I did.
And now the house doesn’t feel empty.
It feels occupied.
Invaded.
Marked.
His presence clings to everything — the corners of the ceiling, the shadow under the dining table, the doorway to the hall.
I can practically feel the place he stood last night.
Where he watched me sleep.
Where he leaned over me.
Where he touched me with hands I remember in ways I shouldn’t.
My pulse spikes so violently it hurts.
I press a shaking hand to my mouth to quiet the sound coming out of me — a desperate sound, dangerous, humiliating. A sound I haven’t made in four years.
Not since him.
The kitchen lights blur again.
My head thumps back against the cabinet.
A tremor rolls through me, hot and cold.
His voice replays itself without permission:
You opened the door last night…
You don’t get to close it now.
My tears stop.
Just stop.
Frozen.
Suspended.
Not because I’m calm.
Because I’m cracked open.
I wipe the back of my hand across my face, breathing through my teeth, heat rushing across my skin in uneven waves.
The alcohol churns.
The drug’s remnants sting.
My heart won’t slow down.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
