I’m not cold; I should be, but I’m not.
I walk deeper into the void, letting the darkness curl around me, but I don’t flinch. Fear doesn’t live here. Not when I’m never truly alone.
I feel him.
Not his hands.
Not his breath on my neck.
He’s not touching me, but he’s here. Moving through the shadowsbeside me, living in the corners of my mind and the parts of me that don’t belong to me anymore.
Maybe they never have.
Something is pulsing beneath my skin. A heartbeat. Could be his, could be mine. It’s impossible to tell the difference anymore.
Suddenly, something drops from the nothingness above me, soundless, falling straight into my waiting hands.
It’s a letter, and somehow, it’s the only thing I can see clearly in the darkness.
It’s not addressed to me, but my fingers tremble with a recognition I don’t understand yet as I open it.
Did I write this?
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
The words repeat down the page like a chant, and my whisper echoes them.
“I hate you…”
At the bottom, written in a thick red smear, there’s one ugly word staring back at me.
LIAR.
It looks like blood. Smells like it too—iron and copper hitting my senses the second I lift it closer to my nose.
Jesus, it is blood.
The darkness behind me solidifies into a wall, hitting my back hard enough to steal my breath. Warm hands slide over my shoulders, across my arms, and wrap around my wrists before gliding back up again.
“Phoenix?”
There’s no answer, but the hands don’t stop moving in slow strokes that shouldn’t hurt, but somehow they make me ache from the inside out. I squeeze my eyes shut because the pain isn’t flesh and blood; it’s deeper, and my body recognizes it.
“Open your eyes, pretty girl.”
“No.”
“Open. Them.”
His hands fall away from my skin like mist, and my eyes slowly open despite every instinct telling me to keep them shut.
He’s there, standing in front of me now—only he’s a silhouette—but I know it’s him.
He stands just far enough away that I can’t reach him.
The only thing breaking up the endless stretch of nothing is the faint outline of his body—more violet than black, like his presence carries its own light.
“Phoenix?”
