My eyes are closed as I rest my head in your lap. I don’t even know if it’s really you I’m lying on, but my heart tells me it must be, so I believe it. A hand gently caresses the underside of my jaw, a tenderness I’ve only ever felt with you. Yes, it must be you then.

“I think I have something that belongs to you.”

That voice—it confirms what my heart already knew. I open my eyes and see your smiling face. How precious, how sweet, I think. But then I notice what you’re holding above your head. It’s my heart. You’re holding it so carefully, like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. I’m glad it’s you holding it, the most vulnerable part of me. I made the right choice in trusting you.

“Don’t you want it back?”

I don’t see your face anymore—just your hand, wrapped around my heart. No, I don’t think I want it back. Just before I can say anything, blood drips from my heart and runs down your arm. You were never holding me gently, were you? Did I imagine that? Your grip tightens, no longer careful but crushing, squeezing my heart until it bleeds. “Are you not concerned?”

Should I be? Why don’t I feel the pain?

“No, not at all.”

Blood drips slowly down your arm and onto my face. You stare at me, admiring the streaks of blood on my skin. Is that what you wanted? To see the hurt you’ve caused? Your gaze remains soft, unreadable, and I cannot discern your intentions. I’m no longer focused on the heart in your hands; instead, I’m drawn to your face. I see nothing but you.

Only you.