What happened to her.
Because she looked like she died and came back.
Like she met death and made it flinch first.
I recognized that look.
Because I’ve worn it too these past few months.
But it’s different seeing it on her.
Knowing that the woman I loved—still love—wasthatclose to being erased.
I force myself to meet her eyes.
The scar draws my gaze, but I push past it. I push through the thousand versions of her I’ve conjured in nightmares and dreams.
And I see her.
I see the truth.
She’s here. She’sreal.
And she’s so much and not enough and too much all at once.
My hand moves before I can stop it. Reaching. Needing.
She steps back. Not in fear—more like instinct.
Like she felt it before I even acted on it.
My throat tightens. “Please just...”
The words come out wrecked.
“I just want to touch you.”
Just to know this isn’t a hallucination. That she won’t dissipate into smoke like every other time.
I lift my hand. Palm open. Inviting.
She sees it out of the corner of her eye.
And her face turns to stone.
Like I just reached for a relic that no longer belongs to me.
And maybe I didn’t.
Maybe I never did.
But it doesn’t stop the ache in my chest, or the way her silence feels like a bullet to the ribs.
She’s alive. But she’s not mine.
Not anymore. And maybe... she never was.
Instead of sliding her hand into mine, she holds out her fist. Not as a threat—no, this is something else.
