The lock clicks into place, and only then does the room begin to tilt.
Evelyn braces both hands against the sink, porcelain cold beneath her palms. The fluorescent lights above hum with sterile indifference, their reflection splintering in the mirror as her vision narrows to a trembling tunnel. She inhales once—measured, silent—counting the seconds like she’s timing a presentation.
Not here. Not loud.
Her knees give without ceremony. She lowers herself before gravity can claim her, shoulder scraping tile as she slides down the wall. The stall doors remain closed. No footsteps inside. No witnesses.
In the mirror opposite, her face has drained to something almost translucent. Lips pale. Eyes unfocused but stubbornly open.
Control is maintained in posture, if nowhere else.
A sound escap
