The outgoing call log stares back at me.
16 minutes.
Sixteen minutes of my voice poured straight into his hands.
My pulse stutters.
I drop the phone onto the couch like it burned me.
My fingers curl into fists in my lap.
“Fuck.”
The word rips out of me raw and angry.
The house feels too quiet — that weird, heavy silence that comes after you’ve confessed too much to the wrong person. The air hangs thick, charged. Like something was listening last night and still hasn’t moved.
I run a hand through my hair, fingertips brushing the tangled knots, the dried streaks of mascara on my cheek. My lip throbs when I accidentally touch it.
A sharp sting.
An undeniable one.
My breath stutters.
“Kai.”
The name slips out before I can stop it, soft and terrified and too honest.
I choke on the sound.
He was here.
He was.
And now he’s coming back.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to push the truth down, trying to force myself into the shell of the girl I’ve been pretending to be for four years — quiet, neat, perfect, compliant.
She doesn’t fit anymore.
Not after last night.
I stand — too fast again — gripping the arm of the sofa to steady myself. My legs tremble. My stomach lurches. The wine fumes rise in my throat and I breathe through my nose until the nausea passes.
The living room looks different in the daylight.
Brighter.
Sharper.
Cruel.
Wine stains on the floor.
Blanket half-off the couch.
My phone on the cushion like evidence.
