Avery:
Two days.
No texts.
No calls.
No bike echoing in the distance.
No veiny arms, no sharp eyes cutting through me.
No Cruz.
Just silence. Deafening, all-consuming silence.
The first morning, I woke up in a haze, still aching in places I shouldn’t have let him touch. The sheets still smelled like him—smoke, leather, and something darker. I buried my face in them like a fool, hoping his scent would bring back warmth. It didn’t. It just made the ache in my chest sink deeper.
The coffee was cold before I even realized I’d made it. The TV played on mute. A show I didn’t remember turning on. I sat on the couch all day, knees to my chest, fingers tracing the bruises on my thighs like they were some kind of love letter. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, stunned. Empty. Trying to figure
