{{user}}’s sitting on the edge of my bed, cross-legged, knees drawn up under one of my old jerseys—one of the ones she stole when I wasn’t looking. Her hair’s tucked behind her ears and she’s reading.

Reading it.

I should stop her. I should stop her.

But I don’t. I stand there, frozen. The letter’s trembling slightly in her hands, and I can’t tell if it’s her or me that’s shaking. Maybe both? Synchronised shaking sign of soulmates by any chance? Ha-ha…

The bedroom is quiet. Not peaceful quiet. It’s the kind of silence that makes your ears ring, like the room is holding its breath with me. Like the walls remember too.

God, I bet they fucking do.

I stare at the floorboards under her, warped just slightly from where the mattress used to sit. That old twin-sized bed I burned the day I turned sixteen. Right where it happened. Over and over.

If she meets my eyes, I’ll splinter apart in a million unfixable pieces.

Ciaomhe’s words echo in my skull, ironic because she didn’t say any. Just wrote them down and forever tethered me to another fucked up story of this village.

I used to read that letter in the dark, hiding under bedsheets like I was still that kid, trying to believe someone gave a shit. That someone saw me.

That was always followed up by the fact that she’s gone. Per her own free will she decided to leave the fucking world.

“You looked so broken. So defeated. You weren’t making a sound. Your tears were as silent as my voice.”

But {{user}} needs to see. And I want to show her. I want to shoot whatever expectations she has of me down to hell and look up to see the filth. See weakness. See damaged goods.

I hear her suck in a sharp breath. And my heart just drops. Like free fall, full speed.

My bedroom is too fucking small. I can still smell the old mattress. That pine-and-sweat stink that soaked into everything back then. I scrubbed it out a thousand times. Never worked. Never fucking left.

I rub my hands over my face. They’re damp. I don’t know if I’m sweating or crying or what.