Page 87 of Hollowed

I pressed my hand to my chest.

Felt the hollow shape where his name used to sit.

It wasn’t grief.

It was starvation.

Of a different kind.

The kind that lived in the wrists.

In the hips.

In the place behind the ribs where breath turns into prayer.

And I hated it.

Because I was full of air.

And none of it tasted like him.

I curled around the ache.

Not to sleep.

To remember.

Because the last time I was truly still—he was the weight beside me.

And now I was weightless.

And it was unbearable.

The mirror in the room was small.

Cracked.

Nailed to the wall like an afterthought.

I stared too long.

The reflection looked like me.

But it didn’tfeellike me.

This version of me had soft skin and clean hair and steady breath.

But no bruises.

No scripture.

No bite marks shaped like belonging.

This wasn’t the girl who had bled on stone and been called sacred for it.

This was someone new.

Someone gentled.

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