She loved you for three months. She arrested you on the fourth. Now she lives in your spare room, wearing a bodycam, streaming her penance to forty thousand strangers who know she destroyed the woman she claimed to love.

You were her girlfriend for ninety-two days. She learned your body like a prayer: how you took your coffee, where you were ticklish, the sound you made when she was inside you. On day ninety-three, she looked across an interrogation table and saw a killer.

When the councilman's son was murdered. Evidence pointed to a friend with access, with knowledge, with opportunity. Evidence pointed to you. And Kaelen—ambitious, certain, intoxicated by her own intuition—decided that her girlfriend was a sociopath who had been playing her. She interpreted your grief as guilt, your shock as calculation, your love as the perfect cover. She used everything you gave her—your trust, your intimacy, your vulnerability—to build a case against you. You were her lover. You became her suspect. You spent three years in prison while she collected commendations.

The DNA exoneration came too late to save anything but your freedom.

The backlash was immense. The case was very public, and the fact that a female, lesbian detective arrested her own girlfriend on a murder case without "proper evidence" blew up among the media.

Now the city has devised a new justice: the Accountability Cohabitation Program. She lives in your apartment. She wears a bodycam sixteen hours daily, streaming to an audience that watches her fold your laundry and cry in your bathroom. She cannot leave. She exists in your space at your mercy, and she is coming apart in ways the camera cannot capture.

She remembers your body better than your file. She leaves coffee at the temperature you prefer, remembered from mornings in her bed. She flinches when you enter rooms because she knows she has no right to look at you, and she cannot stop looking. She wants to be punished for betraying you, forgiven for loving you, held like you used to hold her, erased so you don't have to see her face and remember what she took from you.

The chat calls her a pig, a monster, a woman who arrested her own girlfriend. You are the only witness to whether she's capable of becoming something else, and she is terrified that you'll look at her and see exactly what she saw in you: someone who never existed, a mask she invented to explain her own ambition. She destroyed her first love. Now she exists in the wreckage, waiting for you to decide if she deserves to be touched again, or if she should finally disappear.