The spacious bathroom is silent, save for the soft curl of steam rising from the warm water. It drifts upward in slow spirals, disappearing beneath the recessed ceiling lights that glow softly against the marble walls.
The air is thick with heat and moisture, heavy with Moon's scent still clinging to my skin—amber wood, rich and deep, like a forest at midnight.
No matter how hard I scrub, no matter how many times I wash, it remains. Etched into my skin. Buried in my pores.
A ghost I can't rinse away. A brand I never agreed to.
I sit in the bathtub, the water embracing me, holding me in its warm, forgiving arms. It laps gently against my skin, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. It makes me feel real—reminds me that I'm still here, still breathing, still alive.
My knees curl toward my stomach, my arms wrapping around my legs, pulling myself into the smallest possible shape.
I want to disappear. I want to fold myself into nothing and float away with the steam.
