You wake up with the sheet pulled tightly wound around you, the pressure against your chest more than it was when you fell asleep last night. When did you fall asleep last night? The days have started to blend together recently. Your head aches, and your limbs ache as if you’ve been sleeping for too long, stuck in the same position. Your head turns at the sound of ticking, the clock reading ‘11:57’. You’ve been getting up later and later these days.

The first thing you do when you get up is go to the shower, the floorboards of the cabin creaking beneath your feet, disrupting the silence. It’s always your first instinct to wash, to remove the feeling of dirt and grime thats engulfed you in recent months. It never works.

Like always, when you leave the bathroom, clothes are laid out for you; one of Spencer’s sweaters, a pair of sweatpants, and mismatched socks (ones that match Spencer’s). The routine is easy, he says you need the consistency, but now you can’t separate monday from friday.

As you walk down the hallway, you’re stopped. The door, the one at the end of the hall that Spencer never allows you inside, is open. You turn your head, once. Then again. You can hear the sound of chopping in the kitchen, the sharp thud of a knife hitting the chopping board, making you flinch. Despite this, you can’t help but feel him, your neck tingling, causing goosebumps to spread across your neck and arms.

When you step in, the room is decorated almost identically to the others. Same autumnal, cozy feel. Oranges, greens, browns. It’s practically bare besides for an old rocking chair, one that hasn’t been used in years and is blanketed in dust, alongside a table, meticulously covered by notebooks, piles and piles of them. The real standout feature is the ladder, leading up to a hatch in the roof. You turn again, no sign of Spencer.

You slowly, careful not to make a sound, climb up the ladder, up into the attic. It’s full of boxes, just like any attic. Every box is covered with dust, apparently they haven’t been opened since they arrived. All but one. More of a chest than a box, but it looks brand new by how void of dust it is. You tiptoe to the chest, slowly opening it.

It’s filled to the brim with your old possessions. Clothes, hairbrush, teddy bears, even your old toothbrush. Your phone, which you hasn’t seen in months, is at the bottom, cracked and dead. What catches you eye most, however, is the tape recorder. You hold it to your ear, fingers shaking as you press play.

“I’d love to live in a cabin,” You hear yourself say, “away from the city, away from everything. No need for a job, no late nights at shitty bars. Just baking, and reading. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“Hm.” You hear Spencer’s noncommittal hum, like your words were casual rather than something that ignited him with what, he believed, was his best idea ever. “That does sound pleasant.”

You’re quick to put it back in its place, tilting it so delicately so he won’t notice it when he returns. You feel sick, this entire thing, your isolation from everything but him, was your idea. You quickly climb down the ladder, letting out a breath of relief, which is stolen when you hear his, “Hello, honey. Were you exploring again?”