The silence stretches. It doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels like he’s still here. Like he left his hunger in the walls. His obsession in the floorboards. I swear I can feel it—the weight of his gaze, the heat of it, the way he watches when he isn’t even in the room.
Or maybe he is. Maybe the whole place is him.
The door doesn’t open. He doesn’t come.
I hate how my heart waits anyway.
I hate how my thighs press together like my body remembers his voice more than it should.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper to the room, to the ghost of him in my blood. “Don’t want this.”
But I do. God, I do.
Not because it’s love. This isn’t love.
This is obsession.
Addiction.
It’s the way he breaks me so perfectly, so intimately, I’m scared no one else will ever find the pieces.
I drag myself to my feet and stalk the room like it’s a cage and I’m the beast—teeth bared, heart bruised. I pull a book off the shelf and hurl it at the door, just to hear something crash. Just to make a mark. But the door stays closed. The silence doesn’t crack.
Neither does he.
And that’s what finally makes me scream.
“Say something!” I yell at the nothing, the air, the camera I know is there. “Stop hiding behind your goddamn walls like a coward! You want a doll to play with? Pick one that doesn’t bleed!”
My voice breaks at the end. Splinters into something sharp and messy, and I collapse into the chair I swore I wouldn’t touch again, nails digging into the arms until the velvet tears under my fingers.
A sob stabs up my throat before I can swallow it.
One.
Then two.
Then I’m crying like I’ve been cut open, the tears hot and fast and furious. And I hate that I’m crying for him. For the way he made me feel seen. Desired. Ruined.
I hate that I miss the sound of his voice.
I hate that he owns it all now—my rage, my ruin, my goddamn heartbeat.
And somewhere, I know he’s watching.
I know I just gave him exactly what he wanted.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand like it’ll erase the weakness—but it doesn’t. The salt of my tears clings to my lips like a scar. My throat burns. My skin aches. And I swear I can still feel the imprint of his hands even though he’s not here.
Even though he left me alone.
Not forever. No. He doesn’t do that. He doesn’t leave—he lingers. In the shadows. In the cameras. In my goddamn mind.
I pace.
I curse.
I scream until my voice goes hoarse and raw and ruined, like the rest of me.
