Maybe I can use it against him.
Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse.
The thought slithers through my mind before I can stop it.
My jaw tightens.
No.
That’s not what this is.
This is practical.This is self-preservation.
This is me taking control.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw off the blanket, stand up, and march down the hall.
My feet hesitate for half a second at the office door.Then I shove it open before I can second-guess myself.
The room is dim, the desk lamp casting a soft glow over the papers stacked neatly beside my laptop.
The drawer is closed.But I’m all too aware of what’s inside.
It’s been in there since the day he gave it to me.
I reach out, fingers hovering over the handle.
My pulse kicks up.
I tell myself it’s just irritation.
I tell myself I don’t feelanythingelse.
And then I pull the drawer open.
The envelope sits exactly where I left it, tucked beneath a few random bills and old receipts.
For a moment, I just stare at it.
This is a mistake.
I know it.
I canfeelit.
But my hand moves anyway, fingers curling around the edge of the envelope, pulling it free.
It feels heavier than it should.
I don’t breathe as I tear it open.
The torn edges of the envelope feel sharp against my fingertips, the weight of it settling like a stone in my palm.My heart kicks against my ribs, loud in the quiet room.
I tell myself I don’t care what’s inside.
I tell myself I won’t let it mean anything.
But my hands shake just a little as I reach inside.