With every action, she calms herself a little. Wipes her cheek ungraciously on her sleeve and smears what's left of her makeup under her eye. She looks broken, yet she's still standing, still pushing on. Some of that tough girl returning that I am more used to seeing.
I never once thought that under that cold façade was this version of my sister.
I follow her out of the room to the kitchen, where she throws random food into her bag, stops to adjust clothing for more space, and then messes with it to get it shut. I follow her as she walks around, pacing almost mindlessly, checking her furniture for anything she might want before she finally reaches the front door, and I can tell this isn’t methodical or planned at all. She's scrambling and erratic.
I'm waiting for the words, some hint of
