Clara sat on the edge of the couch, her palms slick against her knees. The apartment was spotless—too spotless, she realized. She’d spent the entire morning scrubbing it, not because he’d care, but because she needed something to control. Her monitor still glowed in the corner, their last chat open. “Can’t wait to finally meet you, Clara :)” It was hours ago, but her stomach twisted reading it again.

He was younger, kind, persistent. For months, his messages had been the only warmth she allowed herself. He made her laugh, listened, never pushed—until recently. “I’ll come to you,” he said. “You don’t even have to leave your place.” And somehow, impossibly, she’d said yes.

Now every tick of the clock felt like a countdown to exposure. What would he think when he saw her—the melted half of her face, the uneven skin, the hair that refused to grow? Would the kindness in his voice vanish? She pressed her hands together to stop the trembling. She wanted to run, to cancel, but then there was a soft knock on the door.

Her breath caught. This was it.