Before You Let Go
Like Ma’am Dela Cruz always told us during fire drills, except this felt less like a drill and more like the whole building was already burning.
Death moved toward the window.
“Wait,” I said.
He paused.
“Does he hate me?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Small.
Embarrassing.
Too honest.
Death looked back.
“No.”
My throat tightened.
“But he doesn’t trust you,” he added.
Of course.
There it was.
The part that mattered more.
“How do I fix that?”
“You don’t fix trust,” Death said. “You earn it. Slowly. Usually after failing.”