Sheila’s POV
I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.
“Next time, don’t make me come find you.”
It kept echoing in my head like a dare I never agreed to.
By the time I got home, it was already dark. The house was quiet that deep, heavy kind of quiet that feels louder than noise. I kicked off my shoes at the door, dropped my bag on the couch, and stood there for a second just staring at nothing. The air smelled faintly of detergent and something burnt from the morning.
I tried to breathe it out. Tried to push the tension off my shoulders.
Didn’t work.
Upstairs, I flicked on the light in my room. The yellow bulb hummed a little, flickering for half a second before settling. I dropped my phone on the bed, peeled off my hoodie, and stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess.
