He reached for me in his sleep. Just a brush of fingers across my wrist. I lay there, still and breathless, watching the stars swirl above us like glitter in a shaken jar. The warmth of his skin lingered.
In the morning, he didn’t mention it. Neither did I.
We rode until the sun turned cruel. The heat was a living thing, pressing down on us like judgment. Billy tried to strike up conversation, a story about a preacher and a pig, but I barely responded. Eventually, he stopped trying.
That night, he set the fire, and I didn’t join him. I sat a distance away, writing in this journal, pretending I had words. But I didn’t. Just scratches on paper and ghosts in my throat.
He sang softly to himself as he laid down, and for a long time I hated myself for not joining in.
