Trapped

Rain tapped steadily against the windows, a rhythm Cheryl had tried to ignore for hours. The faint, sharp scent of lemon disinfectant hung in the air, the byproduct of her morning ritual. Every day, she wiped the counters until they gleamed, even if they hadn’t been touched since the day before. If she skipped the cleaning—even once—it felt like the world might unravel, leaving her stranded in the chaos.

Everything in the apartment was orderly, perfectly arranged. The books on the shelf were sorted by size, then alphabetically by author, their spines flush against the edge. The coffee table gleamed, its surface free of dust, scratches, or fingerprints. The remote lay parallel to the table’s edge, just as it should be.

The bathroom, though out of sight, tugged at her attention. Cheryl had scrubbed the grout with a toothbrush the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that. She knew she’d do it again tonight. It didn’t matter that the tiles were spotless; the act of scrubbing was her sanctuary.

She sat on the couch, staring at the rain as it blurred the world outside. Her fingers twitched, drumming lightly against the armrest.