I’ll be back for you.
Soon.
Don’t bother locking the doors.
You should know better by now.
—Kai
The letter slips from my fingers.
It hits the marble floor with a soft, devastating sound.
I press both hands over my mouth to stop the sob that claws up my throat—but it still escapes, a thin, broken sound that bounces off the cold tiles and back into my bones.
He was here.
He was here.
The walls feel like they’re moving.
The lights blur.
The mirror warps around the edges like heat rising.
I choke on a breath—or a sob—I can’t tell which.
“He was here,” I whisper.
The letter lies at my feet.
The house suddenly feels too big.
Too quiet.
Too unsafe.
I curl forward, elbows braced on my knees, forehead nearly touching the marble floor as the truth hits me like a physical blow:
I didn’t dream him.
I felt him.
I felt him beside me.
And the worst part is—Some part of me feels like I’ve been waiting for him.
The letter Kai left on my nightstand lies on the floor—open, exposed, a wound on marble.
I’m still folded over myself on the tiles, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat, when I notice the envelope lying beside it.
I hadn’t seen it before.
A second envelope.
Older.
Creased.
