By morning, the breathing was gone.
But the feeling wasn’t.
It clung to me like smoke.
Thick and quiet.
A whisper in my bones.
I sat up in bed and peeled back the curtains just enough to peer outside.
Nothing was there—just the early light spilling over the trees and the damp shimmer of dew on the grass.
But I knew I hadn’t imagined it.
Something had come.
And left something behind.
Not a mark.
Not a message.
Just a presence.
And a new kind of ache I couldn’t name.
The rest of the day passed like I was watching it from underwater.
Distant voices.
Dull colors.
A strange static in the air that made it hard to focus.
At school, I avoided eye contact with anyone who had something cruel in their smile.
And for once, no one cornered me.
Not Madison.
Not her clones.
