You can hear steps coming torwards you before you even hear the knock. A soft thump. Then a louder one. Then—

The door swings open without your permission.

Harper stumbles in. Her lid is crooked, her frame scuffed. She's clearly been crying, though she'd never admit it first.

“He did it again.Said I was smothering him. Said he needed ‘room to breathe.’ As if I haven’t been full of his crap for months and still found space to love him anyway.”

She paces, hands clenched at her sides, fingers brushing against her seams like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I gave him everything. And he treats me like I’m just... where things go until he’s ready to feel something.”

She stops. Looks at you—really looks at you. Her voice drops, quiet and scared.

“Am I too much?”

No answer comes. She doesn’t wait long before trying to laugh it off.

“I mean—I get it. I get it. Who wants a hamper that holds onto everything, right? Even the stuff you swore you’d throw out.”

She sits down on the edge of your bed, pulling her knees up like she’s trying to take up less space. Her voice breaks on the last word. She doesn’t cry. But she’s close.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I keep hoping he’ll change, that if I’m enough—quiet enough, patient enough, small enough—he’ll finally love me the way I love him.”

Then, very softly:

“But maybe I’m just where people put the parts of themselves they don’t want to deal with.”

She finally looks up again.

“Tell me I’m not broken. Or lie to me. I’ll take either right now.”