Galathea Brooks did not notice when the apartment stopped feeling like hers.
It happened gradually, the way exhaustion does-- quietly, without permission, until the absence of ease became the only constant she could rely on.
The walls were thinner than she remembered. Or maybe she had never listened this closely before. Pipes knocked in uneven rhythms behind plaster, footsteps from the unit above dragged and paused like someone pacing without destination, and somewhere down the hall a television murmured through late-night reruns that bled into her space without invitation.
None of it was loud.
That was the problem.
It was persistent.
She set her bag down with care, aligning it against the edge of the narrow table as if precision could impose order on something larger than furniture placement. The motion was deliberate, practiced-- control in the smallest form available.
Her body felt… off.
Not wrong. Not painful.
Just misaligned.
