I should've known the moment he looked at me.

Not the casual glance people give strangers in a crowd—but that look. The kind that crawls under your skin and stays there, rotting. Like he already knew what I'd become before I ever did.

Back then, I was soft. Hopeful. Naïve enough to believe that love was supposed to save you.

But he didn't love me.
He claimed me.

And I let him. God, I let him wrap me in his lies, hold me with bloodstained hands, whisper forever with a mouth full of venom.

He loved me in a way that burned.

He loved me in a way that killed.

They all did. Him. His friends. Every last one of them. They laughed while I bled. Watched while my world cracked open like bone on concrete. And when I screamed, they turned the volume down.

Now?

Now I don't scream.
I don't cry.
I remember.

Because there's something they never considered—
The girl they left in pieces didn't die.

She buried herself.
And something far worse climbed out.