The Morning After
Anonymous POV
The warm glow of Saturday morning streamed through Sade’s bedroom window as she sat on the edge of her bed, lacing up her sneakers. Her White Sox jersey hung loosely over a pair of fitted shorts, the matching one Marco had picked out for them both. It was their thing—coordinating outfits, marking themselves as an unshakable unit.
But as she adjusted her jersey in the mirror, her mind was elsewhere.
Why would Isla say that?
The words from last night replayed in her head like a song stuck on repeat. Isla, of all people, had always acted like Marco was the most annoying person alive. So why would she, in the middle of the biggest night of their senior year, slip up and say that?
Sade shook her head, grabbing her phone from the nightstand. I need answers.
