The morning after I found the letters felt like waking up inside someone else’s nightmare. I was still on the bedroom floor, back against the side of the bed, knees pulled to my chest. My eyes were swollen from crying half the night.
Damien had already left. I knew because the entire place was quiet, and there was no note, no text saying “I’m sorry” or “Come talk to me.” Just silence.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the carpet. My fingers kept brushing over the faint bruises on my thighs from the day before, the good kind, the ones that usually made me smile when I remembered how they got there. Today they just felt like evidence.
Eventually I stood up, my legs were stiff. I walked to the closet and pulled out the small bag I used to carry to the diner when I still had to take t
