SERA

I woke up sore and alone and smelling like him.

The sheets were tangled around my legs and the pillow beside mine still held the faint impression of where his hand had been, and for a few seconds I let myself stay still, cataloging every ache, every tender spot, every place his fingers had pressed hard enough to leave a memory in my skin. My inner thighs were bruised. There were marks on my hips shaped like his grip.

And he'd left without a word.

I lay there until the self-pity started ...