The Supernova Effect

Chapter 37

Nova

The key was cold in my fingers as I slid it into the lock.

The apartment door opened with a soft click.

I stepped inside and shut it behind me, My fingers hovered on the doorknob for a second longer than they needed to.

Everything was still where he'd left it.

His jacket hung half off the coat rack. Shoes kicked aside by the door.

I stood in the middle of the room and stared.

It smelled like him. Laundry and cologne. Sleep-warm cotton. The scent that clung to the inside of my clothes and made me feel less alone.

I moved on autopilot. Grabbed a tote bag from the closet and started filling it, a change of clothes, face wipes, deodorant. Toothbrush.

I folded one of his crewnecks and tucked it on top, fingers lingering on the fabric. He liked this one he always wore it.

When the bag was full, I set it down on the bed and looked toward the bathroom.

I should shower.

I needed to wash off the hospital. The blood. The sweat. The panic that still clung to my skin like oil.

The bathroom was dim. Quiet. Exactly as he left it.

The tiles smelled faintly like alcohol. The bottle of vodka was tipped over beside the tub—its last few ounces soaked into the grout like a stain.

I crouched slowly, legs shaky, and picked it up.

Glass clinked as I dropped it into the trash. Then the pills. The ones he didn't take were still lying by the baseboard, small and cruel. I threw that away too.

I wiped down the sink, straightening what couldn't be made right. Trying to clean up the evidence of his unraveling, like it would somehow undo the way my heart had come apart.

I turned on the water and stepped into the shower, while it warmed, barely waiting for the steam to rise.

At first, I just stood there. Let it hit my shoulders. Then my chest. My back. My face.

Then something cracked, a sound tore out of me. Not quite a sob. Not quite a scream. Just something broken that didn't have a name.

My knees buckled, and I sank to the bottom of the tub, water pounding over me like it was trying to drown the grief out of my body. I curled into myself, arms wrapped tight around my ribs, rocking just enough to keep from falling apart entirely.

I cried until I couldn't breathe. Until it felt like my lungs were filling with something heavier than water—sobs that came in silent, shuddering waves, leaving my chest hollow and scraped clean.

Eventually, the storm quieted. My breathing slowed. My body ached, hollow and trembling. I  slowly stood up and tried to wash my body clean.

I tilted my face up, let it run through my hair, over my shoulders, down my spine. I washed his blood off my knees. Scrubbed away the stale smell of vodka and antiseptic that still clung to my skin.

As if I could make the night before not exist if I just stayed under long enough. By the time I got out, my limbs felt rubbery but cleaner.

I wrapped the towel around my body and stepped out. Sat on the edge of the bed for a while—wet hair dripping down my back, feet on the rug like they needed permission to move.

The room felt too still. Like if I moved too fast, the world might tip.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.