It’s 5 a.m. in my waterfront apartment, the city still quiet except for the occasional hum of early traffic and distant waves.
I’m seated by the window, the horizon just starting to lighten, when my phone buzzes.
The security guard’s voice is tight with nervousness: “Your sister’s here to move—she wants you to move out. She says she owns the place.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee, feeling the warmth, and tell him, “Let her in.”
There’s a strange calm in my chest, but also a flicker of unease.
She’s supposed to have some claim, but something about the timing, the suddenness, feels off.
This isn’t just about ownership—it’s a challenge to everything I’ve built in this place.
My days lately revolve around work deadlines, constant emails, and running errands, trying to keep this life organized and stable.
The apartment, my sanctuary, anchors me after long, draining days.
My sister and I have never been close—not out of hatred, but a tangle of old grievances and unspoken things, and now her arrival threatens that quiet.
