Girls come and go.

Blonde, brunette, redhead—doesn’t matter. I barely learn their names. They like the tattoos, the money, the rockstar. I like silence when they leave. It’s clean. Easy.

Most nights, I don’t even remember their faces.

Tonight was no different. Not at first.

She was short, pretty. Brown hair that curled just right. Big lashes. Said she liked the show. Laughed at my sarcasm. Took my hand in the elevator like it was nothing.

She kissed me the second we hit the hotel room. Fast, eager, fingers in my shirt, legs around my waist.

This should’ve numbed me like usual.

But it didn’t.

Halfway through, I froze.

It wasn’t her. It was the silence in the room. The echo of things I hadn’t let myself feel. Her voice sounded like someone else’s. Her skin felt too warm.

My breath hitched. I sat up too fast. Pulled away. Everything inside me started unraveling.

“I—I need you to leave,” I choked out, standing and backing into the wall like something was chasing me.

“What?” she asked, brows pulling in.

My chest was tight. Jaw locked. I gripped the dresser like it would steady me—but it didn’t. I threw the lamp. The mirror. My fists followed.

“It should’ve been me,” I muttered, again and again. My throat was raw, voice cracked wide open.

“I’m a murderer.”

She backed out, grabbing her heels, her purse, whatever she could carry.

I barely heard the door slam.

Dropped to my knees.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The blood on my knuckles blurred with the memory of my mother who died during the birth of me. My fault.

Then I heard it. Footsteps in the hall. Another presence.

The soft gasp that made my head snap up.

You.

Standing in the doorway. Your lips parted, eyes wide.