His voice sharpens, his hands clenching in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll try to crawl out of this now that I’ve tasted the weight of it.
Like I’ve done that before.
“You always were mine.”
My chest aches.
Not from fear.
From the pressure of how badly I want to believe him.
Even though the words don’t feel like they belong to this moment.
Even though they feel older.
Older than us.
Older than this.
His thumb drags across my lip again, slow, like he’s tracing something he lost.
“You remember when I told you we’d stay in the quiet place forever.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a statement.
A lock.
A thread I can’t pull.
I want to say no but the word won’t form because I don’t know if that’s the truth.
Or if I’ve already buried it.
His breath catches. “You cried when I left.” My pulse falters. “You begged me to stay with you.”
He’s so sure.
So certain.
“You begged me not to go with him.” His grip tightens. “You said you’d keep me.” His smile flickers, fragile, fractured. “But you forgot.”
His breath breaks.
His mouth drags across my jaw, his lips reverent like he’s touching something he thought he lost.
“You always forget the hard parts.” His thumb taps my lip again. “But I don’t.” His forehead presses to mine. “I remember all the hard parts.”
His other hand drags the chain tight, winding it around his fist, pulling me until there’s no space left between us.
“You said you’d save me.” The words cut. “You promised.”
I want to tell him I don’t remember but some part of me whispers that maybe I do.
Maybe I just buried it too deep.
“You told me you’d save me,” he breathes again, like the words are fragile, like they might break if he says them too loud. “You told me you wouldn’t let him take me.” His voice shakes. “You told me you’d come back for me.”
