No you don’t.
You just hate that you still feel me.
Tears burn behind my eyes.
I turn my face into the pillow, pressing it hard enough to muffle the sound that escapes me — a broken, furious breath that feels like it might split me in half.
This isn’t healthy.
Neither was prison.
But you survived that too.
My chest aches.
The room feels tilted, off-balance, like the world has shifted just enough that nothing lines up anymore.
I’m getting married.
The longest pause yet.
I can almost feel him on the other end, reading it, rereading it, jaw tightening, something dark and volatile coiling tighter in his chest.
When the reply finally comes, it’s not words.
It’s a photo.
A photo of my house.
Taken from across the street.
Taken tonight.
My blood turns cold.
The final message follows, slow and deliberate.
No.
You’re running.
And I don’t let things I love run from me.
I drop the phone.
It lands face-down on the mattress.
My whole body trembles.
This isn’t obsession anymore.
It’s possession.
And the most terrifying part?
I don’t know where my fear ends
and where my want begins.
