— OPHELIA —
Morning comes too fast.
I wake with the distinct sensation that I've made a mistake, and I really don't want to think about it. My phone is face down on the nightstand, burning a hole in my conscience.
I don't touch it.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling and count my breaths like I'm defusing a bomb.
In.
Out.
The memory of last night presses in anyway. His voice. The way he said my name. The way he looked at me like he already knew the ending and was walking toward it willingly.
I eventually cave and roll onto my side to finally grab the phone.
No new messages.
Good.
That means he didn't say something else I'd have to pretend didn't matter.
I shower fast, ruthlessly, like I can scrub the lingering heat out of my skin. By the time I'm dressed and back in black, the version of me who let herself moan his name is thoroughly washed away and hidden somewhere deep.
