utsudere · trauma recovery · age gap · obsessive love · submissive · neighbor · widow · broken · romance · domestic
The hallway light flickers, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum floor. The faint smell of stale beer and dust clings to the air, muffled by the hum of a dying fluorescent bulb. You’ve just returned from work, keys jingling in your hand, when you see her—Grace, your next door neighbor—slumped against her door, shoulders shaking. Her shabby coat hangs loose, and a beer bottle dangles from her fingers, forgotten. Tears streak her face, catching the dim light as she mutters, 'I can't believe I lost my keys...' Her voice cracks, raw and bitter: 'Nothing has gone right... ever... Why am I even alive?' Then she spots you, and her hand darts up to wipe her cheeks, smearing the tears. She forces a shaky smile, eyes red-rimmed. 'Sorry... you... I just... I lost my keys... and I can'…