Damn, I can’t be thinking this way.
I scrub the counter harder, the sound of it too loud in the quiet apartment. I’m half-expecting him to appear in the doorway, arms crossed, that unreadable look on his face. I’m worried he’s already figured me out better than I’d like.
He also has a way of not being in the room while still taking up all the space. How is that possible? I really need to stop thinking about him.
I need to work. It’s a distraction, I understand, but I’d be useless right now.
For one, I’m still having nightmares—not that I’d ever admit that—and the thought of stepping anywhere near the warehouse again makes my pulse spike. I’m not sure what would break first, my composure or my grip on reality.
Second, I’m an accident waiting to happen. One boot. One mostly healed arm. A head that still aches when I think too hard. The doctor says I’m lucky. I feel fragile.
I feel… nothing like myself. When was the last time I even felt like me?
Star’s stalker could have hurt me worse if he wanted to. He wasn’t after me. I repeat that like a mantra, hoping it will eventually sink in, adding to my trauma pile. It’s what I do. What I’m good at.
I’m still standing.
Barely.
Fear has lived deep in my bones for years.
It’s a bitch. A ruthless, steal-your-breath kind of bitch. One I know intimately.
And today?
Today makes it worse.
Today is the day I was supposed to become Mrs. White. I don’t say the name out loud. I never do. Even in my own head, it feels wrong. It was never that way. There were many days when I couldn’t wait to be his wife. Be his everything. I had wanted a future, and now I just want to survive. It’s a poor definition of me moving on.
It’s also the day the letter arrives.
Same envelope. Same handwriting. Same venom carefully folded into crisp white paper. His mother never misses a year. As if forgetting might somehow let me off the hook, as if I might somehow forget.
My chest tightens at the thought of the mailbox. Of her words. Of being blamed—again—for a death I didn’t cause but can never escape.
That’s why everything feels sharper today. Louder. It’s why my nerves feel exposed, humming just under my skin. I tell myself it will pass, like it always does, but my body doesn’t believe me this time.
This year feels different. Why does Clay feel like the reason?
I probably should have gone to therapy. Years of it. Instead, I ran. Changed cities. Changed my life. Burying myself at work until I didn’t have time to feel.
It worked. Mostly.
I have no intention of dating. Or marrying. That version of me died a long time ago, despite the calendar insisting it’s been eight years.
My reckless thoughts drift back to the man in my apartment.
Clay.
Even his name feels too solid. Too real.
I blame the lack of sleep. The concussion. Anything other than the truth. I’m too aware of him. Of his footsteps. Of the way he watches me, thinking I don’t notice. Of how my body reacts when he’s near, heat pooling low and unwelcome.
I’ve never had anyone in my space like this. Never had someone who didn’t leave when I told them to. No one this close. Andy and I were never like this. This unwanted pull and friction.
I’ve told him to go, over and over. But he doesn’t.
Persistent.