And she’s kneeling in the middle of it.
My altar.
My consequence.
My fucking confession.
“Raven.” My voice cracks. Just once. Barely audible. But she hears it.
Her head lifts slowly. Eyes glassy, wide, rimmed with red.
“Damien…” she whispers.
But she doesn’t sound sure.
Because she’s not.
Because part of her remembers.
The other voice. The other touch. The smile that didn’t belong to the man who used to tuck her hair behind her ear.
He’s gone now.
Or maybe I was never him to begin with.
My hand curls into a fist, hiding the tattoo like it can erase what’s underneath it. But it can’t.
He’s not buried anymore.
He’s watching from behind my eyes.
I crouch, slow, like I’m approaching something sacred. Something breakable. But she doesn’t flinch.
She just looks at me like she’s already made peace with being shattered.
I cup her face.
Her cheek is damp.
She nuzzles into my palm, anyway.
“Do you remember,” I whisper, “what you said to him?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because we both know—I was him.
And I’m still me.
I lean closer. Press my forehead to hers. Close my eyes.
And for the first time in years, I let myself break.
Not with rage.
Not with blood.
With guilt.
