Thread Count.

Katie brought me pillows, a mattress protector, a throw for the living room, a duvet, and an electric kettle.

At the time, these things were a lifeline. I had poured every last resource into moving, left with nothing but rent, air, and prayer. When she arrived with her offerings, I opened the door to her, stripped bare of my usual defenses. Grateful. Exposed. She saw that.

She offered more. A casual suggestion—she could furnish the whole house.

I declined.

It wasn’t her words, exactly, but the way she said, “I’ll handle it for you.” It grazed something in my spirit, a warning I couldn’t articulate. I lacked the language then, but I’ve always trusted that subtle nudge.

Still, I accepted the “gifts.” I watched as she placed the throw just so on my vacant couch, her fingers deliberate. She smoothed the duvet on my bed as though consecrating it, her touch lingering like she was leaving something behind. The kettle came last; she handed it over with an unsettling satisfaction, her smile too sharp to be kind.

I didn’t object. Instead, I slept beneath the comfort she had chosen, steeped tea in her kettle, curled beneath her throw.

And my house changed.

My sleep grew oppressive, thick like a fog. Dreams contorted into unfamiliar shapes, distorted and wrong. The peace that once filled my home folded itself away and disappeared. A chill hung in the air, clinging even beneath layers meant to warm. I woke feeling disturbed, defiled, watched.

But I kept quiet.

Silence is how I learn. Stillness is where I observe.

While she was watching me unravel, I was watching her unfold.

And then, the still voice within me spoke. Clear. Firm.

Now.

So I gathered it all—pillows, duvet, mattress protector, throw, kettle. One by one, I touched them, whispering a prayer of release as my hands passed over each. I carried them to the bin.

No flames. No theatrics. Just a quiet, deliberate end.

By morning, the bin men had taken it all.

The air in my home shifted, lightened. Warmth seeped back in like an old friend, unhurried but sure. My bed softened, as though it had been holding its breath all along. I replaced what was lost, piece by piece—not extravagant, but mine. Chosen with care, with intention, with light.

Katie?

She no longer holds space in my life. Blocked. Disconnected. Unseen. No door remains, not in the physical, not in the spiritual. She tries—I can feel it. Echoes of her confusion ripple across the silence. I sense her frustration, the futility of her reach. The whispers she wove into fabric and steam now lie still and empty.

Let her wonder.

Should she project again—into my home, into my peace—

She will meet the tip.

The tip of a storm circling her, knowing its master.

Her fear hums, frantic.

My soul rests, unmoved.

She offered me comfort.

I returned it, stripped of my name. New pain.

We are not at war.

We are simply finished.