"But it applies to you," he says.
Statement, not question.
His voice rolls over me like warm water, and I have to physically resist the urge to lean into it.
"Yeah." I shrug, aiming for nonchalance and probably landing somewhere around "barely held together with spite and delusion." "Omegas aren't worthy of communicating with the outside world, I guess."
The words taste bitter on my tongue.
True things often do.
"Not surprised, though." I gesture vaguely at myself—at the blood on my shoes, the wildness in my eyes, the general aura of instability I can never quite hide. "That's what I get for being packless."
His expression doesn't change.
Still calm.
Still assessing.
Still looking at me like I'm something he's never seen before.
I press the envelope into his hand, making sure he has a firm grip before I let go. The paper crinkles slightly, and I wonder—briefly, insanely—what's written inside. Who he's writing to. Whether his letters are also sealed in blood.
"There you go," I chirp, stepping back. Creating distance. "Wouldn't want you to lose that. Letters are important, you know?"
They're all I had, I don't say.
They were keeping me sane, I don't say.
Now I have nothing, I don't say.
Instead, I smile my brightest, most broken smile and turn toward the door.
"Wait."
His voice stops me mid-step.
I don't turn around.
Can't turn around.
If I look at him again—at his pink hair and green eyes and soft mouth—I might do something stupid. Like cry. Or scream. Or ask him to hold me until the world stops feeling like it's collapsing.
"You smell like vanilla," I say instead, talking to the door. "And smoke."
A pause.
Then: "Observant."
"Smoking is bad for you."
The words come out before I can filter them—random, awkward, the kind of thing that makes people look at me like I've grown a second head. But I can't help it. The OCD is screaming about patterns and connections, the ADHD is latching onto irrelevant details, and my trauma-soaked brain is desperately trying to distract itself from the fact that I'm one bad decision away from a complete breakdown.
He huffs.
The sound is almost amused.
"Is that supposed to stop me from smoking?"
