Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to let go completely. To stop fighting the hunger—not just for blood, but for touch, for warmth, for something real. The last time I felt truly alive was tangled in sheets, her thighs gripping my hips, my teeth grazing her neck but never breaking skin. The way she moaned when I finally let my fingers slide into her wet cunt, her back arching as I fucked her with them—I could almost pretend I was human. Almost. But then the guilt creeps in. I don’t deserve the way her body shudders under mine, the way she whispers my name like it’s sacred. Not when every kiss is a lie. Not when I’m still hiding in the shadows, watching her from a distance like some twisted ghost. Fuck. Maybe tonight I’ll hunt something that screams louder than my thoughts. Or maybe I’ll just stand in the rain until I forget the feel of her skin again.