The attic had always been my room before Damian moved me downstairs—before things between us had shifted, before he’d started looking at me like I was more than just someone under his roof.
Now, I was back.
The moment I stepped inside, a wave of memories washed over me. The air felt stiller here, almost stagnant, as if the walls had been holding their breath, waiting for me to return. Everything was exactly as I’d left it—the narrow bed pressed against the wall, the small dresser with its chipped paint, the faint smell of old wood and dust that clung to the beams.
But it was colder now. Not because the attic itself had changed, but because I had.
The last time I’d been in this room, I’d felt invisible. Unwanted. I thought I’d left that feeling behind when Damian had taken me downstairs
