EMMALINE
I stay on the cold bathroom floor longer than I should.
My forehead rests against my arm, the taste of sickness still sitting sharp at the back of my throat, my body trembling in the quiet aftermath.
I keep reaching for reasonable explanations — something I ate, a sleepless week catching up to me, stress wearing itself into something physical. I line them up one by one, each one sensible, each one almost convincing.
But deep down, beneath all the careful reasoning, I already know.
Something is wrong. And it’s the kind of wrong I can’t bring to anyone.
Especially not Alexander.
The thought of telling him sends a cold shiver racing through me. I think of his eyes — the way they burn with that desperate, consuming devotion that never quite softens — and my chest constricts.
I
