I groan, roll onto my side, press the heel of my palm to my forehead as nausea rises fast and mean. My stomach twists. My pulse hammers too loud in my ears.
Everything hurts.
My head.
My throat.
My chest most of all.
Something whispers at the edge of memory — his voice, low and cold and intimate enough to curl around my ribs like fingers.
“Say it when you’re sober.”
I flinch so hard the couch groans beneath me.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no—don’t.”
But my mind doesn’t listen.
It plays the voicemail anyway.
Every word.
Every breath.
Like my brain carved it into the inside of my skull and now refuses to let me look away.
“I’m coming back for you.”
My stomach drops.
A sob claws up my throat before I can swallow it down.
I sit up too fast.
The room tilts violently.
I grip the sofa cushion until my vision stops doubling.
My phone screen lights when I brush the side.
His voicemail sits at the top of my notifications like a wound that won’t scab.
My heart kicks painfully.
“No,” I whisper again, louder this time, like saying it might undo the truth. “No, I didn’t— I didn’t say all that.”
But I did.
Every word.
Drunk.
Unhinged.
Broken wide open like a girl begging to be devoured.
I scroll shakily.
