EMMALINE
I barely sleep.
When I finally do drift off, it’s in fitful snatches—dreams that twist quickly into nightmares before I’m jolted awake, as though someone’s yanking a rope tied to the back of my skull.
Every time I think of Alexander and Maggie standing in that hallway, of their whispered argument, my stomach coils tighter. All night I run through possibilities, each one worse than the last. The more I try to push the worst thoughts away, the louder they roar back. By dawn, I feel hollowed out—scooped clean and left a shell.
When pale light finally bleeds beneath my curtains, I force myself up. My limbs feel like lead, but motion is something I can still control, and right now, control is what I need. If I let my mind wander another second, it will eat me alive.
I dress slow
