May’s POV
I stare at the reflection in the mirror, biting the inside of my cheek so hard it tastes like blood.
It’s just hair.
It’ll grow back.
It’s still me.
I’ve repeated that enough times I could tattoo it across my brain—but it doesn’t matter. My chest still aches like something was taken from me.
The soft, choppy strands frame my face in a way I know is cute. Objectively, it even suits me. But that doesn’t stop the grief. Doesn’t stop the voice that whispers, they took something from you and laughed while they did it.
A knock sounds behind me—quiet, careful.
Ryan.
“I’m not really in the mood to talk,” I mutter.
“Tough,” he says softly. “I brought snacks.”
I turn slightly, just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s holding a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a bott
