Destiny walked out.
The door closed behind her.
And the air she left behind felt warmer than the coffee Georgia set on the table beside my bed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Georgia arranged the breakfast bag. Took out napkins. Checked lids. Small movements. Careful movements. The kind people made when they were trying not to fall apart.
“You’re flushed,” she said.
I almost laughed.
Couldn’t.
Pain, desire, shame, and guilt had all decided to move into my body and fight for space.
“Pain,” I said.
“Is that all?”
There it was.
Soft.
Sharp.
I looked at her.
Georgia’s eyes were on the coffee cup, not me.
“No,” I said.
The truth slipped out before I could dress it up.
Her hand stilled.
I should have lied.
A better man might have.
Or maybe a worse one.
She nodded once, slowly.
Then she handed me the cup with the straw and helped me drink because I was too weak to sit up alone and too guilty to deserve her care.
The coffee was lukewarm.
Her hand was steady.
My body still remembered Destiny.
And as Georgia sat beside me wearing my ring, I understood with absolute clarity that I had not survived the bullet.
Not really.
I had only lived long enough for every lie in my life to start bleeding at once.
