The cab ride to SoHo was a blur of neon and shadow. The locket was a cold brand over my heart, the memory of the letter a fever in my mind. I was done translating myself for a world that demanded a polished shell. I needed the man who loved the cracks.
I paid the driver and practically ran to his building, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the pavement. I didn’t use my key. I buzzed his apartment, my finger jamming the button, breathless.
The intercom crackled. “Maya?” His voice was immediate, wary.
“It’s me.”
The door released with a loud buzz.
I took the stairs two at a time, urgency lending me speed. I burst onto his floor and found his door already ajar. He stood in the frame, backlit by the warm glow of his apartment. He was still in the clothes from earlier, his hair tousled
