I shouldn’t feel anything.
I should be relieved.
Engaged.
Secure.
Chosen.
Instead, my body reacts to memories it refuses to place neatly in the past — the way my skin still tingles when I remember being touched by someone who isn’t supposed to exist anymore.
I hate myself for it.
I hate him for it.
I hate Noah for pretending none of it matters.
I zip the suitcase closed with a decisive motion and step back.
“There,” I say quietly. “Done.”
Noah smiles.
It doesn’t reach his eyes.
The night before we leave, I don’t sleep.
I lie in bed listening to the house breathe — pipes ticking, the hum of distant traffic, the faint sound of Noah’s breathing beside me — and I feel like I’m trapped between two versions of my life, neither of which will let me go.
I keep thinking I hear something.
A floorboard.
A whisper.
A presence that presses in close even when there’s no one there.
I turn over.
Close my eyes.
Tell myself I’m being ridiculous.
Tell myself trauma makes ghosts.
Tell myself the blindfold was a stress dream.
Tell myself Kai is just a name, a memory, a scar I haven’t finished picking at.
Then my phone buzzes.
Once.
Soft.
Right beside my pillow.
My heart stutters.
