Sunday morning was gray. Not simply cloudy—but as if someone had removed the color from the world, leaving only a thin layer of light. The rain didn't fall, it hung. It floated in the air like fine dust, dampening everything: sounds, light, my thoughts. I lay awake, blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at the pale glow of my phone display on the nightstand.
He sees you too, Lina.
The words had been there, as simple as any other sentence, and yet I felt as if something cold had been placed on the back of my neck. Now the chat was empty. No history. No sender. Just the knowledge that the line had been there—and the persistent pulsing in my throat, insisting it was still here, somewhere between skin and breath.
I raised my hand to my neck. The necklace lay beneath my shirt and felt as if it had stored the cold of the night. The infinity symbol was usually a small handle I could hold onto. Today it was an eye staring back.
A soft knock. "Are you awake?"
