Still deep in thought about everything going on with Zayn, I was pulled back to the present by a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" I called out, irritation clear in my tone.
"It’s me."
That voice.
I turned around instantly, my mother’s hand froze midair, and her glass nearly slipped from her grip.
"Tasha," the voice said again, and just hearing her name made my entire body loosen.
The door opened slowly, and she walked in.
She looked… different.
Not like the woman I once had something real with. No, this version of Tasha was more refined, mature. She carried herself like someone who had grown into a new life—one far from the past we shared.
She looked married.
And she was—my mother had told me already. Tasha had gotten married during the six years I was in a coma and had moved away
