching.

"Where would you even go, Maya?" he asked, soft and venomous.

The silence that followed was the loudest thing she'd ever heard.

That same night,it got worse.

Worse than silence. Worse than fear.

He touched her hair in the hallway. Just brushed it back as he walked by. Fingers cold. Breath warm. She froze.

"You smell like lilacs," he said, soft enough for only her to hear. "It suits you."

She ran to the bathroom and vomited.

Later, in the dark, she typed a single word.

Help.

She didn't see his reply.

She only saw the car.

Headlights off. Door already open.

Eddie.

She walked outside without shoes. Heart in her throat.

And this time, when she looked at him, she didn't have to say anything.

He already knew.