I don’t want old words.
I need new ones.
Ones that belong to him.
Ones he’ll never see.
I sit at the table, the light above flickering with that low hum it always makes right before it burns out. My pen shakes between my fingers, my pulse thudding too loud in my ears.
And then I write.
Letter One
Dax,
You kissed me like I was a dream.
Then you woke up and looked at me like I was a mistake.
Do you know what that does to a girl?
To be everything in one moment and nothing in the next?
I wish I could hate you.
God, I wish I could.
But I can’t.
Because every time I close my eyes, you’re there.
Every time I breathe in, I swear I still taste you.
Every time I touch my own skin, I feel your hands.
And it hurts.
Because I know you’re going.
And I know I’m going.
And somehow we still couldn’t find a way to meet in the middle.
Thirty days.
That’s all we have.
But you don’t even know I’m counting.
—Cassandra
I fold the letter carefully — too carefully — like it’s something sacred, something fragile, something holy in a way love shouldn’t ever be but somehow still is. I tuck it beneath my pillow like I’m thirteen again and hiding secrets in places I hope no one ever checks.
Maybe itissacred.
Maybe this version of me — the one who bleeds quietly onto paper because she’s too afraid to bleed out loud — is the only version he’d ever understand.
Maybe it’s the only way I know how to survive him.
