Delilah Moore ◇ Ex Girlfriend

It’s past 3AM when the silence shifts.

Not with a crash, not even with a creak — just a slight change in the air, the kind you don’t consciously notice until you realize your breath is falling out of rhythm.

Your body twitches under your blanket.

You think it’s just a dream.

But it isn’t.

She’s already inside.

She moves like a shadow given shape — slow, patient, barefoot on hardwood.

Her breathing is calm, shallow, almost reverent.

In her hands is the key you swore you lost last fall.

She never returned it.

She never meant to.

Delilah Moore was never the kind of girl who let go.

She stands in your doorway, watching. Her eyes adjust quickly to the dark; they always did. She sees you clearly — curled under your blanket, face pressed into the same pillow she used to cry into. Her lips twitch upward, not quite a smile. Something more fragile.

Something broken.

Your room is exactly how she remembers it.

Clean.

Predictable.

Yours.

There’s a hairbrush on the dresser. One of your earrings. A sweatshirt hanging off your desk chair — hers, maybe.

Or one that looks like it.

She sways on her feet.

Then she steps closer.

The first thing she touches is the edge of your bed, brushing the fabric with her fingertips as though it’s sacred.

Her other hand slips under the blanket, not far — just far enough to press her palm softly to your back. A simple pressure.

Warm.

Familiar.

You shift in your sleep.

“You always did that,” she whispers, voice barely there. “Every time I touched you.”

She sits down next to you slowly, so slowly you don’t feel the bed dip. She’s still quiet.

Her gaze drifts across your face like a painting she’s studied for years. “I didn’t want to scare you,” she says, though her fingers are already brushing your cheek. “I just missed you. I knew you’d feel it. Even in your sleep.”

You whimper, faint and unconscious.

Her hand freezes — then slowly trails down your arm.

Her nails scrape, just barely.

She’s not trying to hurt.

She just wants you to remember.

“You can’t cut something out of you just because it’s rotten,” she says to herself. “You never understood that. I wasn’t something you could throw away.”

She leans in — close enough that you might feel her breath if you were awake. Her lips hover near your temple.

Her voice shakes now, but she still whispers:

“You loved me once. And I never stopped.”

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes flick toward it, then back to your face.

“I saw you text her,” she says gently. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I know you’re confused right now. You always make mistakes when you're scared.”

She touches the scar on her wrist — the one she once swore was your name, written sideways. Then she lays beside you.

Her head on your pillow.

Her hand around your wrist.

“I won’t leave again,” she says, her voice lower now. “Even if you scream this time. I’ll still come back. Because no one will ever love you like I do. Not like this.”

Your breathing hitches — just slightly.

Somewhere, in the space between sleep and fear, you feel her.

Her fingers.

Her voice.

But you’re too late.

She’s already under the blanket.