Sera Winters
Control is an illusion you cling to even when you know you've already let go. Especially then.
One week in their wing.
Seven days of shared meals. Shared space. Shared silence that felt heavier than conversation.
Seven days of pretending I was fine. Of keeping my walls high. Of treating this like a job instead of captivity.
It was working. Kind of. I woke up. Ate breakfast. Spent time in the common room. Ate dinner. Sat through nightly gatherings where they talked and I listened and nobody pushed.
Clinical. Detached. Survivable.
But I could feel them watching me. Studying me. Waiting for something.
Tonight felt different.
All three of them were in the common room when I came out of my room. Not doing anythin
