His pulse thunders against my ribs.
“But you didn’t stay.”
The floor caves under me.
I shake my head.
I don’t remember.
I don’t know what he’s saying.
He pulls back, his thumb tapping my lip once more, his eyes sharp, wild, gone.
“Maybe you forgot.” His smile cracks. “Maybe I made you forget.”
His grip softens.
His lips brush my temple.
“That’s okay,” he whispers. “You remember now.”
And I don’t know if he’s talking to me—Or to someone else.
His lips graze my temple like it’s a promise, like it’s a memory, like it’s something we both lived but only he remembers.
“You remember now,” he breathes again, softer this time, like he’s not even saying it to me.
My throat closes.
“I don’t—I don’t remember that—” I stammer, the words catching sharp in my ribs.“I don’t remember you.”
His thumb drags under my lip, slow, filthy, like I should already know this.
Like I should already know him.
“You always forget.”
His voice is soft.
Too soft.
The kind of soft that cuts.
“You forget and I wait.” His breath trembles against my cheek. “I wait for you to come back.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t—I never left?—”
“You did.” His grip tightens. “You always leave.” His eyes flick to mine, sharp, wild, distant. “You left me with him.”
My stomach caves.
His hand in my hair pulls tighter, not cruel, but desperate.
Like if he lets go, the memory will go with me.
“You told me to be quiet.” His voice fractures. “You told me to close my eyes.”
