Scarlet
The sky was wrong.
Not just off. Not just dull. Wrong.
It didn’t feel like a full moon night. Not the kind I’d grown up fearing or fantasizing about. It felt heavier. Thicker. Like the air had turned into glass and I was walking through it, slowly cracking under the pressure.
I stood on the porch in my oversized sweater, arms crossed, my eyes locked on the clouds overhead. Grey and mercurial, they shifted constantly—never breaking, never clearing. It felt like nature had hit pause, stuck between a scream and a whisper.
I’d barely slept. The night before—the conversation with Damien—had left me more hollow than I’d anticipated. There was too much unsaid. And still, somehow, too much felt. My brain had looped around every word, every silence, every stupid heartbeat that had flut
