The next day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Every glance I caught from Oliver felt charged with unspoken words hanging between us, waiting to explode. I tried to engage with him in conversation, but my voice felt like a whisper, small against the storm that brewed inside. I played it cool, making dinner, chatting with Mellie, and laughing at something on TV, but the tension felt suffocating.
After dinner, as Mellie was busy in her room doing homework, I decided it was time. This couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to confront him. My heart raced as I walked into the living room, the familiar setting transformed into something heavy with potential conflict.
“Oliver,” I started, my voice shaky, “can we talk?”
He looked up from the couch, his expression shifting from playful to concerned. “Of course, what’s up?”
“I noticed you’ve been spending time with Mellie at night. I mean, you’ve been sleeping in her room.” The words came tumbling out, messy but direct. I held my breath, waiting for his response.
