Callie
Mia’s room smelled faintly of lavender and pencil shavings—soft and familiar, like home. Afternoon light shone through the curtains, casting shadows across her posters, messy sketchbooks, and the coffee-stained desk.
I sat cross-legged on her bed, twisting a strand of hair around my finger, trying to look relaxed. My phone lay beside me, screen dark, as though even it knew there were things I shouldn’t see.
Mia sat across the room, headphones in, sketching quickly. Her focus should have been comforting, but it only made me notice the noise in my own head. I wanted to talk, to joke, to make this afternoon feel normal. But the words got stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
Every thought led back to Grayson.
The way he looked at me last night. The way he whispered “real.”
