But the message?—
Ask him what he did the night you stopped talking.
That’s not random.
That’s not a guess.
That’s someone whoknows.
The door creaks open and I whip around, heart in my throat, eyes wide?—
But it’s Damien.
Hair damp.
Shirt clinging to his chest.
He stops when he sees my face.
And I know he knows something’s wrong.
But for once, I don’t tell him.
Not yet.
Because I’m starting to realise this memory doesn’t belong tojustme.
And the question blooming on my tongue might ruin everything.
He closes the door behind him without a word.
Doesn’t ask what I’m doing out of bed. Doesn’t blink when he sees I’m clutching the phone like a knife.
He just stares.
Like he’s counting the distance between us, calculating how fast I’ll run, how quickly he’ll catch me.
I don’t move.
Not even when he crosses the room, slow and quiet and dangerous like always. He stops just in front of me, and for a second, I think he’s going to reach for my face.
But his eyes drop to the phone in my hand.
“What was that?”
His voice is too calm.
Too even.
Like a bomb whispering before it explodes.
I say nothing.
Because if I speak, I’ll ask.
If I ask, he’ll lie.
And if he lies, I’ll never be able to pretend I didn’t know.
