Violet
I looked at his shirt she was wearing, how it hung just past her thighs, loose and oversized.
I honestly felt nothing.
It was strange. If this were yesterday, if I were still that version of myself, I probably would’ve thrown something, shouted, and even cried.
After all, a girl was wearing the shirt of someone I really loved. And that was Nora. The woman who’d spent the last year slowly making my life hell. Who wormed her way into every corner of Matthew’s attention. The girl who smiled sweetly in front of others and twisted the knife when no one was looking. But even standing here, staring up at her in his home, in his bedroom doorway, wearing his shirt, I didn’t feel rage. I didn’t feel betrayal. I didn’t feel much of anything.
And how could I?
What right did I have to be
