Page 38

But they don’t know I loved you like a secret, and you loved me like a dare.

You haunt the house like I never existed.

You walk past me like my ribs weren’t once the place you pressed your head when sleep wouldn’t come. Like I didn’t carry your secrets like bruises I chose to keep.

You looked at me like I was the villain in the story we used to write in secret, and maybe I was. I left you bleeding with no goodbye, no closure.

But at least you are alive, even if you are broken more than you were before. At least you are alive. I died a long time ago, Dorian.

Now you’re all ice where fire used to live. You barely meet my eyes. You say nothing when I say I am sorry like a prayer I still believe in.

And it kills me. Because I came back. I came back hoping there was something left worth saving for me. But all I find is wreckage. Haunted house.

And a boy who used to love me… who now only knows how to make me feel like I never mattered at all.

I stared at my reflection, trembling. The girl in the mirror looked fragile like she’d crack if someone raised their voice. Looking at me, thinking how there were things I did I wish I hadn’t, and worse, things I never dared to do.

If I could go back, I’d stay with him. I’d never leave his side. I’d trade every mistake for a second chance. But instead of open arms, he welcomed me with a severed hand of my ex.

He killed him. I don’t even flinch saying it now. He probably killed our parents too. Maybe I’m next.

And here’s the worst part.I’m okay with that.

Six years. Six goddamn years and some part of me still clings to this fantasy that we could have had a happy ending. That maybe everything I lost—everything torn from me—was leading to this one impossible thing. That he’d be there, waiting, arms open, sayingI missed you.

God, how I wanted him.

God, how he made me feel.

Since I came back, reality’s been slipping. Dreams bleed into memories, and I don’t know what’s real anymore. Everything’s hazy—except him. He’s the one clear thing in all the chaos.

Dorian Thorn. My stepbrother. My obsession. My only love.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. And no, I don’t care.

Judge me if you want. Save your breath. The brain doesn’t get a say when the heart’s already decided. You can be the smartest person alive and still crumble under the weight of love. I already have.

I was his. Ready to be ruined.

My body betrayed me the second he touched me—fingers slipping over my skin like he owned it. The shame didn’t stop the want. Iwantedhim. I wanted him to break me, reshape me, and show me what it meant to beworshipedby a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

And it’s fucked up, it is. What scared me the most wasn’t losing him—it was that I never mattered in the first place.

My jeans slid down my legs, exposing scars I’d kept hidden from the world. Faint lines. Some fresh. Some faded. All mine. I did this to myself—on the nights I felt weak, when pain was the only thing that anchored me to reality.

I opened the mirror cabinet. On the white shelf sat a razor blade. It stared back at me. Whispered. Dared. It was calling me. I grabbed it fast, like someone might see.

The tub filled with hot water, steam curling into the air like ghost breath. I sat on the edge, metal pressed against my skin. I didn’t hesitate.

A sharp hiss escaped my lips. My eyes slammed shut. And then came the cuts—quick, clean, and real. This time, I carved the word:REAL.

Ihadto.

I needed proof. Proof that I wasn’t dreaming. That I was still here. That any of this still mattered.

There were other words, carved from other nights.Fake. Slut. Faith. Bitch. Dream. Not worth it. Weak. Scared. Hungry.

Athungry, I broke. Tears slipped down my face like they had back then. Back when I had nothing—no food, no firewood, no clean water. Just cold and silence. Just me.