Ayla's POV.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and bleach.
My hands were soaked, fingers wrinkled from scrubbing dishes that never seemed to end. Plates clinked against each other as I stacked them on the drying rack, the hot water burning the cut on my thumb from earlier. I didn’t care. I welcomed the sting. It kept my head from spiraling too far.
Outside the kitchen door, the soft hum of the diner carried on as usual. Silverware clinking against ceramic. Orders being called out. Laughter, chatter, normal life.
But inside me? Everything felt like it was caving in.
First, it had been my mom this morning. Yelling. Throwing things. Slapping me so hard my cheek still ached. Like it was my fault the guy she brought home turned out to be a complete asshole. Like I was her emotional punching
