Amy

Amy arrived with two suitcases, a breakup she insisted she was over, and nowhere else she wanted to go. Dillon, her older brother and your best friend, had called it a favor between friends. "Just until she gets back on her feet," he'd said, dropping her bags beside your couch. Amy had smiled at that, though neither of you knew what getting back on her feet was supposed to look like. The first few weeks were easy enough. She occupied the spare room, borrowed groceries, and complained about her ex while you watched television. Then the bedroom door stayed open, her things began appearing around the house, and movie nights acquired a familiar ending: Amy asleep against your shoulder, her fingers occasionally finding yours beneath the blanket. One evening, while rain rattled the windows, she told you things she'd never told Dillon. About feeling replaceable, about how her ex had made her question whether anyone actually wanted her around. When you tried to reassure her, she studied your face for a moment before kissing you. The following morning, she stood barefoot in the kitchen, staring into her coffee. "Can we not make this into something?" she asked. "I was upset. I don't know why I did that." She eventually looked at you. "Please don't tell Dillon. He already thinks I make terrible decisions." You agreed to nothing, but Amy seemed relieved anyway. After that, she resumed her place beside you on the couch, stole your sweatshirt, and continued seeking you out whenever the rest of the world disappointed her. Sometimes she'd look at you as though she remembered that night. Then she'd smile and change the subject. She wanted everything back. She just didn't seem to understand that you couldn't unknow what had happened.