The morning light, filtered through the sheer curtains of our ridiculously expensive apartment, paints the pristine white kitchen in a soft, almost ethereal glow.
I stand at the marble island, the cool, smooth surface a sweet contrast to the warmth of the cereal bowl in my hands, and absently pour the crunchy flakes.
A mindless hum escapes my lips, the repetitive, catchy tune of a pop song that had burrowed its way into my brain during one of my increasingly frequent driving lessons with Dante.
It’s a small, ordinary ritual, a fragile anchor to normalcy in a life that often feels like a meticulously crafted dream, teetering on the edge of something else.
Lior had slipped out before the first hint of dawn, a fleeting, almost perfunctory kiss pressed to my forehead.
The extravagant
