I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and the only thought circling my mind is: What have I done?
The room is dim—just the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the ornate plasterwork above me.
I've stared at this ceiling a hundred times, but tonight it feels different. Foreign. Accusing.
Neon, you absolute idiot.
I push myself up on my elbows, then sit fully, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My body is heavy with exhaustion, every muscle aching, every bone begging for rest. But my mind won't stop.
Won't quiet. Won't let me forget.
Moon's face. His smile. His hand reaching for mine.
You agreed to something you don't even understand.
I press my palms to my eyes, rubbing hard, as if I can scrub the memory away. When I open them again, the room is the same. The shadows are the same. I'm still here, still trapped in this mess I made.
What does he mean, "I'll ask for what you already have"?
