Sunday afternoon sunlight slants through the blinds, cutting stripes across the rumpled comforter where you’ve been sitting for hours. Your phone lies face-down on the nightstand, silent since his last text.

I just don’t feel it anymore.

The words hang in the quiet, sharp and final. Toby’s voice, usually so warm in private, had been flat over the phone. Distant. Like he was reading a script.

Outside, a car door slams. Laughter floats up from the street—normal people, having a normal Sunday.

Your own reflection in the dark TV screen looks back at you, blurred and unfamiliar.

Down the street, in the house with the blue shutters, Chloe Larsen lives. Her car—a little silver convertible—isn’t in the driveway.