The following day…
I wake up angry.
Not startled. Not afraid.
Angry.
The feeling sits heavy in my chest, thick and restless, like something pacing behind my ribs with nowhere to go. I lie there staring at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the house breathing around me—footsteps down the hall, murmured voices, the distant thud of doors opening and closing.
Every sound feels intentional. Too clear. Too sharp.
I try to act normal.
That’s the first mistake.
Normal means sitting at the long wooden table in the common room while people move around me like I’m made of glass. It means lifting a cup of tea I don’t want and pretending my hands aren’t shaking when the steam hits my face too sharply. It means nodding when someone asks if I’m feeling better and not screa
