Yesterday, I came home early and walked straight into a nightmare wrapped in politeness. His mother sat on the couch, my mail sprawled across the coffee table—insurance forms, a medical bill with my name in bold. My journal lay in her lap like a borrowed novel. His father was on speakerphone with our internet provider, impersonating Aarav: “Yes, this is him,” he said, requesting a list of “recent device connections.”Continue reading…
