EMMALINE
It’s been a month since the night Alexander walked out of my room, leaving me with more questions than answers.
A month of silence.
A month of pretending his words didn’t cut me open and leave me bleeding on the inside.
He hasn’t spoken about that night since—my parents, the dream, the other person who was there. And though part of me wants to demand the truth, the rest of me knows I might not be ready to hear it. So I stay quiet. I tell myself I’m focusing on the baby, on my health, on keeping what little peace I have left.
But some nights, I wake up gasping, certain I can still smell smoke that isn’t there.
This morning, Maggie insists I take a short walk. “You’ve been indoors too long,” she says, her tone gentle but firm. “I know the doctor ordered bed rest, but a bit of
