The thing no one tells you about losing everything is how quiet it is the morning after.
There are no violins.
No dramatic music.
No slow-motion montage of tears and ashes.
Just... silence.
And the weight of smoke in your hair.
The kind that clings like guilt.
Like memory.
And the metallic and thick taste of failure in your throat, no matter how many times you swallow.
I stood in Rosa’s bathroom, one hand braced on the chipped porcelain sink, staring into the only mirror I had left. The lighting was harsh, fluorescent, unforgiving. It didn’t blur the damage. It highlighted it.
My reflection looked like a ghost that hadn’t figured out it was dead yet.
Eyes red, not from crying, not yet.
But from heat. From smoke.
From the kind of night that strips something permanent from your
