I have been living in my coworker’s attic for four months, and what started as pure survival has turned into a terrifying, secret love. I initially slipped inside through his unlocked side door out of desperation after losing my apartment, learning to navigate the quiet rhythms of his life only when he left for work. But lately, my isolation has morphed into a deep, agonizing intimacy; I find myself listening to the soft acoustic guitar melodies he plays at midnight, touching the books he leaves on the coffee table, and smelling the faint scent of his cologne on the towels. It grew even more intense when he started leaving a fresh plate of dinner on the kitchen counter every night before bed, whispering into the dark, “Just in case you’re hungry, spirit.” Yesterday, I accidentally dropped a mug in the kitchen, and when he rushed into the room, the raw, frantic terror in his eyes wasn’t for his own safety—it was for mine. I am utterly terrified to come down and face reality, but as I watch him from the shadows, I realize I am even more terrified of ever having to leave him.