EMMALINE
I don’t sleep.
Not even for a moment.
The night stretches endlessly, hours dragging themselves across the dark like wounded things. The silence presses down — too heavy, too sharp — and with every heartbeat it reminds me that I am alone. The bed is too large. Too cold. The sheets carry the faint ghost of his scent, and that makes it worse. Every shift I make feels like a cruel echo of everything I’ve just lost.
When I close my eyes, I see him. Not the Alexander who once touched me like I was something worth being careful with — but the man who walked away tonight. His face. His voice. The particular quality of his silence just before the door closed.
So I cry.
I cry until my body shakes and my chest burns and the sounds clawing their way up my throat don’t sound like anythin
