Meghan
I curl into the blanket on my bed, staring at the ceiling as the memory begins to creep into the edges of my mind, soft at first, like a shadow growing larger as it moves closer. It’s always like this—never sudden, never in sharp bursts. Just the slow, suffocating realization that I can’t keep running from it.
The guilt from tonight lingers like a bitter aftertaste, but it isn’t unfamiliar. I’ve felt it before, heavy and clawing, though the circumstances were different. Much different.
My fingers trace the hem of the blanket absentmindedly, and I feel the faint echo of satin beneath my fingertips. Satin, soft and slippery, draped around me like a cocoon. My throat tightens as my mind brushes up against the memory of that day—the day I ran.
The smell of lilies hits me first. Not
