I don’t scream.
That’s the strange part.
I feel like I should be screaming—throwing things, sobbing, demanding answers—but instead, everything inside me goes cold and sharp, like glass settling into place.
Asher’s words still echo in the room.
This is a conversation you should have with her.
I turn away from him before he can see what’s happening to my face.
Because something inside me is slipping.
Not breaking—waking.
The room feels too small. The air feels heavy, pressing against my lungs, and I realize with a jolt that I can hear things I shouldn’t. Footsteps down the hall. A hushed voice two rooms away. The creak of wood beneath someone’s weight outside.
My pulse doesn’t race.
It steadies.
And that terrifies me more than panic ever could.
“I need to be alone,” I say, my voi
