> "Some people are a wound you pick at, just to feel them again."
You kissed me like a lie you were proud of.
I should've known. Your lips were too soft for someone who's murdered men in cold blood. But I wore that kiss like a talisman. I wore you like a fever, hoping it would burn me clean.
Now I'm standing in your house again. It's been months, but nothing's changed. The mahogany floors still shine like sin. The piano still sits untouched, a relic from the time you tried pretending you weren't a monster.
You walk in barefoot, wearing the same expression you did the day you told me you loved me—indifferent.
"I thought you died in Berlin," you say.
I scoff. "That's what you wanted."
"No," you murmur, "I only wanted you to disappear."
"I did. From myself."
---
"You followed me across countries."
"I didn't follow. I hunted."
"You don't even know who I am."
"Doesn't matter. I loved the version you let me see."
"And what do you see now?"
"A monster I still want to touch."
---
There's a bottle of whiskey on the counter. You pour two glasses.
I don't drink it.
"Afraid I'll poison you?" you tease.
"No. Afraid I'll like it too much."
You hand me the glass anyway, and our fingers touch.
I flinch. You don't.
The silence is louder than the gun I've hidden in my coat.
"You still wear the ring," you say.
"Habit."
"Or hope?"
"I forgot how much I hate your voice."
"Lie. You dream about it."
---
I walk toward the balcony. The sky is dark, stormy. Like us.
"I remember everything," I say. "How you undressed me slowly like I was art. How you kissed me like the world was ending. How you lied with every breath."
"You were never supposed to matter," you admit. "But you did."
"Do I still?"
Silence.
That's all the answer I need.
I should shoot you.
Instead, I finish the whiskey.
"You ruined me."
"And yet, here you are."
---