Page 161 of Let Me In

And then I rise.

Already halfway into the man I used to be.

But I carry her with me... every step. Every breath. Every piece of me that’s still human.

Because she’s the reason I ever came back to life.

The bedroom is dark when I enter, but I don’t turn on the light.

I move by memory. By instinct and raw purpose.

The door to the bathroom clicks shut behind me, sealing the warmth in, the world out.

I peel my shirt off first.

The one she wore last night.

The one she slept in.

It hits me harder than I expect—the scent of her still clinging to the fabric. My chest tightens, breath hitching once before I can reel it back. I close my eyes for a beat, grounding myself in the ache and awe of what it means to hold even this small piece of her.

I fold it carefully. Set it on the counter like it’s something fragile.

Because it is.

Because she is.

The rest comes off in silence.

I step into the shower.

The water’s already hot, steam curling up around my shoulders before I even draw the curtain closed.

It hits me hard.

On the back of the neck. Down my spine.

Cleansing.

Not just sweat or sleep or touch.

But everything soft.

Everything that needs to be set aside now.

My palms press flat against the wall.

Head bowed under the stream. I force myself to let go of the part of me that wants to stay wrapped around her softness and never leave. I bury it—deep—because what I need now isn’t comfort. It’s clarity. Resolve.

I don’t rush.

I don’t speak.

I just breathe.

And let the water do what it’s always done.

Strip me down.

---