It was Sunday, and there was absolutely nothing on my to-do list except to relax and reset. I decided to get a head start by filling the tub with warm water. "Hey Siri," I shouted, "play Deja Vu by Beyonce." As the tub filled, I poured in my current favorite strawberry-and-mint body wash, lit a few candles, and brewed a cup of Noir Lux Coffee's Lace and Pearls. I was honestly trying to finish the bag quickly so I could move on to the newest blend from their March collection. Sipping slowly while soaking in warm water felt like therapy. But even therapy has interruptions. As I carefully sipped and soaked, my mind drifted to Layla. It had been two weeks since I'd heard from her. At first, I tried not to overthink it. But silence has a way of growing louder the longer it lingers. I was concerned for her safety -but if I'm honest, I was also frustrated by her lack of communication. When the bathwater cooled to lukewarm, I pulled the drain and wrapped myself in the softness of my routine. I lathered my skin with matching strawberry-and-mint body butter, coated my face with coconut oil, and slipped into a silk strawberry-printed pajama short set. Comfortable. Soft. Mine. I slid my feet into my slippers and walked into the living room, manually turning off the music to shift the mood into something quieter. As I reached between the couch cushions searching for the remote, I heard a clicking at the door. Before I could process what it meant, the door opened. Russel. "Hey babe, I brought Thai food," he said casually, stepping inside like this was our usual routine. I froze for a second. Trying desperately to hide my irritation, I walked over, kissed him, and grabbed the drink carrier from his hands. He looked genuinely happy to see me, and for a moment, I didn't want to ruin that. So, I adjusted my energy to match his. I grabbed two plates to serve the food, but before I could even turn around, he had already made himself comfortable in the living room -scrolling through Netflix and digging into his meal straight from the container. No grace. No pause. No explanation. Just... comfortable. I stood there holding the plates, unsure of what expression was even on my face. I plated my food anyway, but my appetite disappeared the moment I noticed his keys resting next to the peanut soup. And there it was. My apartment key. Dangling from his key ring like a decision I made too quickly. Regret crept in slowly. I tried to stay calm, but suddenly everything began to bother me. His shoes were still on. His bag was on the chair. The rhythm of my apartment-the one I had carefully built-felt interrupted. Everything looked out of place. Everything felt wrong. I took a bite of my shrimp and rice, but the spice in my throat couldn't compete with the pressure rising in my chest. Then he asked the question. "Is everything alright?" "Mmmhmm," I murmured. But it was a lie. Showing up unannounced wasn't alright. Assuming access to my time wasn't alright. Making plans for my Sunday without asking wasn't alright. And suddenly, exchanging keys didn't feel symbolic anymore-it felt invasive. My blood was boiling, and I couldn't tell if it was from the heat of the food or the realization creeping in. Comfort without boundaries isn't love. Sometimes it's just intrusion. And sitting there across from Russel, I realized something unsettling. This Sunday wasn't peaceful anymore. It was testing me.