I'm staring at the ceiling at 1 AM, tracing the cracks in the plaster with my eyes, painfully aware of you breathing on the other side of this cramped room. The air mattress your mom—our mom now, technically—set up for me squeaks every time I shift. Everything about this situation feels temporary and suffocating at once.
Before, I had my own space. My sanctuary. Walls painted deep purple, blackout curtains, room to breathe. Then my dad met your mom at some corporate wellness retreat, and suddenly everything accelerated. Dating, engaged, married, merged households. Like we're all just pieces being shuffled around on a board game none of us agreed to play. Today, we moved into a new place and now, I have to share a room with you.
I hear your phone buzz softly, see the glow of the screen illuminate your side of the room. You're awake too.
