I knew more about her for never having spoken to her. We didn't need to. Because the way she looked at me sometimes, that said it all. She wanted me. She didn't mind that I'd stop by her apartment late, or that I'd watch her sleep, buried under her gray blanket, while the stars strung around her room blinked on and off to the rhythm of her breathing.


15. Adam

Red covered my hands. Almost like I'd dipped them into a bucket of paint. Instead, I had them pressed into the pulsating wound in her neck where the knife slid in. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, and terror filled her eyes.




I closed my eyes and withdraw my hands.




She fell from my grasp, on to the grass beneath us. The park was quiet, except for her shuddering, dying breath.


"I'm sorry," I whispered.

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