Like wistful feathers, strands of coppery hair drifted to the floor. The lightness felt like freedom, and that mattered more than the fear.

The stylist’s eye met hers in the mirror, an eyebrow raised as if to ask, “Are you sure?”

He would never forgive her, but that was the point.

“Even shorter.”


Awake, I sit up, hair matted with sweat. I gasp, like his hands are around my throat all over again. The past doesn’t like to stay in the past, it seems.

It always feels so real. But it’s just my mind, tangled inside. He is gone forever.

Wait. Something moved in the shadows.