Just like me.
The letters stare back at me now, dripping at the edges like they never dried properly.
I step toward them.
My fingers graze the wall, tracing the curve of the S, then the U — slow, deliberate strokes, like I’m touching her skin instead of plaster and grit and old paint.
“You shouldn’t have called me,” I say out loud, voice low enough that the radiator seems to lean in to hear it. “You shouldn’t have said any of that.”
My throat works around something sharp.
My hand tightens on the wall.
“You shouldn’t have loved me.”
A laugh breaks out of me — not light, not free. A scraped sound, dragged up from somewhere deep and damaged.
“But you did. And you fucking still do.”
My pulse claws at my ribs.
I picture her — hair wild from sleep, mouth swollen from my teeth, wine stains on her robe, tears dried on her cheeks. I picture her clutching the phone like it’s me, replaying my voice over and over until she’s shaking.
She’s scared of me.
She wants me.
She hates herself for both.
Good.
Fear and want taste the same on her tongue.
I’ve always known how to read them.
I pull my hand off the wall and stare at my fingers. They’re trembling. Not from adrenaline — from restraint. From not taking what I want the second I fucking want it. From holding myself back because the part of me that still believes in consequences whispers that I need to be patient.
But patience died in prison.
What’s left is hunger.
Rotted.
Twisted.
Teeth and bone and her name.
The house creaks.
Timber shifts.
Somewhere outside, a dog barks once and then goes silent.
I cross the room again, pacing slow, measured steps over the scattered envelopes. My boot crushes one — the sound sharp, papery, satisfying. I pick it up, rip it fully in half, then in half again. The pieces fall like snow.
“These were lies,” I say under my breath. “You pretending you didn’t want me. You pretending you were better without me. You pretending Noah was enough.”
I spit Noah’s name like it tastes foul.
