OLIVIA’S POV
The moment I stepped into my apartment I stopped moving.
I just stood in the middle of the room with my bag still on my shoulder and stared at nothing. The walls. The ceiling. The small crack above the window I had been meaning to report to the landlord for three months.
Everything looked exactly the same as when I left it.
That felt wrong somehow. Like the room should look different. Like something that significant should leave a mark on the walls.
I dropped my bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the couch.
I was tired. Not the kind of tiredness that sleep fixes. The kind that sits in your chest and behind your eyes and makes everything feel slightly underwater. Somewhere in the last twenty four hours I had sat in a hospital hallway counting my father’s heartbeats
