Once The Line Is Crossed

It started on a Friday night, when my girlfriend casually mentioned that her ex—a ghost from a past she rarely spoke of—had just moved to Chicago and reached out to her.

She sat next to me on the sofa, her tone a little too light, perfectly calibrated for casualness. "He doesn't know anyone in the city," she said. "I’m just going to help him look at some apartments this weekend. Don’t overthink it."

I looked up from my laptop. "Do you really want to go?"

"I kind of do," she admitted, offering a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, nothing's going to happen. I promise I'll be home by seven."