**December 5th**

There was blood on the syringe again. I didn’t clean it. Not this time. I told myself it was the protocol, but in truth, I wanted to keep the memory of him sharp. I wanted the ghost of his heartbeat to linger in the sterile hum of this room. It was too fast—his heart, I mean. Too alive. And the way it faltered when my gloved fingers pressed against his wrist—I could still feel it now, like a tiny bird dying against my palm.

He had a name, of course, but I won’t write it down. Names are traps, and I can’t afford another. He asked me if it would hurt, and I lied to him. Isn’t that what nurses are for? To lie beautifully in white, to promise that needles are just whispers and not fangs. He said _okay_. He said _thank you_.

I didn’t expect him to cry.

But when the tears came, I hated how they tasted in the air—salt and something else, like burnt sugar. It reminded me of the nights I spent crying into my pillow when I thought no one could hear me, when I thought being a little girl meant you could break yourself quietly and grow into something beautiful later. But now I know the truth. You don’t grow into something beautiful. You grow into something hollow, something useful. Something that holds people’s pain like it’s your own, and learns to love the weight of it.

I think he loved me. In those last seconds, when his pulse slipped through my fingers like water, I saw it in his eyes. That stupid kind of love people die for. The kind that sinks ships. The kind that empties veins. And I hated him for it. I hated how his love made me feel something again.

I stayed until his skin turned cold, my hand still pressed to his chest like I could convince him to stay. But he didn’t. They never do.

Now, the room feels like it’s collapsing inward. I close my eyes, but all I see is the empty space where his body used to be. I wish I could say I’m lost, but it’s worse than that. I’m exactly where I always end up, and the worst part is how much I belong here.

There’s still blood on the syringe.

And I’m not going to clean it.