I comb out the knots in my hair like that’ll fix anything, then lean on the counter, too drained to drag myself back to that nightmare mattress. The thought of lying down in that beige, airless room again makes my chest tighten.
Mostly, I don’t want to be alone in it.
So I sink to the floor, back against the cabinet. The tiles are cold through my nightgown. At some point, I give up and curl sideways on the bathmat, knees pulled to my chest, cheek against terrycloth. Not comfortable, not really—but better than the guest bed.
The bathroom hums faintly with the heating vent. My eyelids sag, heavy as lead. I doze in fits, jerking awake every time my stomach clenches or a house-settling creak makes me think of footsteps.
Hours pass like that. Snatches of half-sleep. A trickle of gray light
