Page 43 of Infamous

And when silence became unbearable, I reached for noise. For touch.

Michael arrived when the world was still raw. I think that’s what he loved most - the break in me. The way he could trace it with his fingers and pretend to be my savior.

He didn’t ask about Lucian. He just filled the space the man Iloved left behind, like water seeping into cracks. Warm at first. Then cold. Then dangerous.

The first time he touched me, it didn’t feel wrong. It felthuman. A hand on my arm. A body beside mine. Breath on my neck that wasn’t my own. I told myself it was healing. That I could stitch myself back together with the friction of someone else’s skin.

But grief doesn’t care who you reach for. It just wants something to hold.

Michael was there. Consistent. Too consistent. The texts. The calls. The sudden visits that felt like devotion until they didn’t. He learned me fast - the way I flinched when I heard sirens, the way my voice cracked when I said Lucian’s name, the way I hated silence because it reminded me of death.

He filled all the empty spaces. Then he started rearranging them.

At first, it was subtle. Little comments. Small corrections. Where I looked. What I wore. How I said things. And every time I pushed back, he’d smile - that small, practiced smile - and pull me close until I forgot why I was angry. Until I couldn’t tell the difference between comfort and control.

That’s how it happens, isn’t it?

You mistake the hand that steadies you for the one that’s holding you down.

There were nights I let him trace circles on my skin just so I wouldn’t have to think. Because it’s easier to drown than to float in grief alone. Easier to surrender your body than your memories.

But sometimes, in the middle of it - when the room was quiet and his weight pressed me into the mattress - I’d close my eyes and pretend. Pretend it was Lucian’s breath against my neck. Lucian’s hand finding mine. The monster the world said I should’ve feared was the only one who ever made me feel safe.

Now, when I think of touch, I think of damage. I think of how easily warmth can turn to fire. How craving connection can make you blind to the burn.

They say the body remembers. Mine does. It remembers the safety in a killer’s hands - and the danger in a lover’s.

My hands tremble- barely enough for anyone to notice, but I feel it in every movement.

Normally, the chaos grounds me. Tonight, it doesn’t. Something’s off. Something I can’t name, sitting just beneath my skin.

By the time my shift ends, my chest aches from holding my breath too long.

I step into the night. The air bites cold, the hospital lights too bright behind me. The darkness beyond feels heavier, thicker.

That prickle returns - the one that crawled down my spine a few nights ago in my apartment. The feeling of eyes I can’t see. Of footsteps I can’t hear. My grip tightens on my bag, pulling it closer, the strap cutting into my shoulder. Every sound sharpens - the hum of the streetlight, the echo of my own steps.

And then I see my ex, Michael.

Leaning casually against his car, like he belongs here. I’ve spent months trying to erase him from my life, and every time I think I’ve finally shaken him, he pops up again.

“Nadia.”

He says my name like he has a right to it.

“Don’t start,” I warn, shifting my bag. “Go home, Michael.”

His flashes me a toothy smile. “I just wanted to talk. I’ll drive you.”

Talk. His favorite lie.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He steps closer, voice soft yet menacing. “You can’t keep shutting me out, Nadia. You know I care about you.”

Care. Another word he’s poisoned.

Lucian flashes in my mind. The way his hands never hurt, even when the world said they should. The monster was gentler than the man standing in front of me now.