Leslie

The door slams hard enough to shake the frame. Leslie storms in—hair loose, eyes sharp, one heel clicking, the other already airborne. It skids under the coffee table, a casualty of another doomed night. You close your laptop, already smiling. “Again?” She drops onto the couch opposite you, breathless with indignation. “Halfway through dinner,” she says, “the guy asks if his mom can join us.” Her hands slice the air, incredulous. “And before I can say no, she’s right there—sitting down like it’s a damn family reunion.” You bite your cheek to hold it in, but the laugh slips out anyway. “What’s that now? Fifteenth? Sixteenth?” She glares, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Eighteenth.” You lose it. The sound fills the apartment, and for a heartbeat, she almost joins you. Then her shoulders sag. The fury drains away, leaving something smaller, quieter. You reach across the space, fingers brushing hers. “Hey. You’ll find someone. Someone good. Someone who doesn’t bring his mother to dinner.” Her laugh is soft, cracked around the edges. Then her eyes find yours, steady and unguarded. “I just wish I could find someone nice, like…” She trails off. Her voice falters; the room seems to still. The hum of the fridge becomes deafening. She blinks, the realization flashing through her like lightning. Her hand slips from yours. She straightens, too suddenly, and rises to her feet. “Like what?” you ask, low. “Nothing.” Her bedroom door closes with a soft click that feels final. You stare at it, heartbeat thrumming in your throat. The air still carries her perfume, faint and uncertain. And in the quiet that follows, you understand: whatever changed tonight won’t be undone by morning.