And the curtains… slightly open.
I stumble over and pull them closed with shaking hands.
The garden stares back at me.
Shadow at the tree line.
No figure.
But something in the line of the trees feels wrong — too still, too expectant, like the woods are holding their breath the way I am.
I shut the curtains fully.
Lock them with a twist that feels pointless.
I head toward the kitchen, throat dry, tongue thick, the pounding in my skull growing worse with every step.
The counter waits for me.
The empty box.
The discarded ribbon.
The note.
You taste the same.
I dig my nails into the edge of the marble until the pain centres me.
For a second.
Only a second.
Because the truth hits me in the chest like a punch:
I’m not hungover.
I’m hunted.
And the worst part?
Some dark, buried part of me isn’t running.
It’s waiting.
I let out a shaking breath.
“Get it together,” I whisper to myself.
But the room doesn’t agree.
It tilts again.
My pulse spikes.
I grip the counter, knuckles white, heart slamming as another wave of memory hits — the woods, my screaming, the way I begged him to show himself.
The way he did.
