Sophia
Mia found me on her couch the next morning exactly where I'd been the first time my whole life fell apart, except this time I hadn't even changed out of yesterday's clothes, hadn't slept more than an hour at a stretch, hadn't done anything except replay my mother's face over and over until the image had worn a groove into my brain that I couldn't seem to climb out of.
"Okay," Mia said, setting two mugs of coffee down on the table and sitting beside me without asking permission this time. "Tell me everything. Slowly. I got the two-sentence version from your voicemail last night and it did not sound like a two-sentence situation."
I told her everything, my voice cracking somewhere in the middle of describing my mother's face when we finally said it out loud, the shaking in her hand
