The room is suspended in half-light, the kind of gold that comes from a single designer lamp burning low in the corner, its glow spreading across the high ceiling in soft, uneven waves.
Shadows gather in the folds of heavy velvet curtains, along the polished edges of dark wood furniture, in the hollows of silk pillows where our heads have rested.
The walls seem to breathe, smooth and flawless, expanding and contracting with the silence between us, and somewhere in the distance—or perhaps very close—the night presses against the wide glass windows, dark and patient and full of stars.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my body still trembling faintly from the echo of the pain that had racked me only minutes ago. It was sharp, unbearable—a fist closing around something vital and squeezing until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't see.
