You left the bathroom and closet doors wide open, the light on the desk was flicked on, and you sat up in the bed, staring at the closed door opposite you on the far wall as you ate some of the food that was left. There were all sort of fruits and premade sandwiches and salads and a few different types of drinks next to a massive water bottle. In the freezer there's ice creams, popsicles, and on top of the fridge are plates, bowls, cups, utensils, and napkins. Anything you could think of, honestly.
When you were fed at the house, it would mostly be rice and beans, a banana or orange when you were treated like a queen because you had given them something. You wouldn't complain, just be happy to have something so filling, and when you left out on your own, squatting in random, worn down and abandoned apartments as you took your medications as instructed and were sent, you'd mostly just eat crackers and stale bread.
So, this? This food stuffed into the fridge until no more would fit? This was a feast fit for queens. Felt like a fucking last meal if you thought on it. But you didn't. All your energy and focus were on the dark grey door. Knowing any moment, someone would be walking through to either sentence you to life in prison, drag you away to stick you with more needles, or end your life.
You didn't know who Agent Romanoff was, but from what the doctor told you, she had set this all up and kept it this way for the past five years, anticipating your arrival. You didn't know what that could mean but looking around as dawn broke outside over the cityscape, they knew you. Or they guessed in a way that was so specifically spot on with your childhood. No, that'd be highly coincidental. They knew you. Or someone told them about you.
You were dressed in cotton capri joggers, a soft jumper, and thin white socks that wouldn't show if you had shoes on. Your hair was finally clean, you felt completely fresh after that shower, and you had minimally styled your hair to be comfortable, but out of the way.
You ate one of the sandwiches, a simple peanut butter one that was obviously homemade, because you were afraid the other kinds might upset your stomach and balanced it with a banana and a bottle of water.
You've gone through bouts of starvation before, and you know your body well enough by now to know how to coax it back to normal. Or at least, treat it nicely after what it's been through in those harder times.
By the clock on the wall above the door, you saw that it was eight in the morning now, and nothing. No one came for you, no one barged in or banged on the unlocked door, they didn't-
Something slid under the door, and you raised your eyebrows, leaning forward a bit to see where it stopped.
You eyed the door for a long moment before you slowly got off the bed, no looming shadow showing itself in the space between the bottom and the floor.
It was a folded piece of paper, and you carefully plucked it off the floor before lifting the edge to open it, reading it over in a rush before you read it again, slower.
No pressure, but I'd like to see you.
If you take the elevator down one floor, I'm making breakfast.
Nobody's around and I've told them not to bother you anyway.
You're safe. I promise.
N
The end of the note made you a little dizzy, being thrown back to the past for absolutely no reason, and you cursed yourself for tearing up at the memories. Especially, when in reality, you didn't know who this 'N' person was – you're just letting your mind reel with familiar connections.
You placed the note in the top drawer of your desk, closing it slowly as you let the words disappear, the last line and signature still pulling at you.
