Page 287 of Let Me In

I love you. So much.

I stare at the last line. Re-read it. Almost delete it.

But I don’t.

I hit send.

And then I press my face into my hands.

And let myself feel.

The morning stretches thin and quiet.

I move through the cabin like I’m walking inside a dream, too aware of every creak in the floorboards, every whisper of the wind against the windows. I keep glancing toward the windows. Listening.

Once, I swear I hear the truck.

I freeze, heart leaping, but it’s only wind.

Another time, I think I see headlights—but it’s just the sun breaking through the trees, scattering light like broken glass.

My palms are sweaty. My mouth tastes like sleep and tea and too many unsaid things.

But ten minutes before I think he might arrive—

I move to the kitchen.

I take out the eggs. Slice bread. Butter the pan.

Not because I’m hungry.

Because he will be.

Because food means you’re safe now. You can rest.

I put the kettle on, too. His favorite tea. The one he always makes for me when my hands won’t stop shaking.

The smell fills the kitchen, gentle and comforting.

My sleeves keep falling over my wrists, but I don’t roll them back.

It’s his shirt. The dark grey one that fits me like a nightdress. I’ve been wearing it since he left.

I don’t know how I’ll be when I see him.

I don’t know if I’ll cry, or freeze, or fall apart.

And I don’t know how he’ll be.

If his eyes will look the same.

If his hands will still be steady when they touch me.

If the weight of what he’s done will follow him through the door and sink into the floorboards, never to leave again.

Maybe it will.

Maybe we’ll both carry the echo of it forever.

---