Morning light crawled across the floorboards like a slow, deliberate thing, and for a long, suspended second I let myself believe it could wash away the ache. It didn’t. The light only highlighted the places he had touched me: the faint bruises at my hips, the tiny crescent of a bite on my shoulder where his teeth had left a map. Those marks were mine and his; they were proof and prison both.
Angel’s presence had shifted everything—small things at first, little adjustments to the soundtrack of the house. Now the changes felt structural. She moved through rooms like she’d always had keys to them. She picked up his books and ran her fingers along the spines. She laughed in a way that filled corners. She left cups of coffee where I used to leave mine. It was the familiarity that punctured me
